"This is… you had this all along… it's my dad’s sword… Thank you, Master, for taking such good care of it. Can I really have it?" Sarrah asked, tears welling up in her eyes.
“It was always meant to be with you,” Adam replied softly. “He entrusted me with this sword. I never took it out… and I never found the courage to return it to his family. But fatefully, you showed up… and lifted that burden from my shoulders.”
Sarrah slowly reached into the chest and took the sword out. Its handle and sheath were worn, covered in dirt and dust, but as her fingers closed around the grip, she felt something warm—like her father’s protective hand, still resting there.
Overwhelmed, she sat down and hugged the sword tightly to her chest, trying to contain the flood of emotion pouring out through her tears. As she remembered the last time she saw this sword and her Dad.
“Dad, are you going to battle again?” asked a 10-year-old Sarrah, her voice trembling with the fear of losing him.
“Don’t be scared, my little spirit,” Ibrahim said, kneeling down to her level with a soft smile. “I’ll always come back to you… in one form or another.”
He led her out to the plains behind their home. The wind rustled the tall grass gently as he drew his sword, gripping it firmly—his hand solid as a rock. With a deep breath, he leapt into the air and swung the blade with elegance, like it was an extension of his arm. The way it moved—it wasn’t just strength, it was grace, like the wind itself flowed through him.
Then, with a final flourish, he struck a large stone. The blade sank deep into it, splitting it slightly. Sarrah's eyes sparkled with awe.
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“Dad… please teach me that!” she pleaded.
Ibrahim chuckled, patting her head. “Of course, my spirit. Once I return from this battle, I’ll teach you everything.”
But Sarrah held onto his arm, her grip tight. “Don’t leave me, please… What if something happens? I know you're strong, but… I’m scared.”
He turned to face her, his expression firm but full of love. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. I’ll always be by your side. You are my spirit. As long as you live, I’ll find my way back to you. If anything ever happens to me… then I’ll live on in this sword. And I’ll always protect you.”
She slowly let go, watching him walk away with that brave, unwavering smile—the one all great warriors wore. Her hero.
As she gently opened her eyes after recalling those sweet last moments with her father she whispered, her voice breaking, “You found your way back to me… didn’t you, Dad?”
Adam stood beside her, eyes glistening with emotion. “Take it out, kiddo. Make your father proud.”
She rose to her feet and unsheathed the sword. Despite the dust and the rust, the blade shimmered like it had just been forged. Along the edge, glowing faintly in the sunlight, were the words engraved long ago:
"To Protect."
Sarrah raised the sword high above her head. The light caught the blade just right, and for a moment, it was as if the sword had awakened—as if its spirit had returned.
But the moment was short-lived.
Adam’s expression changed. “Something’s wrong,” he said sharply. “Raiders.”
The peace shattered. Cries echoed from the village.
They rushed toward the commotion.
As they entered the main road, Sarrah saw a young boy shielding his little sister with his body. A raider charged at them, sword raised.
Without thinking, Sarrah dashed forward. In one swift, fluid motion, she slashed through the raider’s waist, the movement effortless—as if guided by the wind itself.
She knelt beside the children, checking them over.
The boy looked up, his voice trembling but filled with wonder. “Thank you for saving my sister… Are you… the one from my mom’s stories? Are you the Sword Spirit?”
Sarrah looked down at the sword, still glowing faintly in her hand, and then at the innocent eyes staring back at her.
She smiled and walked away in the crowd.
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