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The Distant GardenYou are driving north. The rain hits the windshield in sheets, blurring the world into a smear of gray and black. You have to stop. Not because the car is broken, but because the road has ended. There is no road. Just a wall of mist and the dark, breathing shape of a building that shouldn’t exist. It is a palace. Or what is left of one. It rises from the fog like a ribcage of stone, vast and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe dust did not settle, it hung, a thick, golden particulate that coated the back of our throats and turned the air into a gritty, unbreathable paste that tasted of copper and old blood, and I stood there in the center of the shattered corridor of the Ministry of Reclamation, my uniform torn at the shoulder, the fabric damp with sweat that had long since turned cold, watching as the massive,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe iron gate of the estate did not creak as it opened, which was the first thing that felt wrong to Elara, for the hinges had been rusted into a permanent shriek for as long as her memory reached back, a sound that had worn grooves into the silence of the valley like water wearing stone, yet now it slid open with a smoothness that seemed to suck the air out of the lungs, leaving only the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe train did not run on rails, but on a bed of compressed, humming light that pulsed beneath the undercarriage with the rhythmic, wet throb of a vast, unseen heart, carrying Elias Thorne forward into a twilight that had no source and no end, a perpetual dusk where the air tasted of ozone and old pennies, and the windows of the carriage reflected not the passing scenery, but the deep, eroding...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe ink did not smell of iron or rot, as the court physicians had claimed it did, but of dried lavender and the cold, metallic tang of high altitude, a scent that Elara had come to associate with the specific, suffocating weight of her own impending execution. She stood before the great triptych of mirrors in the antechamber of the White Hall, her hands trembling not with fear, but with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a heavy, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world outside the high, arched windows of the Ministry of Cultural Preservation. Inside, the air was dry and smelled of old paper, floor wax, and the metallic tang of anxiety. Elias Thorne stood at the center of the grand hall, his back to the long oak table where the Committee sat, their faces...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe rain in London did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey veil that turned the city into a watercolor of damp slate and bruised twilight. Elias Thorne stood on the pavement of Whitechapel, his hand resting on the cold iron of the gate, watching the mist curl around the ankles of the passersby. He was a man who had once commanded men, now a shadow who commanded nothing but the silence...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe amber vial sat upon the mahogany desk, catching the pale, winter light that filtered through the frosted glass of the office window, and I watched the sediment settle within its curved belly with a devotion that bordered on the pathological, a quiet, obsessive love for a thing that had once been the center of my entire, wretched existence. I was James Whitmore, or at least I had been,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe rain fell upon the cobblestones of the city square like a fine, grey mist that did not seek to wash the world clean but merely to obscure it, a persistent veil drawn across the face of reality, and I stood beneath the eaves of the old stone chapel, watching the figures who moved through the downpour with the hurried, purposeful gait of those who have forgotten how to pause, their faces...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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