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The Pale GardenThe iron gate at the bottom of the hill is not locked, you know, it never was, and that is the first thing they will tell you when they come to take you away, how careless you were, how you left the door open to the wind and the mist and the things that live in the space between the raindrops. You are standing in the courtyard of the old asylum, the one that used to be a school for the blind...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe iron was cold. It lay on the stone floor, a dull gray smear against the pale light of the window. I picked it up. It was heavy. My hands shook. Not from fear. From the effort. The blade was chipped. A small, jagged tooth missing from the edge. It had been there for years. Or maybe a lifetime. I did not remember when I first held it. I only knew that it was mine. And now, it was not. "You...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe iron gate slams shut. The sound is a finality. It is a heavy, wet thud against the silence. You are inside. The walls are brick. The air is stale. It tastes of rust and old sweat. You look down at your hands. They are clean. They have been clean for three days. You are a soldier. You are a tool. The tool is broken. The object sits on the table. It is a lantern. Brass. Dented. The glass is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe road you travel is not made of earth or stone but of a pale, trembling light that hums against your skin like a low, persistent note held by a choir of ghosts, and you have been walking for what feels like centuries, though time here has no weight, no measure, only the endless accumulation of steps taken in silence through a landscape that refuses to resolve itself into familiar shapes, for...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe ink bled through the parchment. It was a cold night. Cold enough to crack the skin on one’s nose. Elias sat alone. He held the pen. His hand trembled. Not from fear. From hunger. He was a detective of sorts. Or so he told himself. He looked for things that were lost. Or hidden. Or broken. Tonight, he looked for his own reflection. It was in the mirror across the room. A tall man. Thin as a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairHe dreamed of his hands. They were not his hands. They were large. They were red. They were digging. The soil was loose and black and smelled of iron. He dug and dug. The ground gave way. A box appeared. It was made of bone. He opened it. Inside was a heart. It was still beating. He put it in his pocket. He woke up. The room was cold. The window was cracked. Rain tapped on the glass. A soft,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundIn the dream, the ink did not stain the skin but sank into the marrow, a black tide rising from the extremities toward the heart, and when Marcus woke, his left hand was already trembling, the joints locked in a spasm that felt less like pain and more like the memory of a cage door slamming shut, a physical residue of the night’s viscous horror that clung to him as he swung his legs over the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe rain had stopped, but the air still tasted of wet iron and old stone. I stood at the gate of the Citadel, my hand resting on the hilt of a sword I no longer wanted to draw. Behind me, the city slept in a grey haze, the spires of the Cathedral of St. Jude piercing the low clouds like broken fingers. I was a Sergeant of the Night Watch. A soldier. A tool. I had served for ten years. Ten years...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageI woke up with the smell of wet wool and diesel in my nose. The train was moving. I knew this because the rhythm of the wheels on the track was a low, thrumming bass note that vibrated through the soles of my boots. I was sitting in a corner seat. My hands were wrapped around a mug of coffee. It was still hot. I could feel the steam curling against my knuckles. I looked down at my lap. There...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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