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The Distant AffairThe iron gate groaned as I pushed it open. The sound was a low, rusty scream that cut through the still air of the courtyard. I stood at the threshold of the palace, my hand still on the cold metal. My name was Eleanor. I was the daughter of the late King. Or so they said. I was here to claim what was mine. Or to be denied. I could not tell which. The air smelled of wet stone and old blood. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustYou are walking through the ash. It is not snow, though it falls with the same silent, indiscriminate grace, coating the rusted husks of the locomotives that line the dead tracks of the Northern Union line. The air tastes of iron and old smoke, a metallic tang that sits heavy on the tongue. You are Edward Ashworth, or you were, before the fever took the man who bore that name and left only the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe fog did not merely obscure the world; it consumed it, a thick, gray wool that pulled at Edward Ashworth’s lungs with every labored breath, tasting of iron and old rain, while the hands of the woman he had sworn to protect, or perhaps to stop, moved with a terrible, fluid grace against the coarse wool of his uniform, her fingers digging into the meat of his forearms as if she were trying to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe ink on the parchment had not yet dried, a viscous black substance that seemed to absorb the thin, gray light filtering through the high, narrow windows of the chancery, and it was there, in the quiet suspension of that liquid darkness, that Thomas Bradshaw saw the fracture in his own reflection. He sat at the heavy oak desk, the surface scarred by decades of quill scratches and wax stains,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorThe dream came to me again, as it always does in the grey hours before the dawn breaks over the soot-stained rooftops of Manchester, a recurring hallucination of brass and fog where I stand in the center of a vast, circular hall that smells of wet wool and old pennies. In this vision, which has become more vivid than my waking life since the war took the sound from my ears and the certainty...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, cold mist that soaked into the wool of Sir Aldric’s doublet and settled in the hollows of his cheekbones. He stood in the center of the keep, a square of stone that had witnessed three centuries of sieges and none of the quiet, insidious rot that was currently consuming the castle of Blackwood. The torchlight flickered, casting long,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe belt buckle was gold. It caught the gaslight in the cell. A sharp, yellow star. Thomas stared at it. He did not look up. The floor was cold stone. It pressed against his knees. He had been kneeling for an hour. Maybe two. Time was a thick, gray fog here. The door rattled. Boots on brick. Click. Clack. Click. The guard opened the door. He wore a heavy coat. Wool. It smelled of stale tobacco...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe ink was black. It was the color of a bruise that would not fade. It was the color of the night in the scribe’s hall, where the candles guttered in the draft and the shadows stretched long across the parchment. I was Thomas. I was a clerk. I was small. I was quiet. I was necessary. The abbey stood on a hill. The air was thin. It tasted of stone and old blood. We were the keepers of the word....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe banquet hall of the Ironworks was a cathedral of soot and steam, where the air hung thick with the smell of roasted meat and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone. At the head of the long, scarred oak table sat Silas Vane, a man whose uniform bore the creases of a life spent in rigid discipline. He was not a soldier in the traditional sense, but a Warden of the Boundary, a keeper of the line...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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