I’ll tell ye, the pickaxe bit deep that afternoon near the ridge just east of Minoc, where the stone’s stubborn and the veins run thin. I’d been at it near three hours, shoulders burning, sweat stinging my eyes like vinegar on a fresh cut. The sun hung low, bleeding red through the dust kicked up by my boots, and every swing felt like begging the earth for scraps. But then—clink—that sweet, solid ring when the pick struck true. A fat seam of iron opened up, dark and promising. I pried out six good chunks, fingers raw from the haft, and for a moment, I just stood there, breathing hard, grinning like a fool at a pile of rocks. Felt like the earth had finally nodded, just once, and said, Alright, Grimm. You’ve earned this.
I hauled the ore down to the mine forge near the old trail—rusted iron anvil, stone chimney choked with soot. The fire roared when I fed it, orange eyes flickering in the dusk. Smelting the first batch, the heat pressed against my face like a living thing, and I watched the ore melt and bloom into ingots, each one a small victory. But the tongs—cursed tongs—snapped on the fourth go, the iron brittle from overuse. I cursed loud enough to scare the bats in the rafters. Had to finish the lot with pliers meant for horseshoes, fingers dancing too close to the flame. Nearly dropped a whole stack. Still, I got eight ingots out of it, and the weight in my pack—nearly fifty when I counted later—made my back groan, but it was a good ache. The kind that says you’ve done something real.
Banked the lot in Minoc, dropped off the gold and a spare pick I’d forged. The teller didn’t look up, just shoved the receipt my way, but I left that vault feeling lighter, even with the weight still on my shoulders. Those four failed attempts to craft tools earlier stung—no coal, no flux—but tomorrow’s another dawn. I’ll walk back to the ridge, pick up where I left off. Maybe this time, the earth won’t make me beg so hard.
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