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The Distant BladeThe air in the foundry tasted of iron and sweat. It hung heavy, a physical weight against the lungs. Thomas Whitmore wiped his brow. The cloth was dark. It was always dark. He stood before the casting basin. The molten metal glowed. It was the color of a dying sun. Orange. Red. A pulse in the dark. He held the ladle. His arms burned. The weight was absolute. It was not a burden. It was a truth....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe air in the Pneumatic Exchange smelled of ozone and wet wool. It was a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of my throat, a taste I had grown to accept as the baseline of existence. We were not in a city, strictly speaking. We were in a Lung. A vast, industrial cathedral of iron ribs and glass lungs, suspended in a perpetual twilight where the sun was a distant, filtered rumor. My name...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleYou wake in the dark. The cold is a living thing. It presses against your skin like a hand. You are not in a bed. You are on the ground. The dirt is wet. It smells of rot and iron. You try to move. Your legs do not answer. They are heavy. They are gone. You remember the name. Margaret. She is your wife. She is the only real thing in this fog. You think of her face. The way she looked at you in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe coat was heavy, not with weight but with memory, and it had been hanging on the back of the chair for three days now, waiting for someone who would never come back to claim it. Elias stood in the doorway of the small, rented room in the coastal town of Brant, his hand resting on the iron door handle, his knuckles white. The air inside smelled of damp wool and old tobacco, a scent that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe bus door hissed shut behind Leo. He was eight years old. He held a tin can. The can was dented. It was painted blue. Once it had been red. Now the metal showed through in long, rusted scars. It was his only possession. His father had given it to him at the curb. Here, son. Leo had not looked up. He had stared at the mud on his boots. Keep it out of the rain. The door closed. The engine...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe bell tolled at four. It tolled in the dream. It tolled in the waking. The sound was not sound. It was a physical weight. A leaden disc. It pressed against the eardrum. It bruised the mind. Walter woke. He did not stretch. He did not yawn. He sat up. The bed was cold. The sheets were damp. They smelled of sweat. They smelled of iron. He was in the tower. The old tower. The one by the river....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe rain did not fall so much as it was pressed down by the weight of the city, a continuous, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and merged the cobblestones with the sky. Thomas Vane stood in the center of the intersection, his coat soaked through to the skin, watching the droplets hit the wet asphalt and shatter into tiny, fleeting stars that vanished before they could reach his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe rain did not fall; it hammered. It beat against the hooded cloak of Silas Vane like a thousand small fists demanding entry. He was not a man who feared the cold, though his fingers were purple and stiff, locked around the hilt of a sword that had seen better centuries. The air smelled of wet ash and rotting pine. It was the smell of a world ending, or perhaps one that had already ended and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe cup is white. It is clean. It is full. "Drink," says the Warden. His voice is low. It is kind. It is the voice of a father. It is the voice of a judge. I look at him. I do not move. "Drink, Thomas." The cup is in my hand. It is heavy. It is warm. The liquid inside is black. It is not water. It is not tea. It smells of iron. It smells of old blood. It smells of the earth where we bury the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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