Intense heat made the air shimmer and waver as sparks flitted about like fireflies, dancing through the smokey forge with every strike of Soren Avenel's hammer. The Rusty Dragon Forge sat nestled at the edge of Valir - the bustling capital of Ardenholm - with its clay and brick walls darkened by decades of soot and smoke. The rhythmic clang of hammers echoed through the space like a steady, artificial heartbeat, and though at one point Soren may have complained about the noise, it had become a comfort for her throughout her apprenticeship.

Before her, on the anvil, the blade was reaching its final shape, the Damascus steel glowing a bright orange under her constant pounding and shaping. It was no ordinary commission, however. The strip of red-hot glowing metal was to become the Knighting Sword, a ceremonial blade forged only once every bicentennial, and Soren was in charge of making the blade itself. Every strike of her hammer, every adjustment, every treatment, was a step closer to perfection.

It had to be perfect for a blade of this caliber, as it was destined to deem the next generation of Squires worthy of Knighthood and fated to be wielded by King Magnus himself. This was a responsibility Soren would bear the immense weight of as surely as the heat from the bellows.

"How's it coming over there, Soren?" Roderick's low, rumbly voice rang out from across the workroom. Being the eldest of Smith Desmodis Ironrite's sons, Rod was in charge of crafting the guard and pommel, ensuring that they would properly fit the precious gems that Kaelen, the middle Ironrite son, was busy roughing out at his own workbench.

"It's coming," Soren grunts in response without looking up. She adjusted the blade's angle, inspecting the forte to make sure she had enough room for the engravings and to ensure there was plenty of space for a satisfactory fuller. Dissatisfied, she placed the blade back into the bellows to reapply heat for more shaping.

A scoff reached her ears despite the roaring of the flames, and she instantly knew Kaelen was about to say something smart again. "It better more than just 'coming,'" he quipped. Ever meticulous, he glanced up from his bench, his goggles making his narrow, bright green eyes comically large. "You've been pickin' at it for weeks now."

The youngest brother, Emilio, slaps Kaelen on the back of the head with a filthy rag as he passes his older brother on his way to his workbench. "Shut it, Lenny," Emilio remarks. "Soren's got this. Otherwise, Da wouldn't have put her in charge of it."

Soren smirked as she pulled the blade back out of the bellows and continued to hammer away the imperfections of the edge to ensure the tang would be more than adequate to handle being used.

"Boys," Smith Desmodis's voice boomed clearly over the roar of the forge, and all four apprentices startled, though Soren's eyes remained on her work. "Leave the girl alone and stop distracting her."

Soren silently thanked her smithing master as the boys quieted, though their playful smirks remained as they returned to their own work. She knew by now that they were not serious, as she had been working at the forge for over ten summers. Having been drawn to the hands-on, practical hard work of smithing, the Ironrite brothers have always given her a hard time, though it's lessened in intensity over the years and turned to a more playful poking and prodding. As the only female blacksmith in all of Valir, Smith Desmodis had taken quite a risk to his reputation when he took her in and an even larger risk when he decided to put her in charge of the most prominent part of what would become an era-defining weapon.

To an outsider, many would think that putting someone like Soren in charge of the most critical piece of this commission was setting her up for failure, but an outsider does not know Smithy Des as well as Soren does. Forced to retire when he had lost part of his arm in a skirmish with Ardenholm's neighboring kingdom of Eryndor, Des was once the general of the King's army, a man of practicality and clever bravado. As Soren had found out early in her apprenticeship, Des was a man whose answer to 'you can't do that' was 'watch me.'

Fair in all manner of the word besides physical, Des was a hulking brute of a man with broad, square shoulders, biceps the thickness of Soren's head, and a thick mop of curly grey hair. His three sons shared many of the same characteristics, each with thick, dark, curly hair of varying shades of brown, sunkissed tan skin dotted with dark freckles, and a set of wide shoulders. While Rod looked the most like his father, especially in the face, Len and Milo were narrower, whereas Len looked like the odd-one-out, with the lightest hair and eyes and narrower, lanky body.

Compared to the Ironrite men, Soren was only taller than Milo by a hair, with wider shoulders and arms muscled from years of swinging a hammer. Her wavy dark hair was kept cropped close to her head, hardly coming past her shoulders as most of it was pulled back in a messy updo to keep out of her eyes as she worked. Small scars dot along her arms and hands, with a few on her face, most of which are burns or caused when Soren was not paying attention to where she was swinging her hammer. Seeing them as valuable lessons to be learned from, Soren does not bother hiding the ruggedness her work coats her in.

She had learned in her years of apprenticeship to largely ignore the boys when they prod her as such, and other times, she would merely quip back without looking away from her work. She had gotten quite decent at multitasking despite the efforts the Ironrite brothers would make to distract her further. However, with the magnitude of the commission they have in their hands now, they cannot afford distractions or mistakes.

This was the King's blade, after all.

The sun had begun to kiss the horizon by the time Soren found the shape of the blade satisfactory, and now it was time for the moment of truth and the most critical aspect of forging; quenching the blade.

"Master Des," Soren called out as she inspected the sword for flaws. "Could you take a look at this before I start quenching?"

Curious, Des nodded as he stood from his own workbench, lumbering over to scrutinize Soren's work and offer a second opinion. His keen, narrow eyes pick apart every bit of the surface as Soren wipes a drop of sweat from her sooty forehead, leaving a streak of ash in the wake of her gloved hand. Des turns the blade in his hand several times before nodding and handing it back to her.

"It looks good," he grunts out. "Remember, don't apply too much heat or-"

"Or I'll crack the blade," Soren replies with a knowing nod. Des smirks, patting her shoulder, and she slumps under the weight of his massive hand.

"Alright, journeymen," Des's voice booms over the noise. "Pack it up; we'll continue first thing tomorrow."

The boys give a cheer, each of them standing from their workstations and stretching as they begin to tidy up their areas, but Soren continues to work, placing the sword back into the bellows. "I'll stay," she said, her voice steady despite her exhaustion.

Des gave her a long, hard look as the boys began to file out of the Rusty Dragon, but he finally nodded. "Don't overdo it, girl," he warned. "We've got plenty of time to finish it."

Soren nodded in return, but she knew better. Time was a luxury she could not afford, but it was one she would need to make sacrifices to make more of if she wanted to finish the blade properly. As the forge emptied and the clamor of voices faded and blended with the noise of the city, she went back to work, evenly heating the blade as she prepared the oil to quench it.

Once heated, Soren quickly and carefully moved it from the bellows to the barrel of oil she prepared, vigorously moving it up and down to ensure the oil properly cools the metal. She held her breath as the sizzling and sputtering slowed, the oil splashing harmlessly on her long, thick leather gloves and apron. After properly cooling, she slowly pulls it up from the barrel and scrutinizes the weapon's profile.