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The Faded AlibiYou are sitting in the high-backed chair behind the desk, and the wood is cold against your spine, a cold that has nothing to do with the draft slipping under the door and everything to do with the years that have settled into the grain of the oak. It is a small room, a closet of stone and shadow within the larger architecture of the abbey, and the air smells of damp wool, old parchment, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and stale lavender, a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of my throat. I stood by the window, my hand resting on the cold glass, watching the fog roll off the lake into the town of Oakhaven. It was a beautiful night, or so the guests claimed. Inside, the chandeliers dripped light onto the white tablecloths, and the laughter of the town’s elite...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe rain had not stopped for three days, a steady, grey curtain that blurred the stone walls of the priory and turned the courtyard into a mirror of the weeping sky, and you stood in the center of it, your hands clasped behind your back, your knuckles white, feeling the cold seep through the thick wool of your uniform until it settled into the marrow of your bones like a second skeleton,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe house stood on the ridge. It was a skeletal thing. White paint peeled like dead skin. I saw it from the car. I stopped. The engine died. The silence rushed in. It was thick. It was heavy. It tasted of iron and rain. I had come for the deed. I had come to buy. I had come to possess. I was a man of contracts. I was a man of margins. I dealt in concrete. I dealt in stone. I did not deal in...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe city was a throat. It swallowed sound and spit back echo. Elias Vane ran. He ran through the rain. The rain was cold. It was sharp. It cut his skin. He did not stop. He could not stop. The streets were slick. Black mirrors. They reflected the neon. Red. Blue. White. The lights smeared. They bled into the wet asphalt. Elias ran. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. He was a machine of pain....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe handcuffs bit into Marcus Thorne’s wrists, cold and unyielding, as he hauled the suspect toward the interrogation room. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed a low, sickening note that seemed to vibrate in the hollows of his bones. Marcus was a man carved from silence and routine, his face a landscape of deep lines that mapped every year of service in the precinct. He was forty-five, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe mortar in Thomas’s hands had turned to chalk. It crumbled against his thumb, a dry, brittle dust that tasted of iron and old stone. He did not wipe it away. He let it settle into the creases of his skin, a second skin of labor. The air in the Guild Hall was thick with the scent of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Outside, the rain lashed against the high, narrow windows,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumYou wake with the taste of iron in your mouth. The dream is gone, but the weight remains. You are sitting at your desk. The chair is hard. The wood is cold. You look at the object in your hand. It is a simple glass vial. It is empty. It is clean. It is yours. The room is large. It is white. The light comes from high windows. It is thin. It is gray. It is early. You are a clerk. You have a name....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe air in the Hall of Echoes tasted of iron and old stone. Caelen stood at the center of the floor. His boots were heavy. The leather was stiff. It had not been oiled in years. He held the Brand. It was a square of black iron. It was cold to the touch. The edges were worn smooth. He had held it for ten years. His hands were scarred. The metal had burned into his skin. Now it felt like part of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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