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The Wistful ThroneThe rain fell in sheets. It hammered the black glass of the Senate dome. Inside, the air was still. It smelled of old wood and stale sweat. Colonel Elias Thorne stood at the door. He was a tall man. His uniform was pressed to a razor’s edge. The gold on his buttons caught the light. It was a cold light. It had no warmth. He looked at the Senator. Senator Marcus Vane sat in the center. He held a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe banquet hall of the University of St. Jude’s was a cavern of white linen and crystal, humming with the low, electric frequency of a hundred intellects colliding in the dark. I stood near the pillar, holding a glass of champagne that had gone flat in my hand, watching the light refract through the ice into a scattered constellation of diamonds on the marble floor. The air was thick, perfumed...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe ink on the ledger page was still wet when Elara sat down, the smell of iron and gallnut sharp in the dry air of the archive. It was a Tuesday, unremarkable and gray, the kind of day that felt like it had been skimmed over by time itself, leaving only the faintest residue of existence. She was alone in the circular room, surrounded by the silence of ten thousand years of administrative...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe rain did not fall. It hung. A thick, grey mist clung to the cobblestones of Aethelgard. It smelled of wet iron and old bone. Elias stood alone. His cloak was heavy. Mud caked his boots. He held a lantern. The glass was cracked. The flame inside flickered, weak and blue. He was looking for something. Or someone. The city slept. The windows were dark. The streets were empty. Elias was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe alert came not as a siren, but as a low, humming vibration in the floorboards of the server room. You were fourteen, sitting cross-legged on the cold concrete, your fingers wrapped around a tangled nest of fiber-optic cables that glowed with a faint, sickly blue light. Around you, the air smelled of ozone and old dust. This was the heart of the Obsidian Tower, the corporate fortress of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe gray wool of the overcoat had become an extension of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s skin. It was a heavy, damp thing, woven with the chill of the Atlantic that rolled in off the harbor every evening, pressing against his shoulders like the hands of ghosts. He had worn it for seven years, through the frost of the Maine winters and the humid, cloying heat of the August storms. To the men of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe tower fell. Not with a crash. With a sigh. Dust choked the air. Grey. Thick. Sweet. It tasted of iron. Of old blood. I coughed. My lungs burned. I could not breathe. I am Elias Thorne. I have no last name. Not anymore. Names are anchors. Anchors drag you down. I cut the rope. I drifted. I stood in the square. The square was gone. Only rubble remained. Piles of stone. Bones of the city. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe feast was a thing of teeth and bone, a sprawling table of ashwood that stretched across the cavernous hall of the Iron Keep. Candles dripped fat onto the stone floor, pooling in dark, viscous lakes that reflected the faces of the gathered knights. They were men of steel and silence, their armor polished to a mirror shine, yet their eyes held a dull, hungry light that no amount of polish...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain on the castle windows is a sound you have known since childhood. It is the sound of the world trying to break in, only to be held back by stone and iron. You stand in the center of the Great Hall, the wetness of the storm seeping through the floorboards, chilling the soles of your boots. The air is thick with the scent of damp wool, old wax, and the metallic tang of fear. You are the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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