Listen, there’s something weirdly comforting about being a dwarf. I know, I know—I had a whole existential crisis about my height and all that jazz, but trust me when I say the perks are real. For starters, dwarves can swing a pickaxe like it’s nobody’s business. And guess who was about to find this out firsthand?

  My dad—let’s call him Dad because, well, I still don’t remember his name half the time—he hands me these old, battered tools one morning, all casual-like. “Off to the mines with you, son,” he says. As if it’s normal for a five-year-old to report for manual labor. Back in my old life, I would have filed a complaint with Child Protective Services. Here? Just another Tuesday.

  Anyway, I’m standing at the mouth of this cozy little cave, eyes glittering at the flickering lanterns inside, and I’m not even mad about it. All the other dwarf kids are toddling in there too, picking at stone walls like we’re hunting for Easter eggs made of granite. Nobody’s complaining. If anything, they’re singing while they do it—something about hammers and mother earth, I didn’t quite catch all the lyrics. I guess this is just what dwarf kids do. Meanwhile, I’m just smiling like a goof. “Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go,” right? Sorry, couldn’t resist.

  I step into the mine and, let me tell you, something clicks. The moment I swing my pickaxe into the wall—whack!—I’m in love. No, not with the idea of breaking rocks for a living (though hey, beats data entry), but with the way the stone… responds. It’s like I can see these faint lines of energy running through the rock. Imagine neon circuits hidden behind gray stone, glowing softly whenever metal strikes mineral. Every time I hit the wall, these lines shimmer and shift, like I’m rewriting the code of the earth itself.

  And that’s when I get this brilliant idea. What if I could guide those lines of energy, channel them somehow? Maybe if I just… focus. Whack! Another swing. I concentrate on the shimmer, trying to tug it one way or another. Before I know it, I’m shaping the stone, making it give way where I want. This is better than any VR game I ever played, and I’m crushing it in real life. Bonus: no lag.

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  But here’s the catch—turns out using magic, or mana, or dwarven earth mojo, or whatever we’re calling it, isn’t exactly free. After a few more swings, I’m feeling lightheaded. Another swing, and I suddenly can’t breathe right. It’s like I’ve blown a fuse in my own brain. My knees go wobbly and I faceplant into a pile of rock dust, gasping like I just ran a marathon uphill, in the snow, both ways.

  My dad, who’s apparently got the classic Dad Radar—able to sense when his kid is about to keel over—rushes over. He scoops me up and hauls me out of there. I’m vaguely aware of other dwarf kids staring, probably thinking “Rookie move, new guy.” Whatever. I’m too busy trying to remember how to get oxygen into my lungs.

  Next thing I know, I’m at the local shaman’s hut. The shaman’s a dwarf with too many beads in his beard and a vibe like he’s been sniffing weird mushrooms. He checks me over, mumbling and humming tunelessly. Then he announces, with great drama, “This lad’s got a knack for earthen magic!” as if that’s not totally obvious after I just Hulk-smashed the mana inside a cave wall.

  He says it’s rare for someone my age to tap into these powers so naturally. Most dwarves my age are still figuring out how to tie their own belts (hey, those buckles are complicated), let alone rewrite the bedrock’s structural integrity. The shaman gives me a gentle smile, like I’m some prodigy. My dad’s chest puffs up with pride. I’m just relieved I’m not about to keel over again.

  So, to recap: I realized I’m a dwarf, got sent to the mines at five years old, discovered I can see and manipulate magical energy in rocks, promptly crashed and burned from mana-overuse, and got diagnosed as a prodigy by the local mystical professional.

  Honestly, it’s been a pretty eventful morning. Now I’m back home, sipping on some weird herbal tea that the shaman swears helps with “mana stability.” Tastes like moss, but if it keeps me from faceplanting again, I’ll deal. Besides, I can’t help feeling excited. If I can learn to handle this power, maybe I can carve my own niche in this world. No pun intended. Well, maybe a little.

  Welcome to my new life. It’s got magic rocks, pickaxes, and no OSHA regulations in sight. And you know what? I think I’m cool with that.