Ballard trudged home, the sun sinking low behind him, casting long shadows across the village. His back ached, and his hands, as always, were raw and blistered from the day’s work. The feel of the chisel striking stone had become so familiar that even the pain had turned into something he simply accepted. It was his craft, the work his father and grandfather had done before him, but today had been grueling. The king's recent tax increase loomed large over every thought, forcing him to take on more work just to make ends meet.

As he stepped into the small, warm home, the sound of his children’s laughter hit him like a wave. Emlyn, his eldest, was chasing Kellam, who shrieked in delight as they darted around the modest room. Colden, the youngest, was toddling unsteadily, already trying to keep up with his older brothers. Ballard loved them dearly, but the noise and chaos made his tired head pound even harder.

Ballard glanced around the room, you, his wife had tidied the modest space, though the signs of their humble life were everywhere. There was a small shelf with unfinished carvings, a project he had been working on for months. The floor bore the scuffs of little feet running through it, and the fire crackled softly in the hearth. This home, though simple and worn, was built with the same hands that shaped the stone, a reflection of his life’s work.

He managed a smile as Emlyn raced past him, nearly knocking over a chair, but deep down, he just wanted a moment of peace. His feet felt like lead as he crossed the room and sank heavily onto the wooden bench by the table. He stared at his hands, cracked, calloused, and covered with fresh blisters. Times were hard, harder than they’d been in years, and the added weight of taxes made the stone heavier, the days longer.