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The Faded RootThe rain does not fall here. It hangs. You are a soldier. Or you were. The distinction is a luxury you can no longer afford. The uniform is gray. It is always gray. It smells of wet wool and old iron. You are in the Hall of Echoes. There is no door. There is no window. Only the walls. They are made of stone, but the stone breathes. It expands and contracts. A slow, rhythmic pulse. Like a heart...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestThe locket hangs heavy at your throat. It is gold, cold against the skin, and it does not take. It will not rust. It will not break. It is the only thing in this wretched, damp world that remains unchanged. You sit in the corner of the scriptorium, the smell of ink and mildew thick in the air. Outside, the rain lashes the stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude. You are Thomas. You are the scribe....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe mud was thick. It sucked at our boots with a wet, heavy sound, like a dying man breathing. I walked behind Thomas. He carried the seal. It was a heavy thing. Iron. Cold. The rain did not stop. It fell in straight lines, blurring the world into gray water. We were going to the Abbey. The road was long. My back ached. I had not slept in two days. Thomas did not speak. He looked down at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorThe banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility for Juvenile Detention smelled of stale sweat and industrial pine cleaner, a scent that had long since replaced the faint, cloying aroma of the synthetic apple juice served at breakfast. Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long steel table, his uniform pressed with a rigidity that seemed to defy the humidity of the room. He was a man who...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded Photograph"You can't keep wearing it," the shopkeeper said. Her voice was thin, a wire pulled tight across the silence of the morning. "It's a flag. And people here don't like flags they don't understand." Elara stood by the window. The light was gray. It was the kind of light that made everything look like a memory of itself. She held the scarf in her hands. It was red. Not a bright red. A deep,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a cold, persistent exhalation from the bruised sky that settled into the marrow of the bones of the men who stood watch at the edge of the valley, where the ancient oak trees stood like sentinels guarding a secret that had been kept for longer than any living memory could hold. Thomas Bradshaw, whose name had been worn smooth by years of quiet service...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe iron bars were cold against your knuckles, a chill that seeped past the leather of your glove and into the bone of your hand. You stood in the center of the guardhouse, the air thick with the smell of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of fear. Outside, the rain hammered against the windowpanes, a relentless drumming that matched the pounding in your temples. You were not here...0 Comments 0 Shares 12 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale AltarYou are the Keeper of the Loom, a title that sounds less like a job description and more like a funeral rite, and you have held the silver comb for forty years. It is a small thing, wrought from a metal that does not tarnish, its teeth so fine they look like the frost on a windowpane, yet it is the only thing in the entire institution that feels heavy in your hand. The building is the St....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe rain fell in sheets of iron, blurring the boundary between the moor and the sky until both were a single, weeping gray void. Silas stood in the center of the muddy clearing, his sword raised high, the steel slick with water and the warm, coppery scent of his own blood. Across from him, Lord Halloway did not fight. He stood with his hands open, his face a mask of serene, terrifying...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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