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The Pale ProtocolThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, the paper yellowed at the edges like a dried leaf pressed in a book. It was from my brother, Thomas. He had not spoken to me in three years, not since the winter we argued about the house, about what to do with the foundation, about the rot. He was dying, the letter said. But that was not the point. The point was that he wanted to see the building. He wanted to...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe cellar of the Whitmore estate did not smell of damp or decay, as cellars in the old world were supposed to, but of a thick, cloying sweetness that clung to the back of the throat like tar. Elias Thorne, who had spent the better part of his life in the sterile, humming offices of the Ministry of Antiquities, found the scent unsettling in a way that had nothing to do with hygiene and...0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe bell tower stood alone in the square. It was a stone beast. Grey and jagged. The wind hit it hard. Thomas stood at the base. He held his rifle. The wood was cold. His hands shook. Not from cold. From fear. He looked up. The face of the clock was missing. A jagged hole. Like a wound. "Is it done?" A voice from the shadow. Thomas turned. Garrick stood there. He wore a red coat. It was old....0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe rain had stopped. It left the city slick and grey, a mirror of wet asphalt reflecting the neon bleed of the shops on Harrow Street. Elias Thorne stood on the corner, his coat damp, his posture rigid. He was not waiting for anyone. He was waiting for the silence to break. For thirty years, Elias had been the city’s conscience. A judge, then a retired judge, then a man who walked the streets...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe steam rose in thick, white ribbons from the pipes of the Ashworth Cartographic Institute, curling into the soot-stained ceiling like the ghosts of maps that had been burned to fit the world onto paper. It was a Tuesday in November, 1912, and the air in the drafting room tasted of iron filings and cold coffee. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long oak table, his shoulders hunched...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe train shuddered. It was a cold, iron beast. The wheels screamed against the tracks. A high, thin note. It drilled into the bone. Elias sat by the window. His hands were in his lap. They were still. He wore a gray wool coat. It had been his father’s. Now it was his. The fabric was thin. It hung loose on his frame. The elbows were patched. The color had faded to a pale, sickly beige. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceIn the dream, the sky was not a sky but a ceiling of hammered pewter, riveted to the earth with bolts the size of oak barrels. It stretched across the entirety of the Whitmore Industrial Complex, a vast, shimmering dome that trapped the light of a sun that never rose, only burned. Below this metallic firmament, the air tasted of copper and ozone, thick with the hum of machinery that had no...0 Comments 0 Shares 15 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale LetterThe Great Hall of the Keep of Aethelgard was a mouth of stone and shadow. It opened wide to swallow the feast, but it had no teeth. We sat in long rows, the wood of the benches cold against our backs. The air smelled of roasted goose, stale beer, and the damp earth that seeped through the cracks in the flagstones. I was not meant to be there. I was a guard, a man of the outer wall, a man who...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyTo be a thing of glass in a city of iron is to expect the shattering, yet you did not understand the weight of your own fragility until the morning they came for the last of your breaths. You remember the cold, that specific, biting chill that settles in the marrow of the bones, not from the winter wind howling through the crooked spires of the Old Quarter, but from the hollow space inside you...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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