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The Wistful SagaThe rain fell on the slate roofs of Harrowgate. It was a cold, gray water. It tasted of iron. Elias Vane sat by the window. He held a glove in his hands. It was leather. Black. It had belonged to his mother. She had worn it for forty years. The fingers were stiff. The thumb was worn thin. He turned it over. The inside was soft. It smelled of lavender and old dust. Elias was the town’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe bell rang at noon. It was a dull sound. Like a stone hitting mud. Elias stood in the center of the square. He held the ledger. The pages were stiff. They smelled of ink and old sweat. He looked at the town. The roofs were brown. The stones were gray. The light was thin. He had been here for ten years. He counted the days. He always counted. It was a habit. It was a chain. The blade was in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe hall is loud. It smells of stale beer and wet wool. You are sitting at the long table in the back. Your uniform is crisp. The silver on your rank pins catches the light. You do not touch it. You keep your hands flat on the wood. Your father sits opposite you. He is drinking. He is laughing. He is not looking at you. The party is for your promotion. Captain now. The men clap. They shake your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden Greenhouse"Put it down." I did not. "Put. It. Down." My hand was shaking. The brass was warm. It hummed against my palm, a low, steady vibration that traveled up my wrist and settled in my elbow. It was the only thing that was still. The room was not still. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and wet wool. "Commander, I need you to understand," I said. My voice sounded thin. "This isn't a weapon....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the lower courtyard into a slick, grey mirror that reflected the towering, indifferent stone of the Keep. Silas Vance stood by the window, his fingers tracing the condensation on the cold glass, watching the water bead and run in erratic, weeping lines. He was a man who had spent twenty years in the shadow of a crime he did...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe air in the Hall of Tides was thick, wet, and tasted of copper. Elias Vance stood alone in the center of the vast, circular room. The walls were not stone but a living membrane, pulsing with a slow, rhythmic blue light. It was a prison, but one made of memory and mist. He wore his uniform, the dark grey wool heavy with sweat, the brass buttons cold against his chest. He was a constable of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe ink was still wet on the ledger when the first shadow detached itself from the corner of the room. Elias Thorne did not look up. His hands, thick-knuckled and stained with the indigo of his trade, moved with the mechanical precision of a man who had long ago ceased to distinguish between labor and prayer. He was a binder of books, a shaper of spines, a merchant of paper and glue in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe road was not a road. It was a vein of white stone pulsing under the heavy, grey sky. You walked. Your boots were wet. The mud sucked at your heels, reluctant to let go. Behind you, the gates of the Iron Citadel had closed. They clanged like a coffin lid. You did not look back. You could not. You are a prisoner. Not of the body, though the chains are heavy on your wrists. You are a prisoner...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe feast had begun with the sound of grinding bones, a rhythmic, wet percussion that echoed off the vaulted stone ceiling of the Hall of Whispers. Sir Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long oak table, his plate untouched, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of a sword that felt heavy with a weight that was not steel. The air in the hall was thick, not with the smell of roasting...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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