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The Faded PhotographI wake with the taste of copper on my tongue. The dream was sharp. It was a room made of glass, infinite and cold, and I was standing in the center of it. There was no floor. Just light. I turned, and my reflection did not turn with me. It stood still. It smiled. I screamed, but the sound died in my throat. I am awake now. The rain is tapping against the window of my apartment in Seattle. It is...0 Comments 0 Shares 23 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe fever broke at dawn, not with a gentle ebbing of heat but with a violent, shattering delirium that left Margaret Holloway gasping for air as if the bedchamber itself had been drained of oxygen, the linens soaked through with a sweat that smelled of iron and old pennies, her husband Thomas standing over her with a face carved from the same pale, unyielding stone as the castle walls, his eyes...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe rain did not fall so much as it was extracted from the sky by a slow, grinding force, each drop striking the cobblestones of the Market of Whispers with the weight of a finality you had long since forgotten how to name. You stood at the edge of the stall, your fingers buried in the damp wool of the great cloak that hung from the iron hook, the fabric fraying at the hem where the threads had...0 Comments 0 Shares 27 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerYou leave the village of Oakhaven not with a suitcase but with a fever, a burning, white-hot itch in the marrow of your bones that no amount of cold river water or bitter tincture can soothe, and as you drag your feet onto the muddy track that leads toward the industrial sprawl of the valley, the mist around you does not thin but thickens, swirling with a strange, oily sheen that catches the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe dream is not of peace, but of a wall. It is a wall of grey stone, slick with rain, stretching endlessly into a fog that tastes of copper and old ash. You are standing before it, wearing the heavy wool of your uniform, the collar stiff against your throat. In your hands, you hold a lantern that flickers with a sickly, pale green light. Behind you, the sound of boots. Not many. Just enough to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe forest breathed. Not metaphorically. It expanded. Branches cracked. Leaves hissed. The air tasted of copper and rot. Captain Elias Thorne stood on the ridge. His armor was dented. His shield was cracked. He did not look down. He looked at the tree. The Oak. It was ancient. It was alive. It watched him. Thorne was not a man of gods. He was a man of law. The Law of the King. The King was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe mortar was red, a thick, cloying paste that smelled of dried blood and crushed limestone, and my hands were buried to the wrist in it, grinding the day’s worth of clay into submission. I was twelve, a boy of sharp elbows and quiet eyes, working in the infirmary of the Priory of Saint Jude, a sprawling stone fortress of grey rock and ivy that clung to the hillside like a barnacle on a ship’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe banquet hall of the Sterling Institute smelled of roasted pheasant and floor wax, a scent that Margaret had come to associate with the specific, metallic taste of blood in her own mouth. She sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, her hands folded neatly over the white linen, the knuckles white as the porcelain plates before her. Across from her, Director Thorne was laughing, a low,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe iron gate of the Blackwood Mill yawned open like the mouth of a leviathan, exhaling a breath of soot and damp wool that hung in the air, thick and tasteless, a fog that settled into the pores of the skin and the fibers of the clothing with the tenacity of a debt that could never be fully repaid, as Arthur Penhaligon, the master clockmaker, stepped off the train at the terminus of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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