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The Distant PromiseThe glass shattered. Not loudly. Not with the dramatic crash of a wine glass hitting marble. It broke silently. A fine, crystalline dust. It fell from the surface of the mirror I was wearing. I am not a person. I am a vessel. I am the silver leaf backing of a vanity mirror. I am the reflection. I am the lie we tell ourselves when we look in the dark. My name is Elias. Or at least, that is what...0 Comments 0 Shares 26 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe hammer rang against the anvil. It was a sharp, violent sound. It cut the air of the workshop. The air was thick with coal smoke. It stung the eyes. It coated the tongue. Silas Vance wiped his brow. His hand left a streak of black grime. He looked at the metal. It glowed orange. It was a small thing. A hinge. A simple hinge for a church door. But it was not simple. It was a test. It was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestThe moss on your fingernails is not green anymore. It is the color of old bruised meat, a dull, drying brown that flakes away when you rub your thumb against the cold stone of the cell wall. You have been here for three years. Or perhaps four. Time in the High Keep does not move in hours or days; it moves in the slow, grinding rotation of the sun through the narrow arrow slits, a thin blade of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe city hummed. A low, constant vibration. It lived in the bones. It lived in the teeth. Elias Thorne felt it in the marrow. He stood before the glass. The reflection stared back. Pale. Thin. The eyes were hollow. The hair was white. Not age. Stress. The work. The weight of it all. He looked away. The street below was grey. Steam rose from the vents. It curled like a ghost. It dissolved into...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe bell tower rang. It was a sound like tearing linen. Elias stood at the gate. He held a staff of iron. The iron was cold. It bit into his palm. He did not let go. Behind him, the city slept. Stone slabs. Cold air. The fog was thick. It tasted of ash. It tasted of old blood. He walked into the mist. His steps were slow. His mind was fast. He counted the stones. One. Two. Three. The rhythm...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe soup was hot. It smelled of burnt rye and iron. Elias sat at the head of the table. The room was a box of green light. The air hummed. It was a low, constant drone. Like a bee trapped in a jar. There were others. Ten men. Ten women. They ate. They spoke. The voices were flat. They bounced off the walls. Elias was a sergeant. Or he had been. The uniform was gone. The rank was gone. But the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe morning mist clung to the highlands of the Scottish border, a grey shroud that swallowed the stone keep whole, rendering the world beyond the courtyard walls into a memory of cold and damp. Sir Elias Thorne stood in the center of the great hall, his hands bound behind his back with ropes that bit into his wrists, the rough fibers grinding against the skin where it had long since lost its...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe rain strikes the shield with the rhythm of a broken clock. It is a steady, gray drumming that drowns out the wind, the crows, and the distant, lowing of cattle in the valley below. You stand at the edge of the wood, your armor heavy with moisture, your hands white-knuckled around the haft of a sword that has seen too many dawns. The blade is old, forged in a furnace that no longer burns,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe hall was a cathedral of smoke and sweat. Candles guttered in iron sconces, casting long, trembling shadows that danced against the stone walls. The air tasted of roasted boar, stale ale, and the metallic tang of old blood. This was the Feast of the Shield, a night when the Guild of the Iron Gate celebrated its survival against the border raids. Laughter erupted in jagged bursts, sharp as...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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