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The Distant MetropolisThe air in the keep did not smell of stone, but of iron and old sweat, a pungent perfume that clung to the wool of Edward’s doublet. He stood at the center of the circular hall, his back to the single, narrow window that looked out onto the grey, churning mist of the moor. Around him, the silence was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against his eardrums. He was a captain of the Royal...0 Comments 0 Shares 16 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe fog does not rise. It presses. It pushes against the glass of the nursery window like a living thing, hungry and cold. You are awake. You have always been awake. The room is small. The walls are white. The air is thick. It tastes of salt and iron. You press your hand to the pane. The glass is warm. It should be cold. It is always warm. "Who is there?" you whisper. No answer. The fog moves....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe air in Sector 4 tasted of ozone and crushed mint. Elara Vance wiped the condensation from her visor, her breath fogging the glass in rapid, shallow bursts. Outside the reinforced glass of the extraction chamber, the city of New Albion sprawled in a grid of sterile white and grey, punctuated by the occasional, sickly green glow of the biomass farms. She was not looking at the farms. She was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe ink is drying on the parchment, a slow, viscous bleeding into the vellum that mirrors the slow decay of your own mind. You are in the scriptorium, the air thick with the smell of oak gall and iron, a scent that has become indistinguishable from the scent of your sister’s breath, that same sweet, metallic tang that preceded her final exhalation. You are not writing for the Lord, nor for the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumYou wake in the dark. The air tastes of iron and wet wool. Your hands are bound. You do not struggle. You know the weight of the silence. It is heavier than the chains. The room is small. Stone walls. A single window, high up, letting in a sliver of gray dawn. You are a soldier. You are a ghost. The war is over, or perhaps it never ended. You are in the house of the dead. Or so they say. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe chandelier in the Great Hall of St. Jude’s Institute did not hang. It floated. This was the first thing Marcus Thorne noticed upon entering the faculty lounge. The second thing he noticed was that the glass crystals were weeping. Thin, viscous tears of amber light dripped from the prisms, pooling on the parquet floor with a sound like distant rain. He blinked. The tears stopped. The light...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe rain had not stopped for three days, and the air in the warehouse smelled of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of old iron. Arthur Penhaligon sat at his desk, a battered oak slab buried under a landslide of case files, his fingers stained with ink that would never wash out. He was a detective, though the title felt increasingly like a costume he had been forced to wear, a role...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain hits the tin roof of the mill office like a handful of gravel. It is cold. You are shivering. The heat from the coal stove has died out an hour ago. You wrap your hands around your mug. The coffee is cold. It tastes of rust. You look at the man across from you. Thomas Bradshaw. He is a large man. His shoulders fill the narrow chair. He wears a suit that is too thin for this weather....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe feast was not of food, but of light, a blinding, geometric array of lanterns that hung from the high vaulted ceiling of the hall like suspended stars, casting long, sharp shadows that danced across the polished stone floor. In the center of this luminous labyrinth stood a boy named Arthur, his small frame trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the air, which felt...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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