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The Golden OathThe stone was warm, or perhaps it was my hands that had forgotten how to feel cold, but the roughness of the granite beneath my fingers was a constant, a physical argument against the silence that had settled over the chapel like a shroud of wet wool. I sat alone in the nave, the air thick with the scent of damp moss and old wood, the kind of smell that clings to the lungs and refuses to let...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe apple is red, a bruised and heavy thing that sits in the palm of your hand like a secret too large for the body to hold. You are standing at the edge of the pine forest, the air thin and biting with the sharp scent of resin and approaching snow, and you are waiting for the order that will change the geometry of your life. You are a soldier, or perhaps a warden, the titles have blurred in...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe rain hit the glass. Hard. Cold. I felt it on my face. Even here. Inside. The walls were thick. Stone. Old. They should have stopped it. They did not. I sat. My back was against the door. My hand was on the hilt. Not for a sword. For a gun. Iron. Cold. It bit into my palm. "Is it over, Thomas?" I looked up. Silas. He stood in the corner. Shadows ate his face. His eyes were bright. Too...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe iron breathes. You feel it in your teeth, a metallic taste that coats the tongue, thick and cold. The fog is not white. It is grey. It is the color of old bruises. It is the color of the void. You are running. Your lungs burn. The air is thin. The air is thick. It is both. The train is coming. You hear it before you see it. A low moan. A grinding of steel on stone. The engine is a beast. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe pill was warm. It tasted like copper and old rain. I swallowed it down the dry throat of the wasteland. My name is Elias. I am a thief. Or at least, I was, before the sky turned to ash. Now I am a vessel. A container for the thing that eats the world. My hands shook. Not from cold. The air was still, thick as syrup. I looked down at my palms. They were stained yellow. A faint, golden scar...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended curtain of grey mist that swallowed the moorland whole. Elias Thorne sat in the narrow window of the traveling sledge, his hands wrapped around a clay pot that had kept its contents warm through the night. The air inside the vehicle smelled of damp wool, stale bread, and the sharp, medicinal tang of the dried herbs he had been grinding...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe air in the cathedral of Saint Jude did not smell of incense, but of iron and old blood, a metallic tang that coated the back of Eleanor’s throat with a viscosity that defied the dry, dusty silence of the nave. She stood at the threshold of the apse, her boots caked in the red clay of the courtyard, her hands trembling not from the cold that seeped through the stone floor, but from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe oak tree stood at the edge of the clearing, its branches stripped bare by the frost, looking less like a living thing and more like a skeletal hand reaching up to grasp a sky that had long since forgotten how to weep. I remember the way the light fell on its bark, silver and cold, and how it seemed to absorb the sound of the world, leaving only a hollow, ringing silence in its place. We had...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe letter sat on the kitchen table. It did not breathe. It did not pulse. It was just paper, folded tight, stained with the rust-brown tide of the harbor. I held it in my hand. My fingers trembled. Not from cold. From fear. "Did you read it, Elias?" my mother asked. She stood by the window. The glass was fogged. Outside, the town of Blackwater churned. The smoke from the textile mills hung...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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