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The Spellweaver
Category: Fantasy
The market was bustling with merchants, their voices a chorus of bargains and boasts.
The fire had burned down to embers, but neither of them moved to stoke it.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold.
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
The garden had been her mother’s pride, and now it was hers.
The stars that night seemed closer than they had any right to be.
She had learned long ago not to trust promises.
A cold wind swept across the plain, carrying with it the scent of distant rain.
The end.