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The Distant LegendYou dream of the ink. It is not black, nor is it blue, though it looks like both when the light hits the paper at the wrong angle. It is the color of a bruise that has gone old, a deep, mottled purple that seems to breathe against the grain of the wood. You are sitting at the table in the back of the library, the one with the cracked varnish that your grandfather used to call the "map of our...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesYou dream of copper. Not the metal itself, but the color. A deep, bruised orange that stains the air. It is the color of the city you have built. You are the architect of it. You are the merchant of its breath. You count the coins. They are heavy. They are cold. They taste of iron. You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are not Thomas Bradshaw. You are the machine. The machine is hungry. The machine does...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe water was black. It was not the black of night, nor the black of deep sea, but the black of ink. It sat in the basin in the center of the square, still and terrible. "Is it true?" asked the elder. His voice was dry, like leaves scraping against stone. "True enough," said Elias. Elias stood at the edge of the basin. He was a man of few words and many scars. The scars were old. They had faded...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the lower quarter into a slick, treacherous mirror that reflected the grimy soot of the chimneys and the pale, sickly glow of the gas lamps. I walked with my head down, my hands tucked deep into the pockets of my coat, feeling the dampness seep through the wool and chill the bones of my fingers. The city was a beast that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe iron gate held. It was the only thing in the keep that had not rusted, not sagged, not succumbed to the creeping rot of the old world. I stood before it, hand on the cold latch. My fingers were numb. The air smelled of wet stone and old blood. I am a Warden. I have worn the grey cloak for forty years. I know the weight of the chain. I know the taste of the oath. But today, the oath feels...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe sword was still wet. The blood had not yet dried. It was dark and thick on the steel, a viscous ribbon that caught the pale moonlight filtering through the broken shutters. Sir Elias Vane stood in the center of the great hall of Oakhaven. His breath came in shallow, ragged pulls. The air smelled of iron and old stone. It smelled of death. He looked down at the blade. The weight of it was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended curtain of gray static that turned the world outside the observation window into a blurred watercolor. Inside the steel-walled room of the subterranean detention facility, the air smelled of ozone and old iron. Elias Thorne sat on a steel chair, his hands cuffed not to his wrists, but to the armrests by a mechanism that hummed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe chalice did not break when the ceiling collapsed; it shattered when Thomas realized that the gold was not metal, but a living thing that had been waiting for him to die so it could finally breathe. It had been raining for three days, a cold, persistent sleet that turned the cobblestones of the village square into slick, dark mirrors reflecting the grey, bruised sky above, and Thomas...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe iron bridge snapped like a dry twig beneath the weight of the storm, and the river, swollen and black, swallowed the sound of my screaming before it could reach the shore. I had been walking toward the house where Elara waited, carrying nothing but a tin of salt and a letter I had written and unwritten a hundred times in the rain. The year was 1893, and the fog that rolled off the Thames...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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