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The Wistful SkylineThe static on the radio did not hiss; it hummed, a low, vibrating thrum that seemed to rise from the very floorboards of the bunker, a subsonic pulse that settled into the marrow of Thomas Bradshaw’s bones and stayed there, a foreign object lodged in the architecture of his being. He sat in the high-backed chair, the leather creaking beneath the weight of his uniform, a uniform that had not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe air in the Hall of Mirrors did not smell of dust, as one might expect in a place abandoned by the living for centuries, but of ozone and iron, the scent of a storm trapped within glass. Sir Julian Ashworth stood alone in the center of the vast circular chamber, his armor clinking softly with the subtle shifts of his breathing, a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the absolute silence of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe rain fell in thin, cold sheets, turning the heath into a grey mirror. We had walked for three days. The mud sucked at our boots with a wet, sticky grip that felt like the earth itself was trying to hold us down. I was the only one who knew why we were here. Or rather, I was the only one who had been told. The Captain had given me the orders in his tent, the candlelight flickering against...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded GuestThe mortar cracked. It did not shatter. It split. A hairline fracture, thin as a vein, running through the grey stone. Elias held his breath. The dust settled. He was not a mason. He was a doctor. Or he had been. In the old world, the one that smelled of pine and silence, he had stitched wounds. He had pulled teeth. He had listened to hearts beat. Here, in the city of ash and iron, he was a man...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale LetterDreaming of the white pine. It stands tall. Wind hits it. It does not break. It bends. It snaps. Waves. The sound is a crack. Not a branch. A bone. Waking up. Sweat. Cold air. The room smells of dust. And old paper. Elias sits up. His back hurts. Always hurts. He looks at his hands. Shaking. He stops them. He breathes. In. Out. The clock ticks. One second. Two. Three. He stands. Pain in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe air in Sector Four tasted of copper and stale rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of Arthur Penhaligon’s throat as he stood before the central distribution hub, his hands trembling not from the cold that seeped through his threadbare wool coat, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had settled over the city like a shroud of ash. He looked at the woman standing...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe brass key was cold in Elias’s palm. It was a small, heavy thing, tarnished by decades of handling. He turned it over, tracing the intricate bit. It fit the lock of the old iron gate in the Millbrook district. A place that should have been sealed for twenty years. "Stop touching it," said Sarah. She stood by the window of the small, drafty office. Her face was pale, drawn tight with a fear...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe bells of St. Jude’s did not ring for the dead. They rang for the living who refused to die. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the town square, his breath a thin ribbon of white smoke against the gray winter sky. He held the ledger. It was not a book of accounts. It was a book of names, written in ink that shimmered with a faint, terrible gold. In his other hand, he held a scarf. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe fog rolled in thick as wool, choking the smokestacks of the *Ironclad* until the air tasted of rust and old sweat. I was on the bow, lashing a loose coil of rope, my hands raw and bleeding against the hemp. Beside me, Thomas Bradshaw fought the wheel. He was a man carved from the same stubborn granite as the cliffs we had left behind three days prior. He did not look at me. He never did. To...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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