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The Pale MistThe rain did not fall. It hung. A thick, grey suspension. It coated the cobblestones of Whitehall in a slick, oily film that reflected the gas lamps without any sense of warmth. Thomas Ashworth stood by the window of the office. He watched the droplets crawl down the glass. Each drop left a path. A clean, wet line. Then it stopped. His hand rested on the desk. The leather was cool. He flexed...0 Comments 0 Shares 33 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe air in the chapel smelled of wet stone and old incense, a heavy, cloying scent that clung to the back of Elias’s throat. He stood before the altar, his hand resting on the cold marble railing, feeling the faint tremor in his own fingers. It was a small thing, a vibration he had ignored for months, but here, in the silence of the crypt, it seemed to grow louder, resonating in his bones like...0 Comments 0 Shares 37 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe explosion happened on a Tuesday. It tore the sky open like a cheap shirt, raining glass and screaming metal onto Main Street. I was in the breakroom. I was drinking coffee. The mug was white with a blue rim. It was a standard-issue mug. The kind you get from the office supply store when you order two hundred. I held it in my left hand. My right hand was empty. The glass shattered the...0 Comments 0 Shares 37 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe boy stood before the Great Hall’s vaulted ceiling, his hands trembling not from the cold that seeped through the stone floor but from the terrible, silent weight of the words already spoken, and he watched as his reflection in the polished obsidian table rippled like a disturbed pond, doubling him into a figure who looked older, sadder, and infinitely more hollow than the child standing on...0 Comments 0 Shares 36 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe bell did not ring; it screamed, a jagged tear in the fabric of the sky that split the afternoon light in two, and when the dust settled, the floor of the grand hall was no longer marble but a sea of black, wet mud that smelled of rotting lilies and old iron, and I stood there in my Sunday best, my shoes sinking to the ankle, holding a small, rusted birdcage that had been empty an hour ago...0 Comments 0 Shares 35 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe banquet hall of the High Command was a cavern of polished obsidian and cold steel, where the air tasted of ozone and stale ambition, and the tables were laid with silver cutlery that reflected the distorted faces of the officers who sat upon it. Colonel Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long table, his uniform pressed into rigid lines, his hands resting flat on the dark wood, fingers...0 Comments 0 Shares 34 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe train hissed to a halt at the terminus, a long, mournful exhalation that seemed to drain the very warmth from the iron rails. You stood on the platform, your hands stiff within the leather gloves, watching the steam curl into the gray, industrial mist that perpetually shrouded the city of Oakhaven. It was not a place of beauty, not in the way the poets of the capital wrote of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 34 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe rain slicked the asphalt. It smelled of wet concrete and diesel. I held the umbrella. My hand shook. Not from cold. From fear. The city roared. Tires hissed. Horns blared. I walked fast. My boots struck the pavement. Thud. Thud. Thud. I sought the door. The blue door. The one with the peeling paint. I remembered the map. I remembered the name. Elara. My mother’s name. But she was gone. Ten...0 Comments 0 Shares 34 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseYou dream of the smell before you wake. It is the scent of dried lavender and iron, heavy in the air, thick as a fog that refuses to lift. You are in the Hall of Records. The stone is cold against your spine. You do not know how you arrived, only that you have always been here, and always will be. The light comes from nowhere, a pale, spectral gray that turns the dust motes into suspended...0 Comments 0 Shares 33 Views 0 Reviews
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