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The Faded AtticThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, cold hammering against the high, arched windows of the Blackthorn Abbey that turned the world outside into a blurred, grey smear of mud and weeping willows, while inside, the air hung thick and heavy with the scent of damp wool, old parchment, and the faint, sweet rot of apples left too long in the cellar. Brother Thomas sat in the corner...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe iron is warm in your hands, a living thing that pulses with the heat of the forge, yet it is only metal, dead and cold in the grand scheme of things, but to you, it is the only truth that remains in the village of Oakhaven. You hold the blade, the one you have spent the last three years tempering in the dark, away from the prying eyes of the Council and the watchful gaze of your wife,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe clock on the wall above the mahogany desk ticks with a rhythm that feels less like time and more like the slow, rhythmic squeezing of a bruise. You are sitting in a chair that is too small for your knees, your hands resting on your thighs, palms flat, fingers splayed as if trying to anchor yourself to the floorboards. The air in the office is thick, smelling of stale tobacco, old paper, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe fire started in the pantry. It ate the sugar, the flour, the jars of preserved fruit. It ate the silence. Margaret stood in the corridor. She watched the orange tongue lick the doorframe. Her hand trembled. She held the vial. It was cold glass. It was heavy. The House of the White Tower was not a home. It was a machine. It was a clock. It ticked in the walls. The steam pipes groaned. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe banquet hall of the Aethelgard Spire did not smell of roasted boar or spiced wine, but of ozone and old, dry stone, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a guilty secret. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the head of the long table, his hands resting on the polished surface, though his eyes were fixed not on the guests, but on the windowless wall behind him. It was a night of...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe train rattled. The wheels sang a low, iron song. It was cold. The glass fogged. Elias wiped a circle in the pane. He looked out. The fields were gray. The sky was heavier. He held the tin box. It was dented. It was old. The paint was chipping. Inside, the pills sat in their blister packs. Blue and white. They looked like small, frozen tears. He had carried them for three years. Three years...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the Hall, a rhythmic, wet percussion that echoed in the hollows of my chest. I stood before the high, arched window, my reflection a pale ghost superimposed on the grey wash of the storm outside. The glass was cold to the touch, a chill that seeped through my wool gloves. I held the object in my left hand, a small,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, persistent mist that clung to your skin and turned the world into a watercolor that refused to dry. You stood at the edge of the veranda, watching the yard where the grass had gone a sickly, pale yellow under the weight of the season. It was a house that had always felt too large for the number of people who lived inside it, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe bus stops at the end of the gravel road. You step off. The air smells of wet pine and rust. You are not a visitor. You are the thing that lives in the walls. The town is small. A single street. The church steeple points like a broken finger at the gray sky. You carry a bag. It is heavy. It is your skin. It is your name. You walk toward the old bank. The doors are locked. The glass is...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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