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The Faded ShieldThe air in the mill town of Oakhaven tastes of wet slate and rot. It sits in the valley like a bruise that refuses to heal, the river below it churning with the gray sludge of industry. You are twelve years old, or perhaps thirteen. Time moves differently here, stretched thin by the soot and the silence. You are alone in the kitchen, the only light coming from the gas jet that hisses its thin,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe glass didn't shatter. It dissolved. I watched the pane of the observation window turn to a fine, glittering mist, drifting into the sterile air of the corridor like a breath released from a dying lung. It was a Tuesday. I know this because the shift change had just occurred, the heavy steel door behind me clanging shut with the finality of a coffin lid. My name is Elias Thorne, and I was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Silence"You’re doing it again." The voice comes from the doorway. It is Elias. His face is a mask of calm, but his hands are shaking. He holds a ceramic bowl in his left hand. Inside, a thick, grey paste glistens under the fluorescent light. It smells of iron and old pennies. It smells of the earth that was turned up yesterday. "It’s not magic, Elias," you say. Your voice is steady. You are the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe rain fell on the city like a heavy, wet shroud. It drummed against the window of the office on the fourteenth floor, a rhythmic, dull thud that marked the passing of seconds. Elias sat at his desk. His hands were trembling. They were always trembling now. He looked down at his lap. There, resting on the grey fabric of his trousers, lay the small, golden ring. It was not a wedding band. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe rain hits the glass of the train window with a rhythm that feels less like weather and more like a relentless, wet finger tapping against your skull, demanding attention, demanding you look, while you sit in the window seat of the commuter express, the one that runs late every Tuesday because the tracks are being realigned for some future that no one alive will ever see, and you are holding...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe stone beneath your knee is cold and jagged, biting into the flesh of your shin as you press your back against the crumbling archway, breathing in the scent of wet limestone and old iron. You are not a man in a uniform, not anymore, not in the way the village understands the word, for you are no longer of the Order, and the chain-mail that clings to your chest is stained with the rust of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the wool of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s coat and seeped into the marrow of his bones. He stood alone on the precipice of the Blackwood Ridge, the wind pulling at his collar with a relentless, cold hand, the industrial fog rolling off the valley below in thick, oily banks. It was the year 1912, a time when the world was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe rain hit the windows of the Precinct in a steady, gray rhythm. It did not knock. It pressed. Detective Elias Thorne sat at his desk. The light was low. The air smelled of stale coffee and damp wool. He watched the water streak down the glass. Each drop fell like a secret kept too long. His daughter, Clara, was not in the room. She was in the cell. The file lay open before him. Pages thick...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe smell of burnt sugar is the first thing that hits you, a cloying, sweet rot that coats the back of your throat and refuses to let go, sitting there in the dark of the cellar where the air is thick enough to chew, and you are waiting, you are always waiting, for the door to open and for the weight of his expectation to crash down upon your shoulders like a wet wool blanket. You are a baker,...0 Comments 0 Shares 12 Views 0 Reviews
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