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The Wistful MountainThe dream always began with the smell of wet slate and ozone, a scent that clung to the back of Colin’s throat like a bruise. He was standing in the atrium of the Meridian Data Solutions, a glass-and-steel monolith that pierced the low, grey sky of a city whose name he had long since stopped pronouncing, preferring instead to refer to it as "The Hub." In the dream, the glass walls were not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe steam from the boiler curls in a white ribbon against the cold air of the workshop, and you watch it dissipate into the darkness above the lathe. You are Elias Thorne, and you are a man who has spent forty years shaping brass into beauty, yet your hands tremble with a vibration that no amount of craft can smooth. The shop is quiet, save for the rhythmic hiss of the pressure valve and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax the color of dried blood. Elias broke the seal. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the weight of the ink. It was a grid. A simple, rigid lattice of lines, drawn in charcoal on heavy cream stock. In the center, a single circle. He knew what it meant. He had drawn it a thousand times. In the margins of his ledgers. In the dust on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe glass was cold against Elias’s palm. It was a small thing, no larger than a child’s hand, a simple cylinder with a slight bulge near the base. He had carried it in his coat pocket for three days. The weight of it was a familiar ache, a dull throb that matched the rhythm of his walking. The road to the valley was long. The air smelled of wet stone and pine resin. Elias was a mirror maker. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe hall of the Manor of Blackthorn was a cavern of shadows and dust. Candlelight flickered. It danced on the high vaulted ceilings. It clung to the faces of the guests. They were pale. They were thin. They wore velvet the color of dried blood. The air smelled of beeswax and rot. It smelled of old wood and wet stone. Elias sat in the corner. He held a glass of wine. He did not drink. He watched...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe rain did not fall; it descended, a heavy, grey curtain that erased the line between the cobblestones and the sky. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the terrace, his coat damp with a cold that seeped into his marrow. He was a man of fifty, his face a map of lines drawn by years of poor sleep and worse food, yet his eyes held a sharp, investigative clarity that belied his poverty. He was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe rain had stopped. It stopped abruptly, leaving the air thick and heavy, tasting of wet stone and old iron. Thomas stood in the center of the drawing room, his hands trembling at his sides. He was an old man now. His knees ached with a dull, persistent fire that no whiskey could quench. The house was silent, save for the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall, a sound that seemed to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe old man sat on the bench, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, watching the rain streak the glass of the window opposite. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; time in Millhaven had a way of pooling and stagnating, much like the water in the millrace that fed the town’s sole industry. Across from him, leaning against the counter with an air of bored...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe rain against the glass of the observation cell was not a sound but a texture, a wet, persistent friction that seemed to erode the very air inside the room, leaving behind a stale, metallic taste that coated the back of Sergeant Major Elias Thorne’s tongue and settled into the crevices of his knuckles, which had begun to swell and redden in the damp, a slow, internal fire that started in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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