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The Pale DanceThe iron in my hand was hot, not with heat but with a terrible, singing vibration that traveled up through my knuckles and into the marrow of my forearm, a physical ache that felt less like pain and more like the stretching of a muscle that had been held too long in a position of perfect, rigid stillness. I stood in the center of the village square, the cobblestones slick with the morning rain...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe building stood in the grey mist of the industrial park, a monolith of concrete and glass that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Elias Thorne had been sleeping for three days, or so it felt, dreaming of gold. It was a heavy, suffocating gold, not the bright, clean gold of coins or jewelry, but the dull, tarnished yellow of old pipes and stagnant water. In the dream, he was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe rain in London did not fall so much as it seeped, a gray, persistent dampness that settled into the bones and the brickwork of the city alike. In the basement office of the Department of Internal Affairs, where the air tasted of stale tobacco and damp wool, Arthur Pendelton sat before a desk that was less a workspace and more an altar to order. He was a man of middling height and middling...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe bell did not ring; it screamed, a jagged tear in the fabric of the dawn that shattered the silence of the city like a blacksmith’s hammer striking cold iron, and in that single, shattering instant, the world I had known dissolved into a haze of panic and dust as the great stone gates of the Citadel groaned open to admit the silence of the accusation. I stood there, frozen in the mud of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe iron gate did not creak, it screamed, a high-pitched shriek of oxidized metal grinding against stone that cut through the heavy, stagnant air of the lower barracks like a blade through silk. Commander Elias Thorne stood on the precipice of the threshold, his fingers white-knuckled around the cold, pitted iron of the gate, his knuckles throbbing with a rhythm that matched the frantic,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe fire took the tower first. You watched it. You stood in the yard, mud sucking at your boots, and watched the oak heart of the keep burst into orange light. The smoke was thick. It tasted of pine and old ash. It tasted like the end of the world. "Run, Thomas," the boy whispered. You did not run. You stood still. The wind pulled at your cloak, wet and heavy. The torch in your hand was dead....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe rust on the iron railings of the observation tower had eaten so deeply into the metal that the paint, once a sharp, institutional green, now flaked away in brittle, curling sheets that smelled of dried blood and wet earth, and I stood there with my hands wrapped around the cold, jagged edges of the fence, feeling the vibration of the wind through the lattice, a low, humming drone that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe table groaned under the weight of roasted boar. We drank. The wine was dark. It stained the lips. It tasted of iron. And earth. I smiled. I laughed. I was twelve. I was strong. Or so I thought. The air was thick. Smoked. Sweet. Rotten. A feast for kings. Or ghosts. We sat in the round hall. Stone walls. Cold. But the fire burned. High. Bright. It danced in the eyes. Of the men. And women....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe silence in the archive was not empty; it was pressurized. It sat in the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a swallowed stone. He adjusted his spectacles, the lenses fogging slightly with the damp chill that permeated the sub-basement of the old university library. Around him, shelves of leather-bound ledgers stretched into the gloom, their spines cracked by decades of humidity and neglect....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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