Rhythmic scraping of steel against stone echoed throughout the forge as Soren leaned over the blade, carefully grinding out the fuller. Sparks leaped with every pass, the blade’s surface catching in the light as it began to take final shape. Sweat dripped from her temple as she worked, but Soren ignored it, her focus unyielding as she worked the metal down to ensure the balance and durability of the Knighting Sword was nothing short of perfection.

“Looking good, Soren,” Rod’s voice came from across the forge, his voice cutting through the din of hammers and the roar of the bellows.

Soren grunted in acknowledgment, her hands steady as she inspected her work with heavy scrutiny, searching for even the slightest flaw in her creation. She grinned in silent satisfaction before setting the blade aside to cool before taking a small break to eat a handful of dried beef and nuts, washing it down with cheap ale from the tavern down the road before diving back in to continue working.

As the end of her shift approached, Rod appeared at her side with a small leather pouch in hand, jangling it enticingly before plopping it down on her workbench. “Sold one of your daggers today,” he said with a grin.

Soren straightened, wiping her hands on her apron as her brows furrowed. “Which one?” She asked, her tone cautious. It wasn’t often that she made daggers, preferring to dedicate her time to larger pieces or personal commissions, and it was even less often that she sold one. Hardly anyone in the city was willing to buy a blade forged by a woman.

Upon seeing her face, Rod’s grin faltered. “The one with the blue leather-wrapped hilt and etched guard. The sleek, plain one?”

Soren’s frown deepened, as did the crease between her brows. “It was plain for a reason; that one wasn’t finished,” she muttered, her voice tinged with frustration. “Where did you even get it? I had it set aside on my bench.”

From nearby, in the other corner of the forge, Milo’s head snapped up, a guilty look on his face. “Uh, wait,” he said. “Are you sure it was blue?”

Soren glared over at Milo. “It was, yes. Did you mess with it?”

“Well - I saw it on your workbench and put it with the finished product,” Milo said carefully. “It looked like it was finished, so I thought it was done.”

Her jaw tightened as she glared at the youngest Ironrite. “You should have asked me before taking something off my bench,” she said, her voice tight. “Now someone’s walking around with an unfinished blade, and it might get them hurt.”

Milo’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Soren quipped. “Apologize to the poor sod using the thing.”

Rod patted Soren on the shoulder, offering a small smile to diffuse the tension. “Relax, Soren,” he said. “The buyer seemed like someone who doesn’t often get into scraps. Or at all, really. I’m pretty sure it was some noble blood trying to blend in.”

Soren’s frown only deepened. “An unfinished blade is a liability, Rod, and if that noble decides they want to get into a fight with their shiny new knife and it ends up breaking and getting them hurt, then I’m liable for making a piss-poor weapon, and you are liable for selling it to them.”

Rod looked just as guilty as Milo, and Soren sighed in frustration, her exhaustion getting the better of her. Before Rod could respond, Des’s gruff voice interrupted them. “Soren,” Des called from the front of the forge. “You’ve been at the bellows all day. Take a break and cool your head,” he said, lumbering to the belly of the forge where Soren and the boys stood. Des handed Soren a folded piece of parchment. “Here’s the materials list for the week. Head to the market and pick this up. Wash your head in the river for a bit to cool off if you have to.”

Soren hesitated as she looked between the parchment and the unfinished blade, then sighed. “Alright,” she said, taking it from his calloused fingers and tucking it into her apron. “I’ll head out now, then.”

She gathered her satchel and hung up her gloves before taking the pouch Rod placed on her workbench and stepped outside. The air was much cooler than the stifling heat of the forge, a welcomed and refreshing change against her sweat-slick skin. Already, she was beginning to feel better, though guilt at having snapped at Rod and Milo festered in her chest, and anxiety of the unfinished blade out in the world somewhere buzzed under her skin.

Soren made her way to the Solaran temple, her worn boots scuffing the cobblestone streets as the note in her apron weighed heavily on her mind. The temple was a familiar stop for her, one she paid a visit to every week when Des sent her to market. It was a quiet haven in the heart of the bustling city, its three spires a comforting sight and a constant reminder of the Ladies ever-watchful presence.

Inside, soft sunlight filtered through the stained glass depictions of the Ladies. The soft reds and yellows and golds of Lady Dawn, the vibrant pinks and oranges and greens of Lady Sol, and the comforting blues and purples and silvers of Lady Dusk danced across the worked stone floor, dancing off the murals of their holy symbols etched into the ground. The Sisters of Solara milled about in their habits, the colors of their respective Ladies on display with their scapular and veils. Soren caught the familiar voice of Sister Elindra speaking with a couple by the statue of Lady Dawn. The couple looked harried while Sister Elindra gave them comfort.

Soren stood a respectful distance away as Sister Elindra spoke with the man and his wife, trying not to overhear their conversation out of respect. Once Sister Elindra had finished speaking with them, she caught sight of Soren and gave her a warm, welcoming smile. She was a woman in her middle years, her hair neatly tucked under her wimple and coif as her bright eyes shone with familiarity.

“Miss Avenel,” Sister Elindra greeted as she approached, her hands folded neatly in front of her, but her eyes creased with moderate concern when she saw Soren. “You’re looking a little peaky today. Have you been getting plenty of sleep?”

Soren smiled sheepishly, unable to bring herself to lie to the Sister. “I sleep on occasion, Sister. Mostly when Master Des orders me to.”

Sister Elindra chuckled softly with a shake of her head, giving Soren a small, chastizing look. “Smithy Des is a good man, though I wish he’d exert a little more will over your sleep schedule.”

Soren chuckled as well, though guilt made its home in her chest once again. “I’ll be able to get better sleep once this project is finished, I promise.”

The Sister gave Soren a skeptical look with a raised brow. “I recall hearing those exact words a few times before, Miss Avenel.”

“And I always do get better sleep,” Soren replied with a grin. “At least until another big project comes through.”

The pair share a quiet laugh before Sister Elindra eventually speaks again. “Am I correct to assume that you are not here simply to be goaded into sleep?”

Soren nodded, taking out the parchment and handing it to Sister Elindra. “I know it may be the same as last week, but I want to be sure if you don’t mind.”

Sister Elindra’s eyes scanned the neat script on the parchment, reciting the list to Soren clearly as she dedicated each item and its quantity to memory. When Sister Elindra finished, she passed the list back to Soren, who pocketed it and fished out a coin to pay for the services. Sister Elindra, as usual, attempted to decline the payment. “You know you don’t have to do that, Miss Avenel.”

Soren smiled, pressing the coin into the palm of Sister Elindra’s hand anyway. “I do, Sister,” Soren replied. “You’ve always done me this kindness, and I appreciate it deeply.”

The Sister huffed, pocketing the coin, and she fixed Soren with a serious look. “You know, you could save ample coin if you’d let me teach you.”

Soren’s shoulders tensed, and she glanced away. “Maybe after the project is finished,” she replied. “I don’t have a lot of time or coin for that sort of service.”

“Oh, very well,” Sister Elindra relented. It was the same conversation every week, and Soren often gave the same vague excuse despite Sister Elindra’s insistence on refusing payment. The Sister placed a hand on Soren’s shoulder with a warm smile. “May the Ladies light your path, Miss Avenel.”

Soren returned the sentiment with a quiet thanks before she left the temple, tucking the parchment back into her apron before heading out to the bustling market. It was alive with activity, as is usual for the early afternoon, and the din of haggling merchants and chatter blended into a chaotic symphony of background noise. Soren moved with purpose through the crowds, her focus on the list in her mind. She paused at a metalsmith’s stall, inspecting a stack of raw iron bars before paying for them, stuffing them in her satchel, and continuing about her way.

She attempted to keep her eyes peeled for any sign of the noble that Rod had mentioned earlier, hoping to catch them and offer to finish the blade for free, but the sea of faces and Rod’s vague description yielded no results. Soren’s progress was steady through the markets, gathering charcoal, flux, and other essentials for the forge, paying extra for delivery of the heavier materials.

However, a rough, deliberate shove caught her off guard, and Soren stumbled, her satchel slipping from her shoulder and scattering the raw materials onto the cobblestones.

“Watch where you’re going,” a sharp voice barked to her side.

Soren’s jaw tightened as she turned, recognizing the voice with dread. Lord Garron, a minor noble with an oversized ego, loomed over her, flanked by two guards bearing the colors of his House. The guards tightened their grip on their halberds, the one who bumped into Soren sneering at her with disdain.

“Well,” Lord Garron drawled. “If it isn’t Desmodis’s pet charity case. Finally accepted your place in the dirt with the rest of the commonfolk, have you?”

Soren straightened herself, brushing the dirt from her hands and apron before fixing Lord Garron with a cold stare. “My business in the markets is none of the concern of your House, Lord Garron. I am simply doing my job.” She flashed a condescendingly sweet smile as she added, “Sir,” as an afterthought.

Lord Garron sneered at Soren’s response, unamused. The young Lord was less than two summers older than Soren, though the two could not be any more different. Lord Garron’s father had been rather vocal when Des took Soren on as an apprentice, and as such, Lord Garron had inherited his father’s disdain for the young smith. “Your job?” Lord Garron gawffed. “Don’t make me laugh, Lowborn. A woman has no place in the forge, least of all in the forge of Desmodis.” Lord Garron rolled his eyes dismissively. “The Creple must be desperate to let the likes of you continue to swing a hammer in his stead.”

Soren felt her blood boil, and she wished for nothing more than to use his head as an anvil, but she bit her tongue, clenched her fists, and knelt to collect her scattered supplies. “Funny,” she said, her voice light. “You seem awfully interested in the life of a Lowborn. People might spin tall tales about us if you aren’t careful.”

The guard behind Lord Garron stifled a laugh, earning a witheringly cold glare from his Lord. Lord Garron stepped closer, deliberately kicking aside one of the iron bars with his polished boot before Soren could collect it. “Mind your tongue, girl. Insolence isn’t befitting of your station.”

Soren’s lip curled in fury as she grabbed the wayward iron bar, standing at her full height. Her eyes came to his chin, though it did not stop her from lifting her chin in defiance of the pretentious Lord before her. “And arrogance doesn’t suit yours, yet here we stand.”

Lord Garron’s face darkened, his hand clenching as though contemplating striking her, but he seemed to think better of it - likely not wanting to dirty his hands by touching a Lowborn such as her. Instead, he stepped back, his sneer returning. “You will regret those words, Lowborn.” He snapped his fingers, and his two guards stood at attention as Lord Garron sharply turned and stalked off through the crowd. With his two guards following close behind, the crowd parting to let them pass, Soren finished gathering her supplies, her mood soured as she returned to the forge.