The quill lies limp in my hand as the click of boots on marble gets fainter and fainter, finally disappearing behind the slam of the great hall’s heavy doors. No one will return from the hunt until after dark—until it’s too late for me. But I must tell them. I must reveal the traitor.
Shaking fingers dip my pen into the most precious of inks that now pools around my chest. The cool white floor is my parchment as I scrawl the name of the man who flatters doddering kings and murders inquisitive priests. I pray the warning is legible. I pray it is heeded.
Strength expended, I exhale and let the quill fall. As the grey curtain of this world draws closed, I cannot help admiring the irony of this end. The pen may be mightier than the sword, but those who wield the former are still vulnerable to the latter.
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.
