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The Wistful VoyageThe engine of the *Hesperus* groaned, a low, tectonic rumble that I felt in the marrow of my shins before it ever reached my ears, a vibration that had become so intrinsic to my being over the last forty years that I could no longer distinguish the ship’s heartbeat from my own. We were moving through a fog so thick it seemed to possess weight, a gray, wet curtain that swallowed the horizon and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe train to the coast left at four, and by the time the doors hissed shut, Marcus had already missed his stop. He stood in the aisle, holding the strap with a grip that felt less like necessity and more like a prayer, watching the gray blizzard of the city slide past the glass. In his hands, he cradled a small, brass compass. It was not a new thing. The lacquer was chipped, revealing the dull...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe feast was a wound in the dark. It sat in the center of the vaulted hall, a long table of black oak groaning under the weight of roasted boar, salted herring, and wheels of cheese that smelled of the damp earth. The air was thick with the smoke of tallow candles and the heavy, cloying perfume of rosewater. Around the table sat the Elders of the Ashen Court, their faces gaunt and pale,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe ink was black. Not just dark. Void. Mira held the quill. Her hand shook. No. She steadied it. Breath in. Breath out. The parchment lay flat. White. Blinding. She dipped the tip. Dried. Dip again. Wet. She wrote. One word. *Null.* The room was cold. Stone walls. Damp air. It smelled of rot. And old paper. This was the Hall of Records. Deep underground. Below the city. Below the roots of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe rain against the window of my office was not water. It was a rhythmic, ceaseless accusation, tapping against the glass like a knuckle seeking entry into a room that had already been searched and stripped. I sat in the ergonomic chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and looked at the man sitting across from me. David Thorne did not look like a villain. He looked like a man who had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe coat was red. Not a bright red. Not the red of roses or stop signs. It was the red of dried blood. The red of old velvet worn thin by years of sitting in a dark chair. It hung on the hook in the entryway of the Town Hall. It had hung there for three years. Elias saw it every morning. He worked in the Records Office. Third floor. Windowless. The air smelled of dust and dry paper. He was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded GuestThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a thick, grey curtain that erased the distinction between the cobblestones of St. Jude’s Lane and the wet asphalt of the main thoroughfare, blurring the city into a single, breathing entity of steam and rust. Elias Thorne sat on the edge of the cold iron bench outside the abandoned textile mill, his hands resting in his lap, fingers intertwined in a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended curtain of grey mist that turned the cobblestones of Millhaven into a slick, reflective mirror, doubling the dim, flickering gaslight of the watchtower where Silas stood, his fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of a sword that felt heavier than the iron it was forged from, heavier than the night, heavier than the silence that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe ink in Elias Thorne’s pen was blue, a shade so deep it resembled the bruise forming around his ribs. He sat in the basement archive of St. Jude’s University, a place that smelled of damp wool and the slow decay of paper. The fluorescent lights above him hummed a low, sickly note, a sound that had become the background music to his existence. He was not a student. He was not, strictly...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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