Sometimes I write a little story that I have no idea what happens afterwards, like a cliffhanger for myself. This is one of those, no one knows what happens after the last words.
The sword shone brightly as it swung through the air, not yet tarnished by death. There was a clang as it hit the rock at the entrance. A warning. Nothing moved. The sword clanged against the rock again. Just in case.
Two warnings. Two was enough. The knight brushed off the slight covering of dust that had been unsettled when it was swung but did not re-sheath.
The cave was dark and musty; the sound of the sea splashing against the shore followed the knight into the darkness. There were no other sounds.
The knight lit a torch when the cave descended sharply, all light from outside extinguished like a candle.
The cave twisted and turned; went up and then back down again. A seemingly endless journey into darkness.
There was no scuffle of shoes on dirt. Not even a breath could be heard. The knight could have stopped breathing and no one would know.
The knight rounded another corner, deep in the cliff side expecting another winding corridor of cold stone. A chasm of cool air instead shocked them into stopping. There was a single candle in the centre. Not enough to illuminate the enormous cavern but enough to light the bundle of rags that lay in the centre.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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