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The Golden MythThe rain had been falling since we left the village, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the road into a river of mud and churned the hedgerows into shapes that seemed to lean in, watching us with the silent, judgmental eyes of old men who have seen too many young fools pass by. I walked beside Thomas, our packs heavy with the tools of our trade, our boots sinking into the earth with every...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe fire did not begin with a spark, but with a scream that tore through the night air of the Iron Citadel, shattering the silence that had settled over the kingdom like a heavy, suffocating shroud. It was the scream of a beast, or perhaps a man, or perhaps both, as the old legends insisted they were the same thing. Captain Elias Thorne woke to the taste of ash on his tongue, the familiar,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe feast was a wound in the dark. Candles guttered in iron sconces, throwing long, trembling shadows against the stone walls of the manor house. The air smelled of roasted lamb, wax, and the damp earth that seeped through the cracks in the foundation. Sir Alistair stood at the head of the long oak table. His armor was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the frantic faces of the guests. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe glass was already in my hand. It was thick. It was green. It smelled of old rain. I held it up to the light. The light broke. It shattered. I did not drop it. I held the pieces. They cut my palm. I did not flinch. This is the day. This is the day I break the cycle. I have prepared for this. I have rehearsed the words. I have cleaned the room. The room is white. The walls are white. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongYou open your mouth. The air is thick. It smells of coal dust. And wet wool. And something else. Something sweet. Like rotting fruit. In a tin cup. You are Major Elias Thorne. You are fifty-two years old. Your left knee aches. It has always ached. Since the war. Since the mud in Ypres. You sit in the back. The room is small. The walls are bare. The paint is peeling. Flaking off in gray curls....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that turned the streets into sluggish rivers of mud and oil, and it was this water that had finally eroded the structural integrity of my patience. I stood in the doorway of the precinct, my coat slick, my boots heavy with the sludge of the city, and I watched the steam rise from the manholes in long, ghostly ribbons. Inside,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Silence"You are holding it wrong," Elias said, his voice low and steady as the hum of the old gas lamps flickering outside the window. "You are gripping the letter like it owes you money. Let it go. The ink is dry. The truth is set." Margaret looked down at the envelope in her hands. It was thick, cream-colored, heavy with the weight of three days’ silence. Her fingers, stained yellow at the tips from...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe ink on the parchment was still wet, a dark, viscous smear that seemed to pulse with a life of its own, and you stood before the High Inquisitor’s desk, your hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had settled over the chamber. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a cloying sweetness that coated the back of your throat, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe dream was not of flight, as the young ones often boasted in their idle hours, but of weight, a crushing, silken weight that pressed against the back of the skull and seeped into the marrow of the bones until the world became a single, sustained note of grey resonance. Walter woke with his lungs burning, the taste of ash and old copper coating his tongue, the cobblestones of the alley...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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