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The Distant BladeThe fog did not roll in from the harbor, as it did in the old stories, but it seeped up from the cobblestones, cold and damp, smelling of wet wool and iron. It was the Feast of St. Jude, a day of strange, inverted joy in the town of Blackwood. The air was thick with the scent of roasting lamb and spiced wine, the kind that made the head swim and the eyes water. We had gathered in the great hall...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe dream was not a dream. It was a coat. It hung on the back of a chair in a room that smelled of wet stone and old paper. The fabric was gold, but not the yellow of sunflowers or autumn leaves. It was the dull, heavy gold of tarnished spoons, of coins that had never seen light, of a sunset trapped in a bottle and forgotten on a shelf. Eleanor stared at it. In the dream, she was young. Her...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe rain fell on the cobblestones of Blackwood City like a static hiss, blurring the edges of the world into grey watercolor. Thomas Ashworth walked with his hands in his pockets, the wet wool of his greatcoat heavy against his shoulders. He was a man of the law, or had been, before the ink dried on his final report. Now he was just a man walking toward the station, his boots squelching in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe dream began with the scent of wet wool and old iron, a heaviness that pressed against Thomas Vane’s chest as he drifted in the dark. He was standing in the courtyard of Blackwood Keep, a place that existed in the marrow of his memory, though the castle itself had been crumbling for a century. The air was thick with the weight of unspoken things, a tangible fog that clung to the stone walls...0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe ink was still wet on the parchment when Sir Julian Thorne noticed the stain spreading across the wax seal, a dark bloom that resembled a bruised plum against the crimson wax. He did not look up. To look up would be to acknowledge the presence of the High Chamberlain, a man whose authority was as vast and impersonal as the stone vaults of the keep, and Julian had learned long ago that...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe sky above the Citadel of Aethelgard did not darken; it simply ceased to be blue. It turned the color of a bruise, a swollen, purplish gray that pressed against the stones of the tower where I stood, tightening around me like a fist. I had been here for three days, or perhaps three weeks. Time had lost its rigid structure, becoming fluid and unreliable, like the water in the cistern below...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a watercolor smear of slate and charcoal. I stood on the balcony of the hotel, watching the streetlights flicker to life one by one, their glow drowning in the downpour. My hands were shaking. Not from the cold, though the damp air bit through my wool coat, but from the sheer, crushing...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ChronicleThe sycamores in the courtyard of the municipal water authority building in Ashford were dying, a fact that had been whispered in the breakrooms and shouted in the corridors with the frantic, disjointed energy of a plague, their leaves turning a sickly, translucent yellow before they even touched the ground, dropping like ash from a fire that had no heat, a slow, sweet rotting that seemed to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe air in the infirmary tasted of copper and wet wool. Marguerite did not blink. Her eyes, pale as river stones, were fixed on the trembling hand of the boy lying on the straw pallet. He was twelve. He was dying. Or so the physician said. The physician was a man named Aldric, with ink stains on his cuffs and a jaw that tightened whenever Marguerite stepped too close to his patients. Marguerite...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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