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The Distant SummerThe stone hall stood in the mist. It was a place of grey walls and high windows. I stood at the gate. My armor was heavy. It clinked as I moved. I looked at the tower. It did not move. It had always been there. I am a soldier. I have fought many wars. But this was different. This was a war against a mirror. My name is Elias. I wore the badge of the Order. The Order said the tower was evil. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe train rattles through the grey dawn, a steel ribcage breathing in the cold air. You sit by the window, watching the fog peel away from the city blocks like dead skin, revealing the skeletal geometry of the modern metropolis. In your lap rests a velvet case, worn thin at the edges, heavy with a weight that is not physical. Inside lies the Obsidian Sherd, a fragment of a sculpture you have...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe river did not flow so much as it remembered moving, a sluggish, gray vein of water that cut through the valley of Ashwick like a scar that refused to heal, and young Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the mill, his boots sinking into the mud that smelled of iron and rot, watching the way the mist clung to the willows with a persistence that felt less like weather and more like a judgment. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 26 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended veil of grey mist that clung to the soot-blackened brickwork of the Whitmore textile mill, turning the air into a damp, metallic taste that coated the back of Elias’s throat as he stood on the edge of the loading dock, watching the last of the day’s output roll out in heavy, burlap-wrapped bales, a rhythmic, mechanical heartbeat that thumped...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe feast is loud. It is too loud. You sit at the long oak table in the town square, surrounded by the merchants and the magistrates. The air smells of roasted pork and spilled wine. It smells of fear. You are the weaver. You are the maker of the cloth that binds the town together. Your hands are stained with indigo. The stain is deep. It goes under the nails. It is part of you. You are the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe morning mist rolled off the moor like a slow exhalation from the earth itself, settling into the cracks of the stone walls that enclosed the manor, a place where the air tasted of old iron and damp lichen. Lord Alistair stood at the window of his high study, his reflection ghostly and faint against the gray glass, watching the fog obscure the boundary between the garden and the wildness...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain of mist that smelled of wet wool and old iron, clinging to the hems of your cloak as you stepped off the road and into the deepening twilight of the heath. You were a man who had spent thirty years counting heads, inspecting armor, and ensuring that the border walls remained unbreached, yet here you were, alone, with nothing but the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe mud sucked at our boots with a sound like wet teeth, and the rain fell in sheets that turned the world into a gray smear of iron and rot. I was running. I was running until my lungs burned with the taste of copper and old blood, and I was running because the order had come down the line, cold and absolute, stripping us of the men we had carried for miles and leaving us to stand in the rain...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe dream began with the sound of breaking glass, though no glass was present. There was only the air, thin and cold as a blade, and the sudden, violent sensation of something shattering within the chest. Julian Vance woke with a gasp, his hand already reaching for the wound that was not there. He lay in the dark, the heavy velvet curtains of the royal study drawn tight against the window. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 13 Views 0 Reviews
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