The forge in Minoc was spitting sparks like it had a grudge. I stood there, shoulders tight, feeding another lump of ore into the flame—my arms already aching from the walk up from the mines, and the heat pressing against my face like a drunkard leaning in too close. Twelve trips down into that dark throat of stone today, twelve times I’d swung the pick into the wall at 2530, 502, just east of the main shaft. You learn the rhythm—the clink, the shiver up the haft, the dull thud when you hit solid rock instead of the soft promise of ore. But when it gives, when you feel that split and the wall coughs up a hunk of iron, it’s like pulling teeth from a sleeping giant. Dangerous, but satisfying.
I’d managed to gather enough for nearly fifty ingots, but the smelting was a chore. Seventeen times the bellows wheezed and the ore just… refused. Too small, too cold, or some fool’s luck missing the crucible entirely. One batch crumbled before it even melted—dust on the wind, gold down the drain. My tongs snapped last week, remember? Had to borrow old Harken’s, and they’re too long, clumsy. Almost dropped a whole ingot into the ash heap. That’d be the end of the day right there—thirty pounds of iron down to cinders. But this last batch held. I watched the molten glow pull tight, the way it beads when it’s ready, and I poured it slow into the mold. The hiss when it hit, the curl of steam rising like a ghost—there’s a kind of peace in that sound.
Now I’m slumped here at the tavern, weight dragging at my belt, gold still zero but the pack full. I’ll bank it tomorrow, maybe take it to the smith near the stables—he pays fair, and he never questions when I come in covered in soot and silence. But tonight? Tonight I drink something cold and watch the fire in the hearth. It’s not the same as the forge, but it reminds me—fire listens to no man, but if you’re patient, it’ll give you what you need. Might head back down the shaft at first light. That wall’s got more to give. I can feel it.
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