y name is Goran, and I am a smith. There are only a few in the castle who cast a friendly wave in my direction. The Duke is one. The Castellan is another. These are men who know the value of good iron and the skill it takes to work metal.

As a child I had few friends. My father is a miller, and his sons are despised nearly as much as he.  Perhaps my best friend is Ivar, but he is young and I have been more brother to him than a friend.  Some nights I and two of the men-at-arms meet in the village to drink and sing songs.  One of them, Breck, will no longer let me pay for my own beer.

More than one woman has been fond of me, but each married better than I could have provided. 

I start the forge fires before the sunrise. I hammer for hours until it seems the sweat off my brow is enough to temper one of my long blades. A smithy is a noisy place, with the whooshing of the bellows, the endless clang of hammers, and the sizzle of hot metal in water. But in my forge I do not hear the sounds of children at play, lovers’ whispers, or family quarrels. 

Noise comes from the yard outside. Horses and carts clattering on the cobbles, children throwing stones at a yowling cat, guards berating the castle slaves and making lewd suggestions to the kitchen girls.

The people do not see me watching them. Their glances pass over me, a large, slow man, of few words and fewer letters, a laborer.

My name is Goran, and I am a smith.