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The Distant GhostThe ink had dried before I noticed the stain. It sat on my index finger, a dark, permanent crescent. I looked at it. Then I looked at the page. The word "eternal" stared back at me. I rubbed the ink into my skin. It did not come off. I am a scholar of texts. I deal in things that do not change. Paper yellows. Paper brittles. But the meaning remains. Or so I told myself. The university is a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the lower court into a slick, treacherous mirror that reflected the gloom of the vaulted ceiling above. I stood by the iron grate that separated the prisoner’s cell from the gallery, my hand resting on the cold iron, feeling the dampness seep through the leather of my glove. The air smelled of wet stone, stale bread, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe bell in the tower did not ring for the dead, but for the sick, and it sounded to me like a bone breaking under the weight of the winter. I stood in the doorway of the parish hall, my hands trembling not from the cold, which had settled into the marrow of my limbs like rust into iron, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the gaze that had just left the room. The air inside was thick with...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe wind did not howl; it whispered, a dry, papery sound against the high windows of the Keep. It was the sound of old parchment tearing, of secrets drying out in the sun until they could be lifted from the page without breaking. Margaret stood at the threshold, her breath hitching in her chest like a trapped bird. Her hands, raw and cracked from the cold, clutched the hem of her woolen dress....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe iron bit digs into your mouth and you taste the copper of your own blood, a sharp, metallic tang that cuts through the stale dust of the trench, and you realize that the ground beneath you is no longer solid earth but a shifting, rotting mass of mud and shattered bone, and you are holding the hilt of the old sword, the one your brother gave you before he walked into the white fog of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleYou wake with flour in your hair. It is grey. It is thick. You taste it. Chalk. Dust. You are in the cellar. The air is cold. It bites your lungs. You are Thomas. You are a baker. You are poor. The city is above you. It is a beast. It breathes stone and smoke. It does not care for you. You stand. Your knees crack. You look at the sacks. They are empty. The grain is gone. The debt remains. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe morning fog lay thick upon the cobblestones of the old town, a grey woolen blanket that swallowed the sound of the church bells and the creak of the market carts, while inside the stone-walled library of St. Jude’s Academy, the air was stale and smelled faintly of damp parchment and the metallic tang of old fear. Thomas Ashworth sat at a heavy oak desk, his small hands trembling not from...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe iron gate groans behind you, a sound like a bone snapping in the cold, sealing you within the walls of the priory where the air tastes of damp stone and old prayers. You are not a monk, nor a nun, though your habits are of rough, undyed wool that chafes against your skin in the perpetual chill of the cellar. You are merely the archivist, the keeper of the silent things, and you have come...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe dream was always the same. It smelled of wet ash and iron. Elara stood in a field that stretched into a gray, infinite fog. The sky was the color of a bruise. She could feel the eyes of the crowd, though she could not see them. They were not angry. They were hungry. In the dream, she held a vial of clear liquid. It pulsed like a heart. When she opened it, the fog turned to dust, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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