The Andalus Longsword

∴ An Ornate Echo∴

The summer evening air is perfumed with orange and myrtle, carrying a cascade of memories. You close your eyes and drink in the melody of the place: running water punctuated by a nightingale trill. You fancy you can almost feel the palace’s rosy glow against your shoulders as you walk away.

They called it Paradise on Earth, once. A pearl amongst emeralds. Home to scholars, and artists, and princes. They told you those intricate arches and crystal pools would outlast the eons.

In a sudden rush of rage you draw your sword and swing it hard against the nearest tree. Standing amidst the splintered bark, you stare at the weapon in your hands. The downcurved quillons. The distinctive pommel. The delicate piercings.

It is true, an era has ended. But you’ll bear this reflection of it wherever you may go – and it will bring you justice.

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