His shop is in one of the oldest streets in the city: uneven, ancient pebbles cover the ground, for him a difficult feat to negotiate every morning, as, in the small hours, he walks from his house to his work.

He too is very old, almost as old as one of the stones in the ancient buildings of the neighbourhood: and his craft is centuries – some say millennia – old: he makes the most beautiful and deadly swords, an art he’s received, as he was taught patiently over the years by his parents, as all his forebears.

They say the products of his labour have a soul: and they possess their owners, the few who are deemed worthy of such weapons, after all, it takes years of skilled craft to make one sword.

Today his latest customer is with him, standing tall, admiring his work: the katana he is now polishing reflects the light of this winter morning, and the flames of the furnace: the layers of fine steel glow in the semi darkness.

He knows this will be his ultimate masterpiece: the cycle of his years is coming to an end, but as she turns towards him, her smiling eyes penetrating deep into his soul, her red hair a halo, he knows the angel will be pleased with the result: a blade fit for a knight immortal.