"Slight warping," she muttered to herself, her fingers rubbing along the center of the blade in search of any cracks. Satisfied with only minor warping, she sets to work on straightening it out, heating it gently, and bending and cooling it to get it into shape before she sets to work on grinding out the profile of the sword.

While Soren is not one to be easily distracted, she is, however, one to be easily sucked into a project without realizing how much time has passed. After tempering and straightening the blade, she sets to work on finalizing the profile, grinding out the final shape of what she considered to be her greatest work yet.

Morning light had begun to creep its way through the windows of the forge, though it went unnoticed by Soren as she continued to work and grind at the blade's profile. The rhythmic scraping of her tools only slowed when the sound of the forge doors opening caught her attention and broke her focus. She blinked, startled, and realized for the first time how stiff her body had become from hours of labor and how her neck cracked and creaked as she stretched.

"You're still here?" Des's gruff voice cut through the quiet as he stepped inside, followed by his sons.

Rod let out a low whistle as he looked at the work she had put in.

"Been here all night," Soren grunts as she stands and stretches, her shoulders, neck, and back popping in a satisfying symphony of relief. "Got the profile just about finished at last."

Des approached the workbench Soren was seated at, his sharp eyes scanning the blade. After a while, he gave a low hum of approval. "It's good," he said. "Damn good. But you're no use to us if you pass out in the bellows."

Soren's heart sinks. "What? But-"

"Go home, Soren," Des orders, his voice final. "Get some rest. And Ladies Grace, get something to eat. You can't sustain yourself on dried rations for work like this."

Soren hesitated, her body aching to comply and her stomach growling in agreement, though her mind resisted. She opened her mouth to argue, but Des's stern look cut her stubbornness in half, and she balked. Nodding, she wiped her gloves on her apron before removing them, draping them on her workbench, and headed out of the door of the forge.

The streets of Valir were already bustling with early morning activity as Soren trudged home, each step heavier than the last as her eyes fought to remain open long enough to get her home. Her face, arms, and clothes were covered in soot and ash, and she smelled of burning metal, coals, and sweat. She desperately wished she had the coin to take a dip in the Solaran Temple's public bath, however, the wooden stool and wash tub at home were all she had to look forward to. The very thought of scrubbing herself clean made her already achy arms throb even more, and she dreaded it.

Her home was a modest wooden cottage in the heart of the city, shared by her parents and connected to the Avenel family shop. Stepping inside, she was greeted by the familiar creak of the door and the faint scent of soup on the hearth. She trudged through the shop, locking the door behind her before entering the living quarters, where her mother glanced up from their tiny kitchen table.

"You're back rather late," her mother, Maeve, said softly, glancing up from where she was mending a shirt. Soren's father, Solen, was busy pouring over a piece of parchment with furrowed brows as Soren stepped into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair.

"Or early," Soren smiled, dropping her satchel on the floor next to her chair. "The blade's nearly complete now."

Soren's mother chuckled at her daughter's quip, shaking her head. "You work entirely too hard. Here, let me fix you a bowl of soup real quick."

Soren leaned her arms against the table, fighting the urge to fall asleep in the chair. Instead, she glanced at her father, whose expression borders on worry. "What's that, Pa?"

"The new tax notice," Solen replied grimly. "King's raising the levy again, it seems. We just got the notice today."

Soren's brows furrowed at the news, her jaw tensing.

'King Magnus is raising the taxes again?' Soren thought. 'What could he possibly need more coin for at a time like this? Are we not in a time of peace right now?'

Maeve sighed as she slid a bowl of fresh soup in front of Soren. "We may need to find some extra work," she said. "Maybe I can take up some extra mending or help with the midwives."

Solen nodded, setting the parchment down before getting a bowl of soup for himself. "I bet I could pick up a few shifts with the craftsmen guild," he said. "I've still got some old connections there, and they'll likely need work done for the upcoming knighting ceremony."

Soren straightened in her chair after quickly finishing her soup. "You two don't have to do that," she argued. "I've got some extra coin coming in with this commission, I can-"

Maeve interrupted her with a firm, "No. That's your money, Soren."

"But-"

"You've earned it with your own hands; you should use it for yourself, not on us."

"But Ma-"

Solen leveled his daughter with a stern look. "Listen to your mother, lass. We'll manage; we always do."

Soren relented, her chest tight with frustration and worry. She had been apprenticing under Des so that she could help them financially, but her parents had continued to decline any financial aid, continuously reminding her that since it was her money, she should be spending it on herself. Soren gave her parents a weak 'good night' despite the early morning rays of sun filtering into the cottage before retreating to her small room with her satchel.

It was simple in decoration, with her straw mattress against one wall, a small desk with various small trinkets and tools scattered on it, and a small clay pot she had crafted years ago tucked away under the desk. Carefully, she pulled the jar out of its hiding spot and dug into her satchel for the coin she had earned for this week, adding a handful to the growing stash inside. Regardless of her parents declining every instance of help from their daughter, Soren was stubborn and had been setting aside coins for them every week for the past ten years of her apprenticeship to give them someday.

Perhaps after the Knighting Ceremony, when she makes her debut as one of the forgers of the legendary blade the King would be using, she may give them the jar of coin, hoping she can ease their financial burden and give them the life they had only dreamed of. She sighed, knowing full well that they would likely decline the jar regardless, but she at least had to try. She was their dutiful daughter, the child of artisans who deserve to have their names remembered.

With her money rationed and the majority of the soot and ash scrubbed from her body with a bucket of water and a rag, Soren collapsed onto her straw mattress. "Lady Dusk, keeper of the quiet hours, enfold me in your gentle embrace as I surrender to rest," Soren muttered, the prayer her nightly ritual. "Guide my dreams with the wisdom of the stars, and let the shadows of the night bring me peace." She let out a deep yawn, knowing full well that a prayer to the Lady of Dusk in the morning may go unanswered, but she figured that at least the thought should count. "Let my heart stay true and my spirit find renewal in the embrace of your sisters..."