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The Wistful MountainThe seal is broken. You pull the wax apart. It snaps with a sound like a dry twig. The scent is stale. Dust and ink. You hold the parchment. Your hands shake. Not from cold. The air in the bunker is thick. Stagnant. You are alone. The door is locked from the outside. There is no window. Only the hum of the ventilation unit. A low, electric drone. It vibrates in your teeth. You read the letter....0 Comments 0 Shares 42 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe rain fell on the asphalt like a curse. It was cold. It was wet. It smelled of rust and old stone. Elias stood by the curb. He waited. He did not move. His coat was heavy. It was soaked through. The fabric clung to his ribs. He felt the dampness seep into his bones. A slow, cold ache. It started in his knee. It moved up his thigh. It settled in his lower back. The pain was familiar. It was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 45 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe feast in the great hall of the Keep of St. Aldric was a cacophony of silverware clinking against heavy stone and the low, resonant hum of men who had long since forgotten the weight of their own armor, a sensory assault that pressed against the eardrums of Sir Elias Thorne as he sat in the shadowed corner, his hands resting on the hilt of a sword that felt less like a weapon and more like...0 Comments 0 Shares 44 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe train hissed into the station of Oakhaven, spitting steam that smelled of coal and wet wool. Elias Thorne stepped down onto the platform, his boots clicking against the frozen cobblestones. He carried no luggage save a small leather bag, and he held it against his chest like a shield. The air was thin and sharp, biting at his lungs. He looked up at the Citadel. It loomed above the town, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 45 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe mud is thick and cold against your shins as you drag the heavy iron gate across the flooded causeway, the metal shrieking a high, thin note that cuts through the relentless drumming of the rain, a sound so sharp it seems to slice the air into ribbons of gray mist that cling to your wet hair and the fraying edges of your coat. You do not stop to breathe, do not allow yourself the luxury of...0 Comments 0 Shares 44 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe banquet hall smelled of rendered tallow and stale ambition, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the hair and the throat like a second skin. We were gathered in the Great Hall of the Ministry of Sustenance, a cavernous space where the shadows pooled in the corners like spilled ink, and the long tables stretched into the distance, lined with figures who looked less like people and more like...0 Comments 0 Shares 38 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe dream came first. It was always the dream. A heavy grey wool cloak. It hung on a hook in the hall. The wool was matted. It smelled of damp earth and old iron. Edward Ashworth reached for it. His fingers brushed the fabric. It was cold. Colder than the air. Colder than bone. He woke. The morning was thin. The mist clung to the windows of the town hall. It was a pale, milky fog. It erased the...0 Comments 0 Shares 53 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe rain did not fall. It hung. A suspended grey curtain. It smelled of wet iron and old blood. Elias stood in the courtyard of the Palace of Echoes. The stone beneath his boots was slick. Cold. He watched the water. It did not touch the ground. It stayed in the air, a solid wall of grey. He was tired. His bones ached with a deep, structural pain. The kind that comes from standing too long in a...0 Comments 0 Shares 45 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the mill town into a slick, dark mirror. Inside the hall, however, the air was thick with smoke and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted lamb and cheap gin. It was the annual Harvest Gala, a celebration that had become less about the yield of the barley fields and more about the display of wealth that...0 Comments 0 Shares 44 Views 0 Reviews
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