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The Distant GardenThe train shuddered forward, a metallic beast exhaling steam into the grey, damp air of the platform, and Margaret Holloway stood with her back against the cold iron of the carriage wall, watching the city of London slide past the window in a blur of soot-stained brick and gaslight that flickered like the dying pulse of a heart. She was holding a coat, a heavy thing of deep burgundy wool, lined...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe air in the mill town of Oakhaven was thick with the metallic taste of iron filings and the damp, rotting sweetness of the river mud, and it was into this suffocating atmosphere that Elias Thorne stepped, his hands trembling not from the cold that bit through his woolen coat, but from the sudden, violent realization that the ledger he clutched against his chest was no longer a record of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe rain falls on the city. It falls on the brick. It falls on the glass. It falls on you. You are standing in the alley behind the old textile mill. The water is cold. It soaks through your coat. It soaks through your skin. You are wet. You are cold. You are alone. You look at the door. It is heavy. It is black. It is closed. You have been waiting for three hours. You have been waiting for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the lower district into a slick, black mirror reflecting the weeping faces of the guards who stood motionless at the gates, and I stood among them, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, feeling the cold seep through the leather of my gauntlet and into the bone, a cold that seemed to emanate not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a grey, persistent mist that clung to the cobblestones of Aldersgate and the damp wool of Elias Thorne’s coat. He stood before the imposing iron gates of the Whitmore Institute, watching the carriage of Lord Alistair Whitmore pull away, the dust from its wheels settling like a shroud over the entrance. Elias was a man of few words, a clerk in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenYou are pinned against the wet, rotting wood of a decommissioned water tower, your boots slipping on moss that feels less like plant life and more like the slick, indifferent skin of a leech, while the rain hammers down in sheets so thick and violent that the world outside your immediate radius of breath dissolves into a gray, humming static where the line between the sky and the mud has long...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe dream had a texture like wet plaster. It was cold and it was sticky and it did not wash off. Elias Thorne stood in a corridor that stretched into an infinite white void. There were no doors. There were only walls that breathed. He was not afraid. Fear requires a future, and the corridor had none. He was a prisoner of the present tense. The air tasted of copper and ozone. It was the taste of...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographThe soup in the bowl was cold, a grey sludge of turnip and bone that had forgotten how to be warm, and young Elias sat at the head of the table with his hands resting flat on the wood, fingers spread wide as if he were holding down the edges of the world to keep them from unraveling. The room was small, a square box of damp stone and old timber that smelled of wet wool and the metallic tang of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyThe letter smelled of iron and old honey. I held it in my hands. The parchment was brittle. It crackled like dry leaves. I had not opened it. I did not need to. I knew what it said. I knew what it had always said. You are the witch, Eleanor. You have poisoned the King’s blood. You will be burned at dawn. I set the letter down on the table. The wood was cold. It was oak. It had been here for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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