Aye, I’ll tell ye—Minoc’s got a way of grinding you down slow, same as the pick on stone. Was back in that hollow at (2496,533), the one where the iron veins run thin and the rock’s like biting flint. Ten swings, maybe more, just to crack loose one sad little lump of ore. My arms were singing, shoulders a knot of fire, and the sun beat down through the cracks in the mine roof like it had a grudge. I remember the clink—that brittle, disappointing sound when the pick skips instead of bites. Felt like digging my own grave some days.
But then I made for the forge just east of the mine, the one tucked under the cliff where the smoke curls up quiet-like and doesn’t draw eyes. That’s where it mattered—the heat, the weight of the hammer in my hand, the way the coals glowed like dying stars. Smelted three batches right there, tongs gripped tight. One of ’em snapped—cheap iron, worn thin—nearly dropped a billet into the dirt. Cursed loud enough to scare the bats. But I got it, every ounce. And when I hefted my pack afterward, near fifty ingots pulling at my spine, it wasn’t just weight—it was promise. Felt every step back to Minoc, boots crunching on gravel, the pack creaking like an old ship.
Banked it all at the tellerhouse near the smithy. No gold in hand, not yet—cleared my weight, but the purse stays empty. Still, I stood there a moment, palm on the stone windowsill, watching the apprentices hammer out horseshoes in the blacksmith’s yard. Their rhythm was clean, practiced. Mine’s getting there. I’ve got the ore in me, same as the mountain. Tomorrow, I’m taking the tongs to the grinder. Then back to the hollow. That vein’ll open up. It’s got to.
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