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The Wistful ShowThe rain did not fall so much as it existed, a constant, wet presence in the air of the valley. It soaked into the wool of my coat. It seeped into the soles of my boots. I stood by the window of the inn, watching the mist coil around the ancient oaks. They were not just trees anymore. They were memories made of wood and lichen. I could feel their roots digging into the earth, finding water,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe rain had turned the mud of the courtyard into a slurry that sucked at their boots with a wet, hungry sound. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the gate, watching the caravan disappear into the grey mist of the forest. He did not wave. He did not speak. He simply watched until the last horse, a shaggy beast laden with crates of salted pork, vanished behind the weeping willows. The silence that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe room was a box. It had been a dining room once. Now it was a cell. The walls were white. The paint peeled in long, dry strips. Like skin. Silas sat. He did not move. His hands rested on the table. The wood was cold. The air was still. Dust motes danced in the beam of light. From the window. The only window. It was night outside. Or maybe day. He could not tell. The light was constant....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistYou wake in the damp cold of the barracks, the taste of iron and old stone heavy on your tongue, and for a moment you do not know where you are or why your hands are bound so tightly to the heavy oak table before you. The light is not the bright, honest sun of the morning patrol but a pale, sickly gray that filters through the high, narrow windows of the Inquisitor’s Hall, casting long,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe rain had not stopped for three days. It tapped against the high windows of the North Wing, a relentless, monotonous rhythm that sounded like fingernails scraping against glass. Margaret stood by the window, her back to the room, watching the gray water smear the garden into a blur of mud and withered leaves. She was alone in the corridor. The house was empty, or so it seemed. In truth, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe rain did not fall so much as it hung. It was a fine, persistent mist that clung to the iron girders of the Mill House, turning the world outside the windows into a grey smear. Inside, the air smelled of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. Margaret stood before the mirror in the hallway. It was an old thing, silver-framed, its glass clouded with age. She adjusted her collar. She...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant Temple"The foundation is sound, Mr. Holloway, isn't it?" asked the Surveyor, his voice carrying the dry, papery quality of wind moving through dead leaves. He stood before the towering edifice, a cathedral of iron and glass that pierced the smog-choked sky of the industrial valley, its spire a needle stitching the earth to the heavens. "One would not think so, given the rumors. But the stone does not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe morning air in the high valley of Oakhaven smells of wet slate and the sharp, metallic tang of crushed juniper, a scent that clings to the back of your throat like a forgotten sin. You wake not to the call of a rooster or the clatter of carts on the cobblestones, but to the slow, grinding ache in your joints, a cold weight that has settled into your marrow over the last three winters since...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe feast was loud. It was too loud. Marta sat in the corner. She held a cup of wine. The wine was red. It tasted of dust. She did not drink. She watched the hands. They moved. They passed bread. They passed salt. They passed knives. The hall was old. The stone was cold. The fire burned low. Smoke curled in the air. It smelled of wood and fear. People spoke. They spoke fast. They spoke low....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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