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The Spellweaver
Category: Fantasy
She had learned long ago not to trust promises.
The letter was still on the table, unopened, as it had been for three days.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold.
Some doors, once opened, can never be closed again.
The sword was heavier than she expected, but she did not lower it.
A cold wind swept across the plain, carrying with it the scent of distant rain.
He had been waiting for her for what felt like an eternity.
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
The end.