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The Distant SummerThe iron of the greatsword bit into the wet mud of the trench, and you felt the vibration of the clash travel up your arm, a cold shock that settled in the marrow of your bones as the enemy’s pike snapped against your shield, the sound a dry, hollow crack like a bone breaking in the dark. You were not fighting for a king or a banner, for the banners had long since rotted into rags and the kings...0 Comments 0 Shares 40 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe wool of the shawl is coarse against your neck, a texture you have memorized over twenty years of winters. It is a deep, bruised purple, the color of plums left too long on the branch, and it is the only thing you own that was chosen by your own hand. You wrap it tightly around your shoulders as you stand before the heavy oak doors of the Guild Hall, the air outside biting at your exposed...0 Comments 0 Shares 36 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe air in the Hall of Whispers did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect in a place sealed for a century. It smelled of ozone and wet iron, the sharp, metallic tang of a storm that had been held inside a bottle for too long. Elias Thorne stood before the great archway, his hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the knowledge that hummed in the marrow of...0 Comments 0 Shares 40 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain hammered the tin roof of the Blackwood estate. It was a loud, rhythmic thrumming. A sound like teeth chattering. Elias stood in the center of the ballroom. He held a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled. He did not drink. He watched the surface. The party was in full swing. Strings played a waltz. The melody was sweet. It was cloying. Too sweet. The air smelled of damp wool and...0 Comments 0 Shares 35 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitYou dream of the soup. It is thick. It is gold. You are old. Your bones are dry wood. You sit in the High Hall. The stone is cold. The air smells of damp and old wool. You are the Keeper. You know the rules. You know the cost. The town sleeps below. The bells do not ring. The wind howls through the cracks in the wall. You hold the bowl. It is heavy. The steam rises. It curls like a snake. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 40 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe glass jar sits on the mahogany desk of the Registrar, catching the grey light that filters through the high, soot-stained windows of the Industrial Welfare Institute, and inside that fragile vessel, a single monarch butterfly with wings of bruised violet and burnt orange beats its wings against the lid in a frantic, silent rhythm that seems to vibrate in the hollows of your chest. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 39 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe bell in the tower of St. Jude’s tolled not for the hour, but for the end of a day. It was a low, heavy sound, like a stone dropping into a deep well. Elias Vance stood on the porch of the keep, watching the fog roll in from the river. It swallowed the village whole. It swallowed the fields. It swallowed the memory of his father’s face. In his hand, he held a small clay bowl. It was chipped...0 Comments 0 Shares 40 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe train cut through the fog like a blade through grey wool, slicing the world into fragments of steel and shadow, and Elias Thorne stood in the corridor, his back pressed against the cold metal of the car, watching the landscape dissolve into a blur of indistinct shapes and muted colors that refused to cohere into meaning. He was a man who had spent thirty years in the service of order, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 39 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe bus arrives at the depot in a cloud of diesel and rain, the engine ticking as it cools, a dying heartbeat that you feel in your teeth before you hear it. You are ten years old, sitting in the back of the driver’s cab, knees pressed against the dashboard, watching the wipers smear the gray morning into blur. Your father, Mr. Arthur Vance, is not here. He is in the office. He is in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 40 Views 0 Reviews
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