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The Wistful IncenseThe banquet hall of the Citadel of Saint Aethelgard was not merely a room but a suspended breath, a vast, vaulted expanse of polished obsidian and hanging lanterns that burned with a cold, blue fire which did not consume the wick but seemed to draw the warmth from the air itself, leaving the attendees in a state of perpetual, shivering anticipation where the scent of roasted pheasant and aged...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in a steady, grey sheet against the high, narrow windows of the keep, blurring the world outside into a smear of mud and stone. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and old iron. Thomas sat on a bench by the hearth, his hands resting on his knees. He was a man of few words, his face a map of deep lines carved by wind and worry. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe feast was loud. It was wet. The meat was dark as dried blood. Wren sat at the edge of the long table. He was twelve. His hands were clean. This was a mistake. He had come from the mud of the lower fields. He had come with dirt under his fingernails. But here, the candlelight ate the grime. He looked like a prince. He looked like a ghost. Sir Thomas sat at the head of the table. Thomas was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe train hissed against the iron rails, a long, drawn-out sigh that seemed to pull the breath out of the station itself. I sat in the corner of the third-class carriage, my hands resting on the leather satchel between my knees, feeling the cold dampness of the November air seep through the wool of my coat. The city outside was a smear of grey soot and yellow gaslight, the smoke from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Incense"Did you see the new inscription on the south pillar?" Thomas Bradshaw didn’t look up from the ledger he was balancing, his quill scratching a dry, rhythmic screech against the parchment that sounded, in the hushed, dust-mote-filled air of the Archive, like the grinding of tectonic plates slowly shifting beneath the earth’s crust. He was a man who had worn his years like a loose coat, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe first thing you notice is the sound. It is not a hum, exactly, but a low, resonant thrumming that seems to emanate from the floorboards themselves, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes and into the bone of your shin. You are standing in the hallway of the clinic, a place that smells of antiseptic and stale coffee, yet the air here tastes of copper and ozone. Dr. Aris stands before...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe wind did not blow so much as it scraped, a relentless, rusted blade dragging across the high, barren peaks of the northern range where the air was thin enough to make the lungs ache with a sweet, burning thirst. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the precipice, his boots digging into the loose shale, his fingers white-knuckled around the grip of his service revolver, not because he...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe air inside the bunker did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect of a place sealed away from the sun for decades, but rather of a thick, cloying sweetness, a fermented perfume that clung to the back of the throat and settled in the lungs like a second, heavier skin. Elias Thorne sat on the cold concrete floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands resting on his shins where...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe rain lashed the iron shutters of the vault. It was a storm born of old grief, thick and heavy. Alder stood in the center of the room. His hands trembled. Not from cold. From fear. He was a man of cloth. A tailor in a dying trade. In the city above, the weavers were striking. The factories were closing. But here, in the deep cellar beneath the church, the air smelled of damp stone and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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