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The Golden RitualThe morning I left, the fog was so thick it swallowed the spires of the cathedral before they could even whisper their morning prayers into the grey sky. I stood at the threshold of the bakery, a place that smelled of yeast and old stone, and felt the weight of the last loaf in my hands. It was a simple thing, a round of sourdough with a crack across the top like a dried riverbed, but to those...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe chain is cold. It bites into the wrist. You do not look down. You look up. The tower is black. The sky is black. “Stand still,” says the voice. It is a man’s voice. Low. Rough like stone. You freeze. Your body is a statue. Your soul is a scream. “Who are you?” the voice asks. “I am no one,” you say. Your lips feel thick. Heavy. “Liar.” He steps closer. You smell him. Iron. Blood. Old wool....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe taste of copper and dried lavender hung in the air, a thick, cloying sweetness that coated the back of my throat and refused to be swallowed, as I lay upon the narrow cot in the center of the white-walled room, the walls pressing in on me with the gentle, suffocating intimacy of a lover’s embrace. I was awake, yet I was not, trapped in the liminal space where the boundary between the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale AltarThe house breathed. That was the only word that fit, though it was a crude thing, a word borrowed from the flesh and not the stone. It was a Victorian monstrosity of blackened brick and iron, perched on the edge of a cliff that had been cut away by the rail expansion three decades prior. The air inside tasted of coal dust and old varnish, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe sky above the blackened fields of the valley did not fall so much as it shattered, a colossal pane of glass fracturing into shards of bruised purple and sickly green that rained down upon the earth with a sound like the grinding of ancient bones. I stood there, my uniform torn and stained with the red dust of the place, watching the horizon dissolve into a mist that tasted of copper and old...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe iron of the breastplate hums against your ribs, a cold, metallic song that has become the only rhythm you know. You stand in the antechamber of the High Steward, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and old stone, while the sun cuts through the high arched windows in slanting pillars of dust. It is a quiet morning, the kind that feels suspended in time, where the only movement is the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe train that carries us through the valley does not run on coal or steam, but on a slow, thickening syrup of amber that boils in the undercarriage with a sound like a low, continuous moan, a hum that vibrates in the marrow of my bones and settles into the teeth, and as we glide past the grey, soot-stained factories of the lowlands, where the air is heavy with the scent of sulfur and wet ash,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe dream was a kitchen. It was vast. The ceiling vanished into white void. The floor was marble, cold and slick. Margaret stood in the center. She held a loaf of bread. It was warm. It was heavy. It smelled of yeast and time. She woke. The air in the room was stale. It tasted of dust and old sweat. Margaret sat up. Her head throbbed. A dull, rhythmic pain behind her eyes. She looked at her...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe air inside the Great Hall of the Municipal Armory tasted of stale beer, wet wool, and the metallic tang of anticipation that hangs heavy in the lungs when a man knows he is about to be judged by men who have never held a rifle except to clean it, a thick, suffocating atmosphere that pressed against Thomas Bradshaw’s eardrums as he stood at the far end of the polished oak floor, watching the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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