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The Wistful PetalThe rain had been falling for three days, a cold, relentless sheet that turned the muddy tracks of the valley into a slick, treacherous quagmire where the horses struggled and the cart wheels sank deep into the earth. I sat in the back, my back against the rough wood, watching the grey sky press down until it touched the tops of the oaks, and I thought about how my hands were always cold,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe rain did not fall. It hung. Eleanor stood at the edge of the moor. The mist clung to her wool. It was wet. It was cold. It was her shawl. It had been her mother’s. Then her grandmother’s. The wool was dark. It was heavy. It was stained with old sweat. It was stained with old grief. She pulled it tighter. The knots in her chest tightened too. The war was close. You could smell the smoke. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceYou stand before the door. It is oak. It is old. The wood is black. It weeps sap. You hold the key. It is cold. It is iron. You do not knock. You turn. Inside, the air is thick. It tastes of dust. It tastes of blood. It tastes of old stone. You are in the Hall of Whispers. You are in the Hall of Memory. You are in the Hall of Loss. You see him. He sits in the chair. He is Thomas. He is your...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe bell did not ring to mark the hour; it shattered. The great bronze tongue of the sanctuary, suspended in the dark throat of the cathedral’s north tower, cracked with a sound like a bone breaking inside a living body, and the vibration traveled down through the stone, through the mortar, through the soles of the shoes of the few who remained, settling in the marrow as a deep, resonant dread....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ChronicleThe banquet hall of the Directorate did not smell of food, but of ozone and old paper, a sterile scent that clung to the back of the throat like a cough. Captain Elias Thorne sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his uniform pressed to a mirror shine, the brass buttons catching the flickering light of the chandeliers. Around him, the senior officers of the Border Control Division laughed,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the Scottish highlands into a soup of mud and heather, blurring the line between the sky and the earth until they became a single, oppressive entity. Sergeant Major Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the clearing, his boots sinking into the saturated peat, watching the smoke rise from the bonfire that had once been...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe banquet hall of King Aethelgard’s castle was a cavern of gold and sweat, a place where the air hung so thick with the scent of roasted swan and spiced wine that it felt less like an atmosphere and more like a physical weight pressing against the inside of your skull. You stood at the edge of the dais, your hands buried deep in the folds of your merchant’s cloak, watching the King’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe rain had turned the cobblestones of the narrow lane behind the University of Edinburgh into a slick, reflective mirror, and Julian Vane was running, his breath coming in ragged, white bursts that vanished almost instantly into the damp, heavy air, while the sound of his own heartbeat seemed to drown out the distant rumble of traffic from the main road and the sharper, more insistent clatter...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe mud was thick and tasted of iron and old rain as Marcus Thorne drove his shoulder against the chest of the man who wore the grey uniform, the fabric tearing with a sound like a dry leaf crumbling underfoot, and the world around them dissolved into a swirling vortex of sleet and shadow where the line between the enemy and the ally had long since blurred into a meaningless smear of red and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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