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The Distant WoundI woke in the white room. The air tasted of copper and salt. I was hungry. A deep, hollow ache that gnawed at the base of my skull. I looked at my hands. They were thin. Pale. The nails were chipped. I remembered the garden. The heavy soil under my fingernails. The smell of wet earth. It was a memory that felt like a stone in my shoe. The door opened. No sound. Just a click. A woman stood...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe first thing that happened was the sound, a wet, tearing snap that echoed off the gravel shoulder of Route 9 before the second bullet even left the barrel. Sergeant Major Elias Thorne did not flinch, though his heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, a frantic, irregular drumbeat that seemed to deafen him to the siren wailing in the distance. He stood in the center of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe banquet hall smelled of roasted goose and wet wool. Outside, the November rain hammered against the stained glass, turning the world into a blur of grey and brown. Inside, the air was thick with the smoke of pipe tobacco and the low hum of a hundred conversations. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the edge of the table, his back straight, his hands folded on the white tablecloth. He was a man built...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe iron gate of the city had not been closed for forty years, not since the last of the great sieges had turned the sky the color of bruised plum and the streets into rivers of mud and bone, yet Thomas Ashworth felt the weight of its absence in the hollows of his shoulders every time he passed through the main thoroughfare, a physical ache that seemed to pull him downward toward the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe rain falls not as water but as a fine, grey dust that settles into the creases of your skin and the hollows of your bones, a persistent, whispering snowfall that has been falling for three hundred years in the high towers of the Citadel of Verity, where the air tastes of old parchment and the metallic tang of forgotten oaths. You are sitting at the edge of the great library, your feet...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe dream began with the taste of rust on the tongue, a metallic tang that persisted even after waking. Leo sat up in the narrow bed of his apartment on the forty-second floor, the city below him a grid of cold, electric veins pulsing in the pre-dawn dark. He was seven years old in the dream, though he felt the weight of his thirty years in the arch of his back. In the dream, he was not in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe bird was dead, or it seemed dead, its wings folded tight against its body like a prayer shawl, its feathers a chaotic mosaic of grey and white that matched the peeling plaster of the ceiling above my workbench. I held it in my left hand, the weight of it negligible, a ghost of a thing, while my right hand trembled slightly as I adjusted the clamps on the wooden frame. It was a small bird, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet stone and old iron. "Is it done?" asked the King. His voice was soft, almost gentle, like a man asking for a cup of tea. Thomas Whitmore did not look up. He kept his eyes on the map spread before him, the parchment yellowed by candlelight and years of careful handling. "The borders are secure, Your Majesty. The northern garrisons...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe carriage wheels groaned against the frozen mud of the highland road, a sound that seemed to tear the silence of the twilight in two, and inside the vehicle, Sir Alaric Thorne sat with his back pressed rigidly against the velvet upholstery, his eyes fixed on a single, trembling point where the last light of the dying sun bled into the gray horizon. He was a man carved from stone and duty, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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