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The Golden FarceThe hall breathed with the heat of a thousand bodies. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of roasting meat and the metallic tang of spilled wine. It was the Feast of the Iron Guild. A spectacle of steel and sweat. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the dais. He was a smith. His hands were rough. His skin was pale. He wore the grey tunic of a journeyman. It was clean. It was too clean. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe rain in the valley of Ashwood does not fall so much as it hangs, a thick, grey curtain that smells of wet stone and rotting oak, and you stand at the edge of the cliff where the world ends and the mist begins, holding the shield that has been your second skin for forty years, feeling the weight of it in your shoulders not as a burden but as a bone structure, a physical manifestation of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe coat was wool. Heavy, charcoal, and smelling faintly of lavender water and old smoke. It hung on the back of a wooden chair in the small, windowless office at the end of the corridor. Elias Thorne stood before it. He did not touch it. He watched the fabric ripple slightly in the stagnant air, a phantom limb of warmth he no longer possessed. The year was 1912, but the world outside the thick...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe feast hall smelled of roasted boar and wet wool, a thick, cloying mixture that hung heavy in the air despite the open windows, which did little to clear the smoke from the tallow candles. It was the eve of the winter solstice, a time when the old laws of the land were suspended and new ones were whispered into existence, but for Sir Kaelen of the Northern Watch, the night was defined only...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusYou wake in the mud. Rain slicks your skin. The air tastes of iron. You are small. You are cold. A jar clutched in your left hand. Glass. It holds a paste. Red. Thick. It smells of copper and rot. You do not know who you are. You do not know where you are. But you know the jar. It is yours. It is your weapon. It is your prayer. The city rises around you. Stone. Grey. Ancient. Towers pierce the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe iron barrel of the rifle was hot against my cheek. I could smell the gunpowder, a sharp, metallic tang that burned the back of my throat. Outside the window, the rain lashed against the glass in sheets, blurring the street into a gray smear. Inside, the room smelled of stale tobacco and wet wool. I held the weapon with both hands, my knuckles white. It was an old piece, a Webley revolver,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe iron gate groaned shut, a sound like a bone snapping in the dark. Wren stood in the courtyard, the cold air biting at his cheeks. He wore the grey wool of a sinner, the fabric rough against his skin, a constant reminder of the dirt he had carried for so long. The sky above the Abbey of Saint Jude was a bruised purple, heavy with the promise of rain that never came. He looked up at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe air in the Archive tasted of ozone and old paper. It was a dry, sharp flavor that coated the back of the throat. Thomas Bradshaw stood before the Glass Wall. It separated his side from the Void. The Void was not empty. It shimmered with a low, violet hum. He adjusted his spectacles. The lenses were thick, ground from a mineral that no longer existed in the natural world. He was a Custodian....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe heavy oak door of the infirmary groaned against its iron hinges, a sound that seemed to drag the very air in the corridor into a suffocating stillness, and through that gap of dark wood and ancient dust, Thomas Bradshaw saw not the monster he had spent three decades fearing, but a man who was merely, and tragically, human, which was far more terrifying than any demon could ever be. "You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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