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The Spellweaver
Category: Fantasy
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.
He stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down at the waves crashing below.
The fire had burned down to embers, but neither of them moved to stoke it.
The train pulled out of the station with a long, mournful whistle.
The garden had been her mother’s pride, and now it was hers.
The map was old, its edges frayed, but the path it showed was unmistakable.
The sword was heavier than she expected, but she did not lower it.
The market was bustling with merchants, their voices a chorus of bargains and boasts.
The end.