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The Distant PromiseThe gate was black. Not the black of night. Not the black of a bruise. It was the black of a void. A hungry, wet dark that swallowed the light of the torches. It stood at the edge of the courtyard, a slab of iron and oak, bound in chains that wept rust. "You are late, Thomas," said the voice from the shadows. It was Lord Ashworth. He did not step forward. He did not need to. His presence was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe rain has been falling on the slate roofs of the Blackwood Industrial Archive for three days straight, a relentless, grey drumming that seems to seep into the very bones of the stone walls, and you are sitting at the long, scarred oak table in the basement, staring at a manila folder that feels heavier than a brick, your fingers stained with the cheap, metallic ink of the carbon copies that...0 Comments 0 Shares 28 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe rain had not stopped for forty days, a relentless, gray curtain that blurred the edge of the world against the windowpane of the glass house, where Margaret Holloway stood with her back to the door, her reflection staring back at her with an intensity that felt less like a mirror and more like an accusation, a twin who had grown tired of waiting and was now pressing her face against the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe rain had been falling for three days, a cold, steady sheet that turned the cobblestones of the courtyard into dark, slick mirrors. I sat in the corner of the high vaulted hall, my hands folded in my lap, watching the water bead on the floor. It was quiet here, a silence so heavy it pressed against my eardrums, broken only by the distant, rhythmic dripping from the eaves. I am a prisoner of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe truck rattled. The road was grey. Elias held the glass jar. It was cold. He wrapped his hands around it. The glass was smooth. It felt like skin. Inside, a single white lily floated in water. It was pristine. It was perfect. It was also breaking. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface. Fine lines. Like frost. Like old scars. The water leaked. It seeped into his fingers. Damp. Cold. He did...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe fire in the great hearth of the Hall of St. Jude’s burned with a ferocity that seemed to consume the very air, sending up plumes of black smoke that curled against the high, vaulted ceiling like the ghostly fingers of a praying deity, while the long oak table groaned under the weight of roasted boar, barrels of ale, and dishes of heavy cream and honey, creating a feast that was less a meal...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe train hisses. Steam rises. It smells of coal. And iron. You sit. You hold the box. It is heavy. No, it is light. It is everything. The window is a mirror. Your face is pale. Your eyes are dark. You are going home. Or perhaps you are leaving home for good. The distinction blurs. The train moves. The landscape blurs. Fields. Trees. Smoke. The world is grey. The world is loud. The world is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe banquet hall smells of roasted garlic and old money, a thick, cloying perfume that seems to coat the inside of your throat. You stand at the edge of the mahogany table, holding a glass of champagne that has long since gone flat, watching the senior partners laugh over a joke that is too quiet to be funny but too loud to be ignored. The room is a cavern of beige and gold, lit by chandeliers...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain in Sector Four did not fall; it hung. It was a grey curtain of mist that clung to the uniform of Sergeant Elias Thorne, soaking through the wool and settling into the bones. Elias walked the perimeter of the Detention Center, his boots sinking slightly into the wet asphalt. He was not alone. Beside him walked a shadow, not of darkness, but of presence. It was the shape of a boy, no...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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