Another dusk settles over Minoc, and I’m nursing a tankard at the tavern, hands still smudged with soot no amount of scrubbing seems to shift. I spent the day chasing ore in the East Mine, that stubborn stretch just north of the road where the rock bites back. Forty swings of the pick, maybe more—lost count after the third time the blade caught and jarred my shoulder like a blacksmith’s hammer meant for iron, not bone. The air down there hangs thick with dust and the faint metallic hum of something older than the mines themselves. You don’t just mine here. You bargain. Every swing’s a question: What’ve you got for me today, rock? Iron? Or just another notch on my pick?
I remember one strike near sundown—the pick sank deep with a clean crack, not the usual grating scrape. Pulled out a fist-sized chunk of black iron ore, still warm, like it didn’t want to leave the stone. Carried it up to the mine forge, arms heavy with nearly fifty ingots already. That one piece, though—it sat different in my pack, a quiet promise. The forge fire roared to life like it knew, spitting sparks into the evening. I fed the ore in, watched it glow, then bleed into molten silver. Tongs slipped once—burned my forearm on the handle—but I held on. Felt the heat seep through the leather, a sharp, grounding pain. That’s when you know you’re working, not just moving rocks.
Smelted the last batch just as the stars came out. Walked into town with my pack low on my back, each step jostling the weight of a day’s stubborn faith. Dropped eighty gold and three iron tools at the bank, the clerk barely looking up. Same face, same bored nod. But it matters. Every ingot, every blister. This town runs on fire and muscle, and I’m part of that rhythm. Tomorrow, I’m aiming for the blacksmith’s anvil—those two failed attempts today still sting. But I’ll go back. The ore’s still there. So am I.
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