Pitkins lay in bed at home, his head spinning with thoughts. When his wife had died years ago, he believed he would never fall in love again. Moving to Sodorf, plying his trade, leaving behind his past, earning respect but not fame—it was all he wanted. The first time he had seen Donive, he had felt something powerful in his heart. Something powerful enough to convince him that, even if no one could replace his lost love, perhaps he could love again.
After the second and third time he had seen her, he could no longer deny his feelings to himself. He wanted her but knew he couldn’t. She was of noble birth. He wasn’t. He knew his sword craftsmanship was second to none but had initially held back a little of his talent when he first moved to Sodorf, not wanting the attention. But after he saw Donive, he realized his only hope of being with her was to gain the respect—even if not the love—of the nobility. The Sodorfians were known far and wide for their love of fine swords. It was almost a religion to them.
Keeping the membership of the nobility open only to those of noble birth was also a religion to them. He knew his odds were almost impossible, but no law forbade a man below the noble class from marrying a woman of the nobility. Social customs came close.
He assumed it would never happen, but it gave him something to dream of as he spent hour after hour forging swords so finely crafted the nobility could not resist them. He quickly became well known but found that his enemies in the nobility always seemed to outnumber his customers.
He hadn’t even expected to see Donive the day of the dance. It was an informal festival. But when he saw her he knew he had to take the chance. Now that the impossible had happened, now that he was knighted, he knew that there was no turning back.