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The Distant NightmareThe blade was wet. That was the first thing Marcus noticed, a slick, viscous red that coated the tip of his short sword and dripped onto the cobblestones with a sound like a whispered secret. He did not look up. He could not afford to look up. The man in front of him, a warden of the city gate, was swinging again, a heavy mace that caught the grey light of the dawn. Marcus ducked, the wind of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe mud on the road was deep, a thick, black slurry that sucked at the boots of the men walking toward the village of Oakhaven. It was the season of harvest, or what passed for it in these hard times, when the fields yielded little but chaff and the air tasted of ash. Thomas Bradshaw walked in the front. His armor was old, the steel darkened by rust and the sweat of a thousand marches. He did...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe sky split open at dawn. Not with light. With sound. A low, grinding hum that vibrated in your teeth. Then the crack. You were in the barn. Or what was left of it. The timber twisted like wet straw. You lay in the dust. Your leg was gone. Not broken. Gone. The stump was clean. No blood. Just a raw, white silence where your shin should be. You looked up. The roof was gone. Above you, the air...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CompassThe rain did not fall so much as it was pressed against the glass of the command center, a gray, relentless smear that blurred the lights of the city below into long, weeping streaks of amber and sodium. You sat in the chair, the leather creaking under the weight of your uniform, a sound that was too loud in the silence of the room, a sound that felt like a bone snapping. The compass on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe door was pale. It had always been pale. I stood before it. My hands shook. The wood was cold. It smelled of dust. And old paper. I was not meant to be here. I knew this. I had crossed the sea. I had left the rain behind. I had left the name I was born with. I was Edward now. Or perhaps I was no one. The fog had taken me. It took my shape. It took my sound. I was a ghost in a borrowed coat....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe train slows as it pulls into the station at Harrowgate, the wheels shrieking against the rusted tracks like a dying animal. You step onto the platform, your boots heavy with the mud of the countryside, and the cold air bites at your face. It is November, and the sky is a low, bruised purple, hanging over the town like a shroud. You are here to report for duty, or perhaps to say goodbye,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe fog in the valley of Aethelgard did not behave like the damp mists of the northern coast, which rolled in thick and cold to hide the rotting hulls of ships, but instead it rose from the black soil like a breath held too long in a dying throat, a pale, viscous substance that clung to the armor of the Watchmen and soaked through their tunics until the fabric weighed as much as the chainmail...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe blood was hot, a shocking contrast to the cold iron of my gauntlet, and it smeared across the visor of my helmet in a jagged, red constellation that blurred the world into a singular, bleeding point. I was fighting, or I had been fighting, and the rhythm of the clash had established a terrible, heavy cadence in my bones, a drumbeat that seemed to originate not from the arena floor but from...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered. It hung in the air, a fine, gray mist that clung to my skin and soaked into the wool of my coat. I walked. The path was not a road. It was a scar in the earth, winding up through the pines. I had carried the crate for three days. It was heavy. The wood was dark. It smelled of rot and old sugar. I knew what was inside. I had packed it myself. My name...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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