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The Last Crusade
Category: Historical
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold.
He had been waiting for her for what felt like an eternity.
Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
The map was old, its edges frayed, but the path it showed was unmistakable.
The fire had burned down to embers, but neither of them moved to stoke it.
The garden had been her mother’s pride, and now it was hers.
It was the kind of night when secrets refused to stay buried.
The market was bustling with merchants, their voices a chorus of bargains and boasts.
The end.