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The Distant TempleThe rain fell on the capital like a grey shroud, slicking the cobblestones of the Old Quarter where the Ministry of Internal Stability kept its watchful eye. Elias Thorne walked with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a man who had spent thirty years measuring his steps against the rigid lines of order. He was a senior inspector, a man carved from the same stone as the buildings around him, his face a...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain in the City of Glass did not fall; it hovered, a suspended mist of silver droplets that caught the light from the floating spires and refracted it into a thousand cold, sharp colors. Elias Thorne stood on the edge of the Ninth Tier, his fingers wrapped tightly around a small, jagged shard of obsidian. It was a fragment of the Mirror, the great central pane that had shattered three days...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe rain on the thatched roof of the manor house was not water, but a sound like tearing silk, a continuous, high-pitched shriek that had begun three days ago and refused to cease. You sat at the head of the long oak table, your hands folded in your lap, the wood grain worn smooth by centuries of other hands, other prayers, other quiet despairs. You were the Seer of Blackwood Hall, a title that...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe dream did not wake me so much as it refused to release me, a heavy, velvet blanket of stone dust and old blood settling over my consciousness before the sun had even thought to break the horizon. I was standing in the center of the Great Hall of Blackwood Keep, but the air was not cold; it was thick, humid, and smelled faintly of lilies and iron, a scent that belongs to no era of the living...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale Letter"You have failed." The voice is not a voice. It is the sound of stone grinding against stone in the deep dark. You are the Warden of the Sealed Vault. You have served for forty years. Your bones ache with the cold that seeps from the floor. The air is thick with dust and the smell of old ink. "Explain yourself," the voice says. "Who am I to explain to the Void?" you ask. Your voice cracks. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe bus did not stop at the station, but rather dissolved into the fog as if the vehicle itself had been made of something less solid than rubber and steel, a phenomenon that the passengers, most of whom were elderly and wore coats that smelled of damp wool and old tobacco, accepted with a weary, unspoken resignation, for in the valley of Kestrel, the physics of arrival were always negotiable,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorThe dream began with the taste of copper and yeast. It was a heavy, metallic sweetness that coated the tongue, thick as mud. Silas woke with his jaw clenched, the phantom flavor still lingering. He sat up in the narrow cot. The air in the cellar was still. It always was. The walls, damp with century-old sweat, held the temperature constant. A world without wind. A world without time. He dressed...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe seal broke at dawn. I held it in my palm. It was cold. It was gold. It was dead. The room shook. Dust fell from the beams. The chandelier swung. A crack ran down the white plaster. I did not move. I was a soldier. I stood still. The seal was a small disc. It bore the face of the King. But the eyes were empty. The mouth was a slit. It had been given to me by the High Chancellor. He had...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalYou stand at the edge of the precipice, where the air tastes of iron and old rain, and you feel the weight of your scholar’s mind pressing against the walls of your skull like water against a dam that is slowly, inexorably cracking. It is a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, for the days here in the Hollow have lost their rigid, secular sequence, stretching and compressing like taffy pulled by...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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