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The Faded FrontierThe rain hit the slate. It fell in sheets. Gray. Cold. It washed the soot from the windows of the Blackwood Manor. Arthur stood in the hallway. He held his hat. The wool was damp. He looked at the clock. It ticked. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The sound was loud. It filled the room. It filled his head. He was here to find the truth. Or so he thought. He was a man of facts. Of evidence. He wore a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe iron gate of the Keep was rusted to the color of dried blood, a stain that had not faded in three hundred years. I stood before it, my hand resting on the pommel of a sword that felt heavier than stone, heavier than the silence that pressed against my eardrums. The air tasted of wet ash and old iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat. I was Caelen of the Northern Reach, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 31 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe rain in Seattle did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the skin and settled into the pores. Elias Thorne stood on the corner of Fourth Avenue, watching the water bead on the leather of his satchel. Inside the satchel lay the Object: a small, brass mechanism no larger than a pocket watch, yet heavy with a gravity that seemed to pull at the air around it. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe stone was cold. It pressed against Elias’s cheek, damp with the morning mist that rolled off the river. He lay still. His breathing was shallow. A controlled rhythm. In and out. The air tasted of iron and wet moss. He waited. The sun had not yet crested the ridge. The castle loomed above him, a dark shape against the pale sky. It was the Citadel of St. Jude. A place of law. A place of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe banquet hall of the Ashworth Manor did not smell of roasted pheasant or spiced wine, though the tables were groaning under the weight of silver platters and crystal goblets that caught the light of the thousand tallow candles until the air itself seemed to shiver with a golden, trembling heat. It smelled, to Thomas Bradshaw, of old wool and damp stone, a scent that clung to the heavy velvet...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe rain on the iron roof was a drumroll that had no end. You stood at the gate of the sanatorium, your coat soaked through to the skin, the fabric heavy with the weight of a life you were no longer sure you wanted to carry. Behind you, the city of Ashworth sprawled in a haze of coal smoke and fog, its factories belching black breath into the gray sky. Ahead, through the glass doors of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe hall was vast, a cavern of marble and silence where the air tasted of stale incense and old stone. You sat at the long table, your hands folded over the cold porcelain of your plate, watching the dust motes dance in the single beam of light that pierced the high, arched window. It was a banquet, or what passed for one in the Bureau of Perpetual Order, though there was no food, only the...0 Comments 0 Shares 38 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe hand is yours. It is not a metaphor. It is flesh and bone, knuckled and red, wrapped around the hilt of a thing that does not belong in this city of iron and steam. You dream of it first. In the dark of your narrow room above the tannery, the hand wakes. It pulls at the sheets. It scratches at the plaster walls until the paint flakes like dead skin. You wake to the sound of your own nails,...0 Comments 0 Shares 30 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of Millhaven into a slick, mirrored abyss reflecting the soot-blackened facades of the town hall and the quiet, shuttered shops, and I stood on the wet steps of the police station, feeling the cold seep through the thin wool of my tunic, a chill that seemed to originate not from the weather but from...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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