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The Faded AtticThe iron gates of Aethelgard did not rust, for they were forged from star-metal and quenched in the tears of dying gods, and they stood as eternal witnesses to the slow, grinding erosion of the world beyond their bars, a world that had long since forgotten the name of the man who had once commanded the legions of the North. Elowen stood before the gate, her hands clasped so tightly around the...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe road is mud. The rain is cold. My boots are heavy. I walk. The forest is dark. The trees are old. They watch me. I carry my sword. It is dull. It is not sharp. I do not care. I am a soldier. I was a soldier. I am not. I am a man. I walk. My brother is gone. He is dead. I know. I saw him. He fell. The mud took him. The mud is hungry. I stop. A house stands there. It is wood. It is stone. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the mud outside the keep’s high, narrow windows into a churning, brown slurry that threatened to swallow the foundation stones. I sat alone in the commander’s solar, the fire burning low, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched across the stone floor like the fingers of desperate men. My armor was unclasped, the heavy steel plate resting on...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale LetterElias Thorne woke with the taste of wet plaster on his tongue, a sensation that clung to the back of his throat like a physical weight, and he lay in the narrow bed of the train car, listening to the rhythmic, hypnotic clatter of the wheels against the iron tracks, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the marrow of his bones and resonate in the hollow chambers of his skull where the words of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe water in the basin is cold, but you do not mind the chill. It feels like a promise kept. You scrub your hands until they are raw and red, the soap suds turning pink, a violent contrast to the pale, stillness of the room. You are not a person, not anymore. You are a thing that lives in the cracks of the wall, a draft that moves through the house of Eleanor Fairchild. You have watched her for...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe report sits on the desk. It is thin. Too thin. You read it again. The ink is dry. The paper is cheap. You are the Archivist. You do not write reports. You verify them. You check the seal. The seal is broken. You look at the door. It is closed. The office is cold. The air tastes of dust and old wood. You are alone. Or so you think. You are married to Elias. You love him. This is a fact. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe first crack in the foundation did not announce itself with a roar, but with a sound like a dry twig snapping under a heavy boot, followed by the faint, sickening groan of shifting earth. Margaret Holloway stood in the center of the kitchen, her hands still dusted with the pale, powdery residue of the flour she had been sifting, and watched as a hairline fracture raced across the plaster of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe feast of the harvest moon was not a celebration of joy but a ritual of containment, where the air in the great hall of the manor house hung thick with the scent of roasted lamb and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep from the very stones of the foundation. I sat at the head of the long oak table, my armor polished to a mirror shine that reflected the flickering candles and...0 Comments 0 Shares 11 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it hung, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the wool coats of the townspeople and seeped into the joints of the old brickwork. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the quarry, his boots sinking into the wet clay, watching the water collect in the hollows of the stone. He was a man of few words and many scars, his face a map of lines carved by wind...0 Comments 0 Shares 37 Views 0 Reviews
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