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The Wistful AsylumThe stone bites your hand. You bleed. The blood is red, thick, and hot against the cold gray rock. You pull back. The wall does not care. You are in the corridor. It is dark. The air smells of damp moss and old iron. You run. Your boots slap the flagstones. *Thud. Thud. Thud.* Your breath is a ragged tear in the silence. You do not know how long you have been here. Time is a broken clock. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 34 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended curtain of grey weeping that blurred the boundary between the living stone of the Keep and the rotting earth of the valley below. You stood in the highest tower, your back to the door, your hands resting on the cold, damp lintel, feeling the pulse of the structure beneath your palms like the slow, arthritic thrum of a dying god. The air...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe glass shattered not with a sound, but with a silence that seemed to suck the air from the room. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; the days had blurred into a single, grey smear of damp wool and the smell of lilies. Silas Thorne sat in the antechamber of the Grand Duke’s palace, his hands resting in his lap, trembling with a violence that betrayed the stillness of his face. Before...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe train to the capital was not a vehicle so much as a rolling argument against the stillness of the countryside. It rattled through the grey afternoon, a metallic beast shedding sparks into the wet earth, carrying Elias Thorne toward the Ministry of Civic Harmony. Elias was fourteen, small for his age, with the kind of quiet that often confused teachers for stupidity but which was, in truth,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe train does not so much stop as it exhales, a long, shuddering release of steam that fogs the glass of the carriage windows and dissolves the landscape into a grey, watery smear. You are standing in the corridor, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other clutching the leather satchel that contains the evidence of your transgression, and you are watching the trees blur past with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitThe ink dried before the page cooled. I am writing this from the tower of the Keep. The wind howls through the cracks in the stone. It is a cold sound. It sounds like teeth grinding. I hold the vial in my left hand. The glass is warm. It is warm because my blood is in it. Or perhaps it is warm because it is alive. I cannot tell the difference anymore. My hands are steady. A surgeon’s hands. A...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe iron taste of blood was thicker than the smoke, a coppery tang that coated the back of Eamon’s throat as he raised his shield. The city of Osgorath was not a place of peace, but a living beast of stone and mortar, its veins choked with the ash of a war that had no name and no end. Around him, the air vibrated with a low, thrumming hum, a sound that seemed to rise from the very cobblestones,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe dream was not of light, as the old texts promised, but of cold iron and the smell of wet wool. Wren lay in the straw pallet, his breath shallow in the drafty stone chamber, watching the single candle sputter against the draft. In the dream, he held the shard. It was not gold, but a jagged piece of obsidian, sharp enough to cut the air itself. He was not a child in this vision, but a man...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe glass did not shatter with a crash but with a long, high-pitched keen that seemed to tear the fabric of the afternoon air, and I stood there in the mud of the village square holding the jagged edge of my own reflection, watching the pieces of the old town hall’s great clock face scatter across the cobblestones like the teeth of a dead god. I am a man who has been running for so many years...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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