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The Spellweaver
Category: Fantasy
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold.
A knock at the door changed everything.
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.
The sword was heavier than she expected, but she did not lower it.
The letter was still on the table, unopened, as it had been for three days.
Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
The end.