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The Pale EchoThe rain on the cobblestones smells of iron and old stone. You stand at the gate. Your hand grips the hilt of your saber. The leather is wet. Cold seeps into your palm. It is a good cold. It wakes the blood. Captain Halloway walks away. He does not look back. He wears a coat the color of ash. His steps are heavy. The mud sucks at his boots. You watch him go. You do not follow. You are not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe first thing I noticed was the cold, not the pain, but a distinct, metallic chill that settled into the marrow of my left hand. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, the days in the Whitmore estate had begun to bleed into one another like watercolors left in the rain, and I was sitting at the heavy oak table in the kitchen, watching the dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon light...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the narrow street into a slick, mirror-like expanse reflecting the dim gaslights and the heavy, leaden sky, and I stood in the doorway of the shop, watching the water run in thick, muddy rivulets down the front of my coat, a coat that had once been the finest thing I owned, tailored in the height...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe wind did not merely blow through the valley; it stripped the skin from the world, leaving the bare, white bones of the trees to shudder against a sky the color of a bruised plum. I sat on the edge of the cliff, my legs dangling over the abyss, and watched a single, black crow circle below me with the lazy, predatory indifference of a judge. It was the crow, you see, that had started this...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerDreaming of water. Cold. Black. Closing over his lungs. He woke gasping. The ceiling was white. Tile. Cracked. A spider web in the corner. Silence. Heavy. Thick. Marek sat up. His uniform was damp. Sweat. Not water. Just sweat. He looked at his hands. Trembling. Pale. The room was small. A cell? No. A holding area. The precinct. Chicago. Rain hammered the single window. Glass. Streaked. Dark....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe bell above the door did not ring. It hung still, a tarnished brass eye watching the dust motes dance in the slant of afternoon light. "Is the mortar set?" asked a voice from the threshold. Elias did not turn. His hands were deep in the gray paste, kneading it with a rhythm that matched his own breathing. He felt the cool dampness seep into his cracked knuckles. The smell of lime and earth...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe stag stood in the clearing. He was old. His antlers were thick. They were dark wood. They were heavy. They were worn. The velvet was gone. The bone was bare. It was pale. It was thin. The light hit him. The light was cold. The light was thin. It cut the air. It cut the fog. It cut the silence. The stag looked at the fog. He did not move. He was still. He was part of the stone. He was part...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the windows of the precinct into a smear of mud and neon, and I sat in my office with my hand wrapped in ice, the cold a sharp, white fire that competed with the dull, throb of the bullet wound in my shoulder. It was a small wound, a graze, the kind that heals quickly if you keep it clean, but the pain was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain does not fall so much as it remembers how to, a persistent, grey weeping that turns the cobblestones of the old university into mirrors for the sky, reflecting a world that has ceased to exist, while you stand in the center of the Great Hall, a place where the air is thick with the scent of wet dust and the decaying grandeur of empires, holding in your hands a book that is not merely...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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