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The Spellweaver
Category: Fantasy
There were stories told of this place, and none of them ended well.
She had learned long ago not to trust promises.
She had not expected to see him again, not after all these years.
The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold.
The fire had burned down to embers, but neither of them moved to stoke it.
The letter was still on the table, unopened, as it had been for three days.
The train pulled out of the station with a long, mournful whistle.
The map was old, its edges frayed, but the path it showed was unmistakable.
The end.