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The Faded PortraitThe mud on the road was thick and black, a viscous slurry that sucked at our boots with a wet, relentless patience, pulling us down into the earth as if the ground itself were trying to swallow us whole before the rain could wash the scent of the burning barns from our lungs. I walked with my rifle slung low, the weight of it familiar and heavy against my hip, a constant reminder that I was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe bread is warm. You break it. The crust snaps. It smells of yeast and iron. You eat. It tastes of ash. Who are you? You are the Baker. No, you are the prisoner. The cell is small. The air is thick. It tastes of damp stone. You chew. You swallow. The pain is a knot in your throat. "More," says the Voice. It comes from the shadows. It is smooth. It is cold. It is the voice of the Magistrate....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainYou stand in the great hall, and the air is thick with the scent of roasted venison and beeswax candles, a heavy, golden humidity that settles into your hair and clings to the silk of your doublet. It is a feast, or what passes for one in the grey, damp kingdom of Ashworth, where the walls are stone and the light is always failing. You are not here for the food, though you have not eaten in two...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe mask is heavy. You know this. You feel the weight of it against your cheekbones, a cold stone pressed into flesh. You are alone in the cellar. The air smells of damp earth and old iron. You are looking for the truth. You are a hunter. The shadows are your hounds. You remember the accusation. The village elder, Thomas, his face twisted in disgust. He called you a thief. He said you stole the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe train does not stop. It hums a low, resonant note, a vibration that you feel in the marrow of your shinbones before you hear it with your ears. You are seated, though the concept of sitting feels provisional, like a draft of a letter that might be rejected. The carriage is not a carriage, not really. It is a long, narrow throat of brass and polished oak, lit by gas lamps that flicker with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a grey mist that clung to the flagstones of the great hall and settled into the wool of your doublet. You stood before the High Steward, a man whose face was a map of old grievances and newer suspicions, and you felt the weight of the silver chain around your neck not as a symbol of office, but as a noose slowly tightening. It was a heavy thing, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe door was open. I stepped inside. The air tasted of copper and old dust. "Close it," said a voice. I closed it. The room was white. Not the white of paper. Not the white of snow. It was the white of bone. It was the white of a held breath. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. "You shouldn't be here," the voice said. It came from everywhere. It came from nowhere. "Who are you?" I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleI woke with the taste of copper and rust in my mouth, the metallic tang of old blood, or perhaps the ozone scent of a storm that had not yet broken. I was not in my bed in the damp, soot-stained rooms of Whitmore Hall. I was standing on a precipice of black glass, overlooking a valley where the rivers ran thick with mercury. The air was heavy, viscous, tasting of coal dust and ancient stone. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherYou arrive in Harrowgate on a Tuesday, the air tasting of iron and stale rain. The station is a relic, its brickwork weeping grey water. You carry one bag. It is light. Inside it holds your life, or what remains of it. You are a clerk. A keeper of records. Your hands shake, not from cold, but from the weight of the silence you carry. The town is small, a web of narrow streets and closed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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