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The Distant CrownThe mist lay heavy upon the cobblestones of the Old Quarter, a thick, gelatinous substance that swallowed the streetlamps and turned the spires of the cathedral into vague, trembling ghosts against the bruised purple of the pre-dawn sky, and I stood at the threshold of my father’s house with my hand resting on the pommel of my sword, feeling the cold iron bite into my palm with a intimacy that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe rain in Harrowgate did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the soot-stained brickwork of the old textile district into a mirror for a sky that refused to break. Elias Thorne sat at his desk in the basement office of the Archival Preservation Trust, a room that smelled permanently of decaying paper and the metallic tang of wet wool. He was a man composed of right...0 Comments 0 Shares 28 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe pot was boiling over again. I stood in the kitchen, the heat radiating off the stove in waves that made the air shimmer, and I watched the white foam spill onto the black enamel surface. It looked like snow, or maybe like the ash from a fire that had burned too hot and too long. I did not move. I just watched it spread, a slow, creeping tide of milk that stained the counter and threatened...0 Comments 0 Shares 27 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe rain in the valley did not fall so much as it hung, a gray curtain that smelled of wet stone and old iron. I sat in the back of the cart, my legs crossed in a way that felt unnatural after years of standing, watching the mud smear across the wheel. My name is Elias Thorne, and I was a clerk for the Merchant Guild, a man who counted coins and signed ledgers with a steady hand, a man who...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe left hand is the only part of a man that does not lie. Or so Sergeant Elias Thorne told me, his voice flat and dry as old parchment, before the fog swallowed the horizon and the world began to tilt. We were walking the perimeter of the Blackwood Expanse, a stretch of industrial wasteland where the smog from the steel mills in Ashworth hung so thick it felt like breathing through wet wool....0 Comments 0 Shares 26 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe soup was cold. It had been cold for three days, sitting on the dashboard of my father’s sedan, a grey sludge that smelled of iron and old rain. I did not eat it. I did not throw it away. It was the only thing left of him, and I was a woman who did not discard the relics of the dead, no matter how foul they turned. The car sat in a clearing in the Blackwood Pines, a place where the trees...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe air in the basement of the Whitmore Archive tasted of copper and old rain. It was a thick, metallic fog that clung to the throat, making every breath a small, deliberate act of will. Elias sat on a stool that wobbled beneath him, his fingers numb around the hilt of a rusted iron key. Before him, the Great Ledger lay open, its pages yellowed and brittle as dead leaves. The ink was not ink,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey veil that blurred the horizon and turned the cobblestones of St. Jude’s into a slick, black mirror. I had been walking for an eternity, or perhaps only a few hours; time in this town moved with the sluggish, viscous quality of the mud that clung to my boots. I was searching for the edge, that precise, trembling boundary where the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe mud was thick, a brown paste that sucked at their boots with a wet, gluttonous sound. Thomas didn't look up. He kept his eyes fixed on the cobbles ahead, counting the cracks, measuring the distance between the wet stones. He was seven, and the weight of the wooden cross he carried was a solid, cold thing against his back. It was heavy, heavier than his body, heavier than the fear that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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