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The Distant JokeYou stand before the heavy oak door of the manor house, the rain slicking your hair into cold, dark ropes that stick to your forehead, and you realize that you are not a hero, you are merely a man who has been lying to himself about the nature of his duty, and the shattering of the porcelain vase in the room behind you, a sound as clear and brittle as a bone snapping, echoes in your mind with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe mud was deep. It sucked at your boots with a wet, heavy mouth, pulling you down into the dark earth. You ran. Your breath came in sharp, ragged hitches. The air tasted of iron and rot. Behind you, the sound of shuffling feet. Not human. Not quite. You knew the weight of them. You knew the cold. Stop. You stopped. Your legs trembled. You looked up. The house loomed above you. It was old....0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe ink on the parchment was not black but a deep, bruised violet that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it, and I traced the edge of the document with a finger that had long since forgotten the warmth of a human hand, feeling the rough texture of the vellum against skin that was thin as paper and equally prone to tearing, and in that moment I understood that I had not been...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe fog rolled in from the estuary, thick and grey, swallowing the iron railings of the garden. It settled into the joints of the old manor house, dampening the stone until the walls wept. Elias Thorne stood by the window, his fingers tracing the condensation. He was a man of seventy years, his hair white as the ash that had once filled the chimney. He had spent his life studying the...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridYour hand shakes. It has always shaken. The tremor lives in the bone, a constant, low-frequency hum that warns you of the void beneath the skin. You are a shield-bearer. That is your title. Your caste. You stand in the Hall of Mirrors, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old blood. The walls are not glass. They are flesh. They breathe. They watch. You look down. Your left palm is open....0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe feast was loud. Too loud. Candlelight flickered. Shadows danced. Margaret sat. She watched. The hall smelled of roasting pig. Of stale wine. Of sweat. She wore a shawl. Wool. Grey. Thin. It was old. Frayed at the edges. She touched it. Constantly. The fabric whispered. "Look at her," said the steward. He leaned close. His breath was sour. "The grey ghost. Always touching that rag." Margaret...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestThe air in the cargo bay smelled of ozone and stale coffee, a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of Leo’s throat. He stood by the open ramp, his boots scuffing against the riveted aluminum floor, watching the rain lash against the fuselage of the decommissioned C-17. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of grey, wet afternoon that made the world feel like it was slowly dissolving into...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe mist does not roll in; it simply arrives, thickening the air until the world becomes a watercolor left too long in the rain. You are seven years old, small and sharp-angled, standing at the edge of the estate where the manicured lawns surrender to the wild, untamed scrub of the highlands. Your father, Lord Ashworth, stands behind you, a figure carved from stone and silence, his hand resting...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe iron breath of the furnace licks at your face, hot and wet, tasting of sulfur and old blood. You stand in the center of the blackened pit, the soot settling into the creases of your uniform, turning the wool into a second, suffocating skin. The air is thick, a physical thing that presses against your eardrums, humming with the low, industrial thrum of the city’s heart. You are a guard, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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