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The Faded PortraitThe cold bit into your knuckles. You wrapped your hands tighter around the hilt. The iron was slick with frost. Your friend, Elias, stood behind you. His breath plumed in the grey air. He did not speak. He never spoke when the silence was heavy. You were far from home. The road stretched out before you, white and endless. It was a journey of miles and years. You had crossed the ocean on a ship...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe rain fell on the city of Ashford, a grey curtain that blurred the gas lamps and the cobblestones. Elias Thorne walked fast. His coat was wet. The water seeped into his bones. He was looking for a name. He had lost the name. It was on the tip of his tongue, a ghost of a word, slippery and cold. He had been a detective for thirty years. He knew how to find things. He knew how to find men. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe rain fell in sheets against the bus window. It was a cold, gray rain that had no business falling in October, yet here it was, blurring the world into a smear of mud and rust. Elias sat in the back row. He was a large man, broad in the shoulders, but time had begun to fold him inward. His hands rested on his knees. They were rough hands, hands that had held a rifle for twenty years, hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe rain in Chicago does not wash things clean; it only makes the grime slicker, a thin, oily film that coats the windshields and the souls of those who walk beneath the neon bleed of the city. I have been walking this city for thirty years, a detective by trade and a ghost by temperament, chasing shadows that have learned to wear human skin. My mentor, Elias, used to say that truth is a wild...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe wind in the valley did not howl; it whispered, a dry, papery sound that seemed to come from inside the stones themselves. It was a sound that had been there since before the castle had been raised from the mud, before the first flag had snapped in the gale, before the first king had died on a cold stone floor. Elara knew this because she had spent her life listening to it. She was the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that blurred the iron gates of the Ashworth estate and turned the manicured lawns into a mire of mud and dead leaves. I stood in the shadow of the portico, my hand resting on the cold brass of the gate latch, feeling the weight of the iron ring through my fingers, a weight that seemed to anchor me to the earth even as the wind...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe rain had been falling for three days, a gray, persistent sheet that turned the streets of the old Victorian manor into a slick, dark mirror of the sky above, and Elias stood in the center of the grand foyer, his hands trembling so violently that he could not steady the heavy iron key in his grip, the metal cold and biting against his skin as he tried to turn it in the lock of the room that...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe brass plate on the door had been polished until it lost its name, a smooth, golden smear that reflected only the grey sky and your own hollowed eyes. You lived in the house now, or perhaps the house lived in you, a symbiosis of decay and endurance that had outlasted the war that had broken the world and the peace that failed to mend it. The architecture was classical, heavy with the weight...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe mud is thick. It chews at your boots. You are bleeding from the lip. The taste is copper and old iron. Your hand grips the hilt of your sword. The steel is cold against your palm. Around you, the hall is chaos. Shouts rise like smoke. The torches flicker, casting long, distorted shadows on the stone walls. You are Captain Elias Thorne. You are the King’s Shield. Or so you think. "Thorne!"...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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