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The Wistful Witness“Put it on.” The voice was thin. It scraped against the silence of the room. Elias stood by the window. Rain streaked the glass. Outside, the city hummed. A low, constant buzz. He did not turn around. “Elias.” He turned. His father sat in the armchair. The wool coat lay across his lap. It was a heavy thing. Dark green. The buttons were brass. They had turned green with age. Like his eyes. Like...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe wind did not blow here. It held its breath. “Are you there, Thomas?” The voice came from the dark. It was soft. It was wet. It was the sound of a bell cracking in the deep sea. “I am here, Margaret.” My hand tightened on the hilt of my sword. The metal was cold. It bit into my palm. It remembered the blood of men I had not killed yet. It remembered the blood of men I had. “Look at me,” she...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe cold settles in your bones first. It is a physical thing, a leaden weight that anchors you to the floor of the chapel. You are the Inquisitor. You are the hand that holds the scale. But today, the scale is broken. You look at the boy. His name is Thomas. He is twelve, perhaps thirteen. His knees are bare. The stone is freezing. He does not shiver. He has learned that shivering is a waste of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe hand was the problem. It had always been the problem. Caleb held it out. He looked at it. The fingers were long. The knuckles were swollen. The skin was pale. It was a good hand. It was a useful hand. It was his hand. He sat in the chair. The room was dark. The candle burned low. The wax dripped. It made a small sound. *Drip.* He remembered the day he enlisted. He was young. The uniform fit...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe rain did not fall. It was suspended, a thick, gray curtain that hung in the air of the cellar, defying gravity and logic. Elias stood in the center of the damp stone floor, his hands bound by ropes that felt less like hemp and more like the cold, unyielding iron of his own past. He was a prisoner here. Not of the walls, though the walls were high and lined with books that had no spines,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe air in the Hall of Sanctions tasted of copper and stale lavender, a thick, cloying perfume that seemed to seep from the very pores of the ancient stone walls, wrapping around my throat like a wet silk scarf that refused to loosen, reminding me with every shallow, rattling breath that I was still alive, still breathing, still trapped within the invisible cage of my own failing body, which...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe shrapnel sang a high, thin note. It did not hit Margaret. It missed the left ear by the width of a thumb, striking the oak desk with a dull thud that sounded like a closing book. Margaret did not flinch. She did not blink. Her eyes, pale and still as winter ice, remained fixed on the brass badge pinned to the chest of the man standing over her. The room was white. Not the white of snow, or...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe house groaned. It was a sound deep in the wood, a shudder that vibrated through the floorboards and into the soles of Elias’s boots. Outside, the rain hammered the glass, a relentless, industrial drumbeat against the Victorian bones of the estate. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and old paper. Elias stood in the center of the drawing room. He was not a man who believed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain in Harrow’s End does not wash things clean; it merely saturates the grime, making the dirt slick and treacherous, a mirror that reflects only the bruised purple of the sky and the jagged, broken teeth of the houses that line the single, winding road which serves as the sole artery of this forgotten corner of the world. You are standing at the crossroads, or what passes for one here, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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