I cautiously make my way to the only tent, the stolen knife gripped firmly in my hand. The whole camp is asleep, completely unaware of what is going to happen. The only light is from a flickering candle in the tent. I can see the Shadow’s outline through the canvass side. I watch him with contempt. He’s sitting in a chair with his feet on a table. He has a glass in his hand, which he delicately puts to his lips every so often.
How can he be so dainty, almost refined, when he has ordered the deaths of so many?
Oooh like that contrasting picture!
ReplyDeleteNice!
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