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The Faded BouquetThe rain fell in sheets of grey iron, drumming against the stained glass of the archive until the windows wept. I was on my knees, my coat soaked through, pressing my ear to the cold stone floor. The vibration was a low, rhythmic thrum, like a heart beating in the belly of the earth. I had come here to find evidence, to prove that the Magistrate’s court was a house built on rot, but the floor...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe rain in Seattle does not fall; it settles, a grey mist that clings to your eyelashes and tastes of copper and old stone. You are sitting on the edge of your bed, which is a metal frame stripped of its mattress, staring at the floorboards where the light from the streetlamp outside fractures into long, jagged ribs. You have been here for three days, or perhaps it has been three months; time...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe knife slipped. Maren felt the cold bite of iron against her thumb. A bead of blood welled up. Dark. Red. It fell onto the white tablecloth. A stain. A mark. She wiped it away. The soup was thick. Creamy. It smelled of thyme and old bones. She stirred it. The spoon clinked against the ceramic. A sharp sound. It echoed in the small room. Outside, the wind howled. It was always howling here....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe bell tolled seven times. The air in the scriptorium was thick, smelling of oak shavings and the sharp, metallic tang of fresh ink. Elara sat at the long table, her back straight, her eyes fixed on the parchment before her. She was copying the *Liber Vitae*, the book of lives, a task that had consumed her for three years. She was not a scribe. She was a witness. And the witness must not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe gate was iron. It was thick. It did not move. Margaret stood before it. The cold bit her face. The air smelled of wet stone. And old blood. She held a lantern. The flame shook. Her hands were steady. But her heart was not. She was a woman of the lower ward. She wore a grey cloak. It was heavy. It dragged on the mud. Inside, she carried a scribe’s quill. It was dry. It was useless. But it...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe rain fell on the manor like a shroud of gray wool, heavy and cold, pressing the earth into silence. Elara sat by the hearth, her fingers stained with the soot of the fire she had been tending for hours. The house was old, a stone beast with narrow windows and high ceilings, built in an age when walls were meant to keep out more than just the weather. It was a place of shadows and dust, of...0 Comments 0 Shares 31 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe iron tastes of rust and old blood, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat as you lock eyes with the man across the hall, his armor dented from the previous strike, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps that sound like air being pulled through a broken bellows. You are not a soldier in the traditional sense, nor are you a knight in the gleaming, romanticized light of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographYou wake with the taste of iron on your tongue, a metallic tang that clings to the roof of your mouth like rusted wire. The dream is already dissolving, a grey mist retreating into the corners of your consciousness, but the feeling remains, heavy and wet in your chest. You are lying in the center of the old bed, the one your grandfather bought in 1952, the springs creaking under the weight of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe shelling did not stop when the walls fell. It stopped only when the air itself grew thin, turning the sky into a bruise that never healed. Mara stood in the center of the room, which was no longer a room. The floorboards had lifted, curling upward like dead leaves, revealing a void of pale, swirling mist below. Above, the ceiling had dissolved into a canopy of gray clouds, heavy with unshed...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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