They were drawn up like an army on the heights, standing tall in silent challenge. Mist swaddled them and a pale moon shone through their ranks.
My opponent’s bishop rushed me, and the daring caused the watchers to gasp.
A shake of my head to clear it, and a hand run over tired eyes. These were only vases, a collection on my sideboard. Just ornaments.
The bishop’s mitre scythed over my head and I saw moonlight glint on keen steel.
Confronting mortal threat makes philosophical speculations about reality fade. I hefted the broadsword that formed in my hands.
Fancy sharpening your skill with writing exercises? The Scrivener’s Forge offers a new exercise every month to hone one aspect of your craft. Take a look at this month’s exercise on point of view.