The sun had descended upon the horizon by the time Soren decided to call it a night at the forge, not wanting to get into trouble with Des for sleeping at her workbench again. Though she left long after the Ironrite men, she locked up the forge and trudged home, her cool night air doing little to ease the tension that wound its way through her shoulders. The streets were quiet, the market stalls long closed, and the lanterns lighting the way on the main road were dim, offering little more illumination beyond the half-moon.

Soren rounded the corner down a small path over the waterway, but a pair of strong hands wrapped around her upper arms, shoving her against the wall of a nearby building. Before she could even cry out, pain shot through her ribs as an armored fist collided with her side, and she gasped, her breath wheezing out in an instant. In the dim light, she recognized the uniforms of her assailants.

“Lord Garron sends his regards,” one of the guards sneered, delivering another blow that made her double over. Soren gritted her teeth, grunting with pain as the assault continued. She did her best to shield her face and curled in on herself to protect her stomach, but her meager protection was no match for the guards and their metal fists and steel-tipped boots.

After what felt like an eternity, the men stepped back, their breathing heavy and voices smug. “Let this be a lesson, Lowborn,” one of them said. “Next time, keep your whore mouth shut, least we cut out your tongue.”

They left her crumpled on the cobblestone, agony radiating from her body. For hours, Soren lay there, gasping for breath as her mind whirled with fury and profound humiliation. This, too, was nothing new for the young smith, and she had yet to learn to keep her temper in check around the explosive rage of Lord Garron and his faithful guards. Often, Soren wondered what sort of life he had to live to have so much contempt for lowborns and women in general until she reminded herself that this is how things are and that nobles like him would never change.

Eventually, slowly, Soren forced herself to her feet, the sun creeping back into the sky as she limped home, clutching her side. Though her body ached with every step, she refused to let someone like Lord Garron punch her down into the neat little box he wished to see her in.

By the time Soren reached home, exhaustion weighed on her shoulders like a thick lead cloak. She paused at the front door, steadying herself before stepping inside, surprised to see the warm glow of a lantern from the kitchen. Her mother sat in her usual spot, carefully mending a pair of trousers with delicate precision. Maeve looked up from her work at the sound of their door creaking open, and her smile faded the instant she saw Soren.

“Ladies above, what happened to you?” She demanded, setting the needlework aside and rising to her feet to hurry to her daughter’s side.

Soren chuckled weakly, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing, just had an accident at the forge, is all.”

Maeve’s brows furrowed as she stepped closer, her eyes scanning the bruises blooming on Soren’s arms and the fresh cut up her lip that was caked with dried blood. “An accident?” Maeve repeated skeptically, her voice heavy with worry. “The same sort of accident that gave you this?” She gestured to a long scar up the backside of Soren’s arm, one that Lord Garron gave her when his guards threw her in the river last year for calling him pompous. “Or this?” She added, pointing at the scar on Soren’s forehead where one of Lord Garron’s guards had cracked her in the face years ago for sneezing in the young Lord’s direction at the markets. “Tell me the truth, Soren. Who is hurting my daughter?”

Soren froze, her shoulders stiff as her resolve began to waver. She hated lying to her mother, and Maeve’s piercing gaze was not one to trifle with. However, Soren knew that even if she came clean, nothing could be done about Lord Garron’s treatment, as only another noble would have the power to put him in his place, and they were merely Lowborn artisans.

“It was an accident,” Soren sighed, forcing the lie again and hoping her mother would let the matter rest. “I wasn’t paying attention to what I was hammering and slipped. That’s all.”

Maeve’s lips pressed in a thin, disappointed line, her hands trembling slightly as she reached out to brush a strand of hair from Soren’s face, tucking it delicately behind her ear. “You’re such a terrible liar, my little warrior,” Maeve said softly.

Soren managed a small smile. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not lying.”

Her mother sighed, pulling Soren into a gentle embrace despite her wince of pain. “Promise me you’ll be careful,” Maeve muttered. “Whatever it is you aren’t telling me, just… please, be careful.”

Soren hugged her mother back, her arms enveloping Maeve’s small frame. “I promise,” Soren muttered back, her heart breaking, knowing that there was not much she could do to uphold that promise.

Maeve pulled back, studying her daughter’s face for a long moment before she nodded. “Come, sit. I’ll make you some tea.”

Soren shook her head, offering her mother a small smile. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine. Some sleep and a good scrubbing, I’ll be fine after that.”

“Alright,” Maeve said reluctantly, watching Soren retreat to her small room. Once inside, Soren leaned her forehead against the rough wooden door, closing her eyes and letting out a long, shaky breath. The pain that throbbed with her heartbeat was nothing compared to the guilt gnawing at her chest. Even as she collapsed onto her bed, sleep refused to come easily.

“Lady Dusk,” Soren muttered, resting her arm over her face, “Cradle me in your twilight glow and carry me gently into the stillness of the night…” Her voice drifted before she could finish the prayer, asleep without hardly a bite to eat or a bath.