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The Distant WhispersThe rain hit the windowpane. It was a thin, cold sheet. Margaret watched it run. She did not wipe the glass. Her hand rested on the wood. It was warm. Her husband, Thomas, stood by the door. He was leaving. He did not look at her. He looked at the floor. "Is it done?" he asked. His voice was flat. There was no anger in it. There was only tiredness. Deep, bone-deep tiredness. "Yes," Margaret...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe rain fell in sheets of grey iron, hammering the stone roof until the air itself seemed to shiver. I stood at the edge of the precipice, my boots slick with mud and blood, the handle of my short sword slick in my palm. Below, the valley stretched out in a haze of mist and rot. It was not a place for the living. Or perhaps it was a place only for the dying. My name is Elias. I do not say it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe dream began with the ink. It was black. Thick as tar. It seeped from the pores of the parchment, not writing, but bleeding. The symbol was a serpent eating its own tail. The Ouroboros. It pulsed. Edward woke. His hands shook. He looked at them. They were steady now. They were the hands of a man who had killed. He knew the difference. The hands of a killer do not shake. They rest. The cell...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe fire did not begin with a spark, nor did it announce itself with the polite, rustling warning of dry leaves turning in the wind, but rather it erupted from the very marrow of the ancestral home, a sudden, violent hemorrhage of light that swallowed the night whole, leaving only the smell of ancient timber and the distant, hollow ring of the church bell to mark the precise moment our world...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe rain fell on the castle of Blackwood. It was a cold, relentless sheet. Thomas stood by the window. The glass was thick. It was old. He watched the water run down. It left no mark. Inside, the hall was warm. It was too warm. The air smelled of wax and meat. There were candles. Many candles. They flickered. Thomas was a servant. He wore grey. His hands were rough. He had been here for ten...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe frost had not yet melted from the cobblestones of the Grand Courtyard, but the air inside the Hall of Whispers was thick, stale, and heavy with the scent of beeswax and old iron. I stood at the foot of the dais, my hands clasped behind my back, feeling the familiar, dull ache in my knuckles where the bones had healed crooked after the siege three winters ago. To my left, Captain Ashworth...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe rain tapped against the window of Room 402. It was a steady, dull rhythm. Arthur held his hands out. He stared at his palms. They were red. They were raw. The skin was peeling. It looked like old paper. Like dry leaves in autumn. He looked at the door. It was oak. It was heavy. It did not open. Not yet. "Arthur?" The voice came from the hallway. It was soft. It was wet. Arthur did not move....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustI dreamed of the wool coat again, the one my father wore to the funeral of his own mother, a heavy, charcoal-grey thing that smelled of wet earth and old pipe tobacco, and in the dream I was running through a field of withered barley, chasing the hem of that coat as if it were a ghost trying to escape me, the fabric tearing into ribbons that snapped against the wind like the flapping of dead...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe feast was held in the high tower of the Abbey of St. Jude, where the air tasted of stale wax and damp stone. Candles gutted in their iron sconces, casting long, trembling shadows that danced against the vaulted ceiling. Below the gallery, a table groaned under the weight of roasted geese, pike in vinegar, and wheels of hard cheese. The monks in their brown robes ate with heads bowed, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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