• The Wistful Voyage
    The hall smells of roasted pork and old wood. You stand in the corner, holding a plate with nothing on it but a smear of gravy. The air is thick. It presses against your skin. You are not from here. You never were. You are a man from the north, from the cold, from the place where the river runs black and the people keep their mouths shut. Here, in the town of Millhaven, the smoke from the...
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  • The Faded Chronicle
    The banquet hall smelled of roasted lamb and stale wine. You sat at the high table. Your hands were steady. They had always been steady. This was your gift. This was your curse. The elders watched you. They waited for the sign. They waited for the tremor. It did not come. You cut the meat. You chewed. You swallowed. The silence stretched like a bowstring. Thomas sat to your left. He was young....
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  • The Pale Altar
    The banquet hall smelled of wet wool and ozone. It was a smell that stuck to the teeth. We were gathered in the basement of the St. Jude’s Community Center. The fluorescent lights hummed. A low, persistent drone. Like a wasp trapped in a jar. We were there to investigate. That is what we told ourselves. We were the new board. We were the auditors of the soul. We had come to check the books. To...
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  • The Pale Dance
    The sound of my own teeth grinding in the dark was the only thing that kept me from screaming, a wet, grinding friction that echoed in the hollows of my skull like the grinding of millstones against the bedrock of the earth, and I lay there in the narrow cot in the corner of the grand hall, listening to the distant, muffled thunder of the banquet upstairs, where the lords and ladies of the...
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  • The Golden Cellar
    The taste of copper. That was the first thing I noticed. Not the blood, though the blood was there, thick and warm against my lower lip. It was the copper. The metallic tang of it, sharp and ancient, flooding my mouth like a flood of old pennies. "Get back, Sergeant," I said. My voice sounded hollow. Stripped of the authority I had worn for twenty years. Captain Miller didn’t look at me. He was...
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  • The Distant Legend
    The furnace coughed. It was a dry, rattling sound, like a man clearing phlegm from a throat lined with rust. Elias stood in the shadow of the blast, his hands resting on the cold iron of the control lever. He did not move. The heat was not here yet, but the memory of it was. It lived in the marrow. It lived in the walls of the Ironworks. "Read the gauge, Elias," said Millard. His voice was...
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  • The Distant Temple
    The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, technical drizzle that turned the gravel of the coastal road into a slurry of grey mud and rust-colored clay. I adjusted the haptic feedback on my gauntlet, checking the signal integrity of the drone hovering just above the tree line, and turned to Margaret. She stood by the open hatch of the SUV, her face pale under the ambient light of...
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  • The Golden Greenhouse
    The greenhouse was not gold, but it had the memory of being so, a yellowing varnish trapped beneath layers of grime that made the glass look like old teeth, stained by decades of tea and neglect. Elara dreamed of it every night, a recurring fever in her mind’s eye, the structure standing alone in a field of ash that stretched to the horizon, its bones exposed to a sky that was neither day nor...
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  • The Wistful Mirror
    The fog did not roll in so much as it materialized, a thick, grey wool that swallowed the coast of Maine whole. I stood on the deck of the *Aethelgard*, a vessel that belonged to no port I had ever mapped, its timbers dark with age and salt. I was a Captain, or at least, I held the title, though the uniform I wore was a patchwork of eras, the wool rough against my skin, the brass buttons...
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  • The Golden Harbor
    Miles dreamed of the water again. It was not the cold, grey Atlantic that lapped at the cliffs of Cornwall, but a thick, golden sludge that pooled in the cellar of his mind. He woke with the taste of rust on his tongue. The room was dark. A single candle burned on the bedside table, its flame trembling in a draft that had no source. He sat up. His hands were shaking. He looked at them. The...
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