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The Spellweaver
Category: Fantasy
The fire had burned down to embers, but neither of them moved to stoke it.
The market was bustling with merchants, their voices a chorus of bargains and boasts.
She had not expected to see him again, not after all these years.
She had learned long ago not to trust promises.
Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold.
The letter was still on the table, unopened, as it had been for three days.
He was the kind of man who kept his word, even when it cost him.
The end.