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The Distant Journey"Do you know what a soul tastes like, Doctor?" It was the first thing Lord Blackwood said when he entered the garden. He did not look at Thomas. He looked at the air. He looked at the dust motes dancing in the shaft of late afternoon light. Thomas did not answer. He kept his eyes on the row of foxgloves. His hands were dirty. There was soil under his fingernails. He had been there for three...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe dream had a texture, coarse and dry like sandpaper rubbed against the back of the hand. Arthur Penhaligon stood in a room that did not exist, a vaulted chamber of gray stone where the air tasted of ozone and old iron. In the center of the floor lay a mosaic, intricate and terrible, composed of thousands of tiny, shattered shards of blue glass. He knew, with a certainty that bypassed logic,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe banquet hall smelled of burnt sugar and old iron. The chandeliers hung low, dripping light onto the mahogany table where we sat, twenty of us, bound by the silence of the living and the hunger of the dead. I wore my uniform. The wool was stiff against my neck, a collar of thorns. My medals clinked softly as I reached for the wine. They were brass stars, cold and bright, like eyes that did...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe coat was red. It was a violent, arterial red, the kind of crimson that seemed to hum against the drab grey of the city. It hung in the window of a second-floor apartment in a district where the rain never quite stopped, just shifted from a drizzle to a mist, a constant, damp shroud. Elias saw it every morning. He saw it first thing, before the sun had the nerve to break the cloud line,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe rain hits the mud of the King’s Road like a fist. You walk. Your boots are heavy, caked in the black slurry of the industrial district. The air tastes of sulfur and wet iron. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne. You carry a rifle that feels more like a limb than a tool. It is the only thing that is real. The rest is smoke. The town of Oakhaven sits huddled against the hills. It is a place of soot...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorThe fog rolled in from the river, thick and gray as wool. It swallowed the cobblestones. It swallowed the streetlamps. It swallowed the world. Elias Vane woke from a dream. He was standing in a field of black glass. The sky was a mirror. It reflected his face. His face was not his. It was the face of a man with no eyes. He tried to scream. No sound came. He woke in his bed. The sheets were...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe stone floor of the antechamber was cold enough to seep through the thick leather of Sir Aldric’s boots, a chill that traveled up his shins and settled in the marrow of his knees, a sensation he had long since learned to identify as the precursor to duty. He stood alone in the dim, vaulted space, the air heavy with the scent of beeswax and old dust, listening to the silence that pressed...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe filtration unit in the east wing hummed with a frequency that Margaret Holloway felt not in her ears but in the marrow of her spine, a low, mechanical thrum that served as the metronome for her own dissolving body. She sat in the chair of polished oak that had once belonged to her father, now stripped of its velvet upholstery and reupholstered in the sterile, unyielding grey fabric mandated...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe rain lashed against the warped glass of the attic window, a persistent, rhythmic drumming that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the house, a sound that had become so intrinsic to the silence of the Holloway estate that Eleanor often forgot it was weather and not the house itself breathing, a deep, industrial sigh from the lungs of the old mill below. She sat on the floorboards,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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