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The Distant GardenThe fog did not roll in; it erupted, a sudden, violent exhalation from the black water that swallowed the riverbank in a single, suffocating breath. Elias Vane stood at the prow of the skiff, his knuckles white against the oarlocks, watching the mist devour the world he had spent three years trying to escape. The air tasted of iron and rot, the metallic tang of the industrial sludge that seeped...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe dream began not with light but with the sensation of weight, a dense, gravitational pull that anchored Margaret Holloway to the floor of a room that did not exist in the waking world, a chamber where the air tasted of copper and old rain, and in that suspended moment of pre-consciousness, her left hand was the only thing that felt real, the skin tight and drum-like over the bone, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe rain did not fall so much as it existed, a heavy, gray curtain that erased the line between the cobblestones of the courtyard and the iron gates of the keep. Thomas stood in the center of the yard, his hands still trembling from the cold, though the air was damp and still. He was not a man who trembled. For twenty years, he had been the sword arm of the Lord High Warden, a figure carved...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe bread is stale. You know this because the crust cracks under your thumb, shedding a fine, gray dust that settles on your sleeve. It is not a bad thing. Staleness is preservation. Staleness is the refusal to rot, to give in to the soft, sweet decay that the world demands of you. You place the loaf on the table. The wood is cold. The house is cold. Your mother watches you. She does not speak....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe air in the cellar was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay. You stood before the great oak table. It was covered in a single, sprawling root system. You had spent three days cleaning it. The dirt was gone. The wood was pale. It looked like a vein map of a dying heart. You are not a man of many words. You are a man of hands. Your hands are stained with sap and soil. They have worked...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Show"You look like a man who has eaten something sour," said Thomas, not looking up from the ledger he was balancing on his knee. He sat in the high-backed chair that had been his grandfather’s, the leather cracked and flaking like dry mud, the smell of old tobacco and ink settling into the fibers of the upholstery. The air in the study was thick, stagnant, a heavy blanket of silence that pressed...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ChronicleThe coat was red. Not a bright red. A deep, arterial red. It hung on the hook by the door of the mill office. I saw it on the first day. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a new hire. I came from London. I came to this place called Oakhaven. It is a town of smoke and slate. The river runs brown with tannin. The air tastes of iron and coal dust. I work the loom. My hands bleed. The rhythm is strict....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe bell tolled. It was a sound of iron striking stone. Cold. Clear. The hammer hung low. Elias stood in the yard. The mud sucked at his boots. He pulled his collar up. The wool scratched his neck. It was a rough fabric. Coarse. Grey. It felt like sandpaper against his skin. He did not look at the gate. He looked at the sky. The clouds were low. They pressed down on the walls. The walls were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe road to the highlands is not a road at all, but a scar in the earth, a jagged line of grey stone and crushed shale that weathers against the skin of your boots. You walk with your brother, Thomas, and the air is thin here, sharp enough to taste like copper and old iron. It is the age of the kings, or perhaps the age before them, when the mist did not merely hide the world but swayed it,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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