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The Golden DowntownYou dream of your hands again. Not the hands you have now, thin and trembling, stained with the rust of the mill and the soot of the coal stove, but the hands from before. They were smooth, unblemished, capable of holding a crystal goblet without fear of shattering it. In the dream, you are standing in the grand foyer of the Whitmore estate, the air thick with the scent of lilies and old money,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe rain against the window is not rain. It is the sound of time being ground down, a gritty, persistent hiss that fills the small, windowless room you have occupied for three days. You are holding the box. It is not a box of valuables, not a box of gold or jewels, but a wooden crate, pale as bone, stained with the dark, oxidized sweat of your hands. It is heavy, heavier than wood should be,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe silence in the Hall of Whispers is not empty. It is heavy. It presses against your eardrums. You stand there. You are alone. The stone floor is cold. It bites through your boots. You are a clerk. You are not a king. But you hold the quill. You hold the ink. You hold the truth. The air smells of damp moss. It smells of old paper. It smells of fear. You look down. Your hand trembles. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale VerdictThe hall is a mouth of stone and dust. It yawns before you. The air tastes of iron and old blood. You stand. You are the Keeper. The walls weep. The torches hiss. They flicker. They die. They rise. Again. You wear the mail. It is heavy. It is cold. It bites your skin. It is your skin. It is your flesh. There is no line between you and the iron. You are the castle. The castle is you. This is the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe dream was not of light, but of iron. In the slumber of Elias Thorne, the air tasted of rust and wet limestone, a metallic tang that coated the back of his throat with a viscosity that felt like swallowing a coin. He stood in a vast, empty hall where the ceiling was lost in a haze of grey fog, and the floor was tiled in a checkerboard of black and white marble that stretched into an infinity...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistYou stand at the edge of the mist. It is white. It is thick. It swallows the stone. The house waits. It has always waited. You know this. You have felt it in your bones since childhood. The walls are old. They breathe. You place your hand on the door. The wood is cold. It bites. You do not flinch. You are the seeker. You are the detective of the dead. Enter. The air smells of dust. It smells of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe mirror in the guardroom did not reflect the room. It reflected a throne. I stood before it, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, feeling the cold brass bite into my palm. The stone floor was slick with condensation, or perhaps sweat, though I was sure the air was still and dry. The silence was heavy, pressing against my eardrums like deep water. I was alone. Or so I believed. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe tower stood in a field of grey mist. It was made of glass. Or perhaps bone. It did not matter. The structure was vast and terrible, rising from the earth like a splinter in the world’s skin. Thomas stood at its base. His uniform was torn. Blood dried black on his collar. He looked up. The top of the tower was lost in the white. He had dreamed this before. Many times. In the barracks, in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyThe rain had been falling for three days, a persistent, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the gravel of the driveway into a slurry of mud and broken dreams. I packed the last of the books into the suitcase, the spine of my mother’s copy of *Jane Eyre* cracking under the weight of my hands, a sound that felt far too loud in the hollow silence of the room. This was the...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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