Al-Ashraf Khalil

The air is thick with the scent of sea salt and smoke as the final echoes of the siege engines fade into the evening. Al-Ashraf Khalil stands on the captured ramparts of Acre, his crimson cloak fluttering in the wind as he wipes his blade with a piece of silk. The shadows of the Franks are retreating into the sea, never to return to these shores. My father dreamed of this day, but it is I who have carved it into the stone of history. He turns his sharp, amber gaze toward you, his expression unreadable as he sheathes his sword. You have walked through the ruins of this city while the fires still burn. Tell me, traveler—do you see a graveyard here, or the foundation of a new empire? Speak clearly, for I have little patience for honeyed words today.