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The Wistful PetalThe ink on the ledger is still wet when you look down, a dark, viscous bloom that has seeped into the grain of the oak, mirroring the bruise that has formed across your knuckles from years of gripping the quill too tightly. You are in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude, a place where the air tastes of dried lavender and old dust, and the silence is so thick it feels like a physical weight...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe kitchen light hums, a low, electric drone that vibrates against your teeth. You are standing by the stove, a ladle in your hand, stirring a pot of broth that has been simmering for three days. The steam rises in a white, opaque column, obscuring the window, obscuring the street outside, obscuring the world beyond the four walls of this house that has slowly begun to close in around you. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe feast hall of the Ashworth estate did not smell of roasted meats or spiced wine, but of a heavy, cloying sweetness, like the air before a summer storm breaks over a stagnant pond, a scent that clung to the velvet drapes and the polished mahogany tables where the silverware lay untouched, gleaming with a cold, metallic indifference that mirrored the faces of the guests who sat in rigid,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe train smelled of wet wool and rust. It was a heavy, metallic scent that clung to the back of my throat. I sat by the window, watching the gray fields of the Midwest blur into streaks of brown and white. The city was ahead. Chicago. I had come to find the source. Or perhaps to destroy it. I no longer knew the difference. My hands were shaking. I looked at them. They were thin, pale things....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe bell rang. Not once, but a sustained, tearing shriek that split the morning air. I stood in the courtyard, mud caking my boots, my hands shaking. The stone was cold. The sky was grey. Then the ground heaved. It was not an earthquake. It was a beast. It rose from the earth, a shape of smoke and iron, smelling of ozone and old blood. It had no face. It had only eyes. Many eyes. They blinked...0 Comments 0 Shares 43 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe soup was cold. It had been cold since Tuesday. I sat at the head of the table, the wooden surface worn smooth by decades of elbows and elbows. The broth separated. A skin of fat congealed on the surface, white and opaque as a cloud. I stared at it. I did not eat. The house was silent. It was a large house. Stone walls. High ceilings. The kind of place that swallowed sound. My father had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe first thing Sergeant Elias Thorne noticed was the smell. It was not the metallic tang of blood, nor the sour rot of the storm that had swept through the Appalachian foothills, but something thicker, cloying, and sweet. It smelled like overripe plums left in a sun-drenched window for too long. It sat in the back of his throat, a physical weight that made his jaw ache as he tried to keep his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe seal was gold. Pressed into wax. Heavy. Cold. I held it in my palm. The metal bit in. It felt like a tooth. Broken. Cracked. My name was Elias Thorne. Captain. First Regiment. We stood before the gate. The iron was black. Rusted. Thick as a man’s arm. Behind it, the palace. Stone. Grey. Silent. Industrial smoke hung low. A yellow shroud. It choked the sky. The city slept. Or died. I did not...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe rain hit the stone. It fell in sheets. Cold. Wet. The castle was a mouth. It swallowed the light. Inside, the air tasted of iron. And old blood. Captain Elias Thorne stood by the wall. He did not move. His hands were still. His eyes were open. He looked at the object on the table. A brooch. Silver. Tarnished. It sat in a velvet case. The case was red. The red was fading. Brown now. Like...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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