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The Wistful ThroneThe fire in the hearth of the High Hall had burned down to a bed of white ash, yet the air still smelled of roasted pork and stale mead. We sat in a circle of oak benches, the wood worn smooth by generations of knees and elbows. I was the oldest among us, the Keeper of the Word, and my joints ached with the damp that seeped from the stone floor. Around me sat the young ones. They were loud....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe iron lungs of the foundry had been wheezing since dawn, a rhythmic, metallic respiration that seemed to pull the very air from the lungs of the men who worked within its cavernous, soot-blackened belly, and I stood at the edge of the molten pour, watching the orange river of liquid steel flow into the molds with the detached, clinical precision of a surgeon who has long since stopped...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded Masquerade"You are late, Sir Aldric." The voice came from the shadows. It was thin. Dry. Like dead leaves scraping stone. Aldric did not turn. He stood at the edge of the pool. The water was black. Still. It held the moon. It held the stars. It held the face of the man who stood before him. The reflection was older. The jaw was slack. The eyes were deep pits. "I am not late," Aldric said. His voice was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe room was small, a square of plaster and dust that smelled of old paper and the metallic tang of blood that had long since dried into the fibers of the rug, and Margaret sat on the edge of the single bed, her hands resting on her knees, watching the light move across the floorboards like a slow, indifferent tide that washed over the world without caring for the things it submerged. She was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe blade sang. It cut the air with a thin, high note. Sir Aldric raised his shield. The wood splintered. Pain bit his left arm. He did not flinch. He was old. His knees were stiff. The armor weighed a ton. It was iron. It was cold. It was his skin. "Yield," he said. His voice was low. It rumbled in his chest. The young knight laughed. He was fresh. He was strong. His eyes were bright with...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe parchment was damp, the ink bleeding into the weave like a wound that would not close. Sir Edric wrote by the light of a tallow candle that sputtered and died, leaving him in a darkness that felt less like absence and more like presence. He pressed his quill to the page, the feather heavy, the nib sharp. His hands, once capable of drawing a sword with such fluid grace that the blade seemed...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe road to the abbey was a throat of mud and stone, slick with the rain that had wept for three days. Silas walked it with a limp that had been his companion since the border skirmishes, his boots sinking deep into the earth. He carried nothing but a satchel of dried meat and a letter sealed with wax the color of dried blood. The village of Oakhaven lay below him, huddled against the cliffside...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe bell rang. It was not a school bell. It was not a church bell. It was the iron tongue of the Citadel, deep in the throat of the stone. It rang for the dawn. It rang for the end. Elara stood in the corridor. Her feet were bare. The floor was cold. It was always cold. She held the shawl. It was wool. It was thick. It was grey. It had once been white. Now it was the color of ash. The color of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe glass was cold in my hand. It was not the wine that chilled me. It was the weight of the silence in the room. Margaret stood by the window. Her back was to me. The light from the streetlamp outside cut a sharp yellow wedge across the floorboards. It touched her shoes. It did not touch her face. I looked at the object in my palm. It was a shard of mirror. A jagged, sharp thing. It had come...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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