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The Wistful MirrorThe carriage wheels bit into the wet gravel of the King’s private road, a sound like the crunching of dry bones, as Elara sat in the corner with her head bowed against the velvet seat. Rain lashed against the small leaded windows, blurring the grey landscape of the Scottish Highlands into a watercolor smear of mud and heather. She was not crying, though her eyes were wet. She was calculating....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe house was old. Older than the trees. Older than the road. It sat in the valley like a stone in a river. Water had worn it. Time had worn it. Margaret lived there. She was the caretaker. Or so she thought. She cleaned the dust. She lit the lamps. She fed the cat. The cat was black. It watched her. It never blinked. Her brother, Julian, was dead. They said so. The letter said so. The doctor...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe workshop smelled of iron shavings and stale candle wax, a scent that had seeped into the very grain of the oak walls until it was indistinguishable from the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of moonlight that pierced the high, barred window. Elias Vane sat hunched over his workbench, his fingers, once steady and precise enough to thread a needle with a silk thread in the dark, now...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaI woke with the taste of iron on my tongue. It was thick. It coated the roof of my mouth. My hands were red. Not the bright red of blood. The dark red of dried rust. I looked at them. They were stained to the wrist. I tried to wash them. The water ran black. Then brown. Then clear. I dried them on my apron. The cloth was stiff. It smelled of ash. And old paper. I am Elias Thorne. I work in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe rain fell in sheets. Gray. Cold. It soaked through my coat. I stood in the alley. The smell of wet ash. And rust. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking. Not from cold. From fear. My name is Elias. I was a cop. Once. Now I am a ghost. The city does not know me. Or it knows me as a failure. That is worse. I held the box. It was small. Wooden. Dark. Inside lay the coat. My father’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe iron clinked against the stone floor. It was a sharp, cold sound. Caelen stood in the center of the hall. His armor was dented. Dust coated his face. He looked at the King. The King looked down. The room was silent. Caelen wore the golden circlet. It sat upon his brow. It had belonged to his father. It had belonged to his grandfather. The gold was old. It was warm. It hummed against his...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe clock on the wall of the archive room ticked with a rhythm that felt less like time and more like a heartbeat slowing down. Margaret sat at her desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and ink-stained hands. The room was a cube of dust and silence, high windows letting in a pale, late afternoon light that caught the motes dancing in the air. She was fifty-eight. Her back ached when...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe bus smelled of wet wool and old diesel, a pungent, stagnant perfume that clung to the back of Oliver’s throat as he pressed his forehead against the cold, vibrating glass, watching the grey November suburbs of Ohio dissolve into a blur of bare oaks and rusted mailboxes, each one a small, silent tomb for letters that would never be read, while inside, the air conditioning hummed a low,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe train was slow. It moved through the mist. The mist was thick. It smelled of wet iron. It smelled of old paper. Elias sat by the window. He did not look out. He looked at his hands. The hands were stained. The stain was black. It was not dirt. It was ink. The ink was alive. It pulsed under his skin. It moved like a vein. It was the mark. The mark of the Scribe. He had been summoned. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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