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The Faded AtticThe morning fog clung to the iron spires of the Ironworks, a thick, grey wool that muffled the rhythm of the pistons and the shriek of the steam whistles. Elias Thorne stood at the window of his quarters, a small, stifling room on the fourth floor of the Administration Tower, watching the mist swallow the town below. He was a man carved from the same hard, cold steel as the machinery outside,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain did not fall so much as it settled, a grey, heavy silence that pressed against the windowpanes of your tower room. You sat in the dark, the only light coming from the dying embers of the hearth, watching the ash drift like the bones of old men. Your sword, a heavy thing of folded steel and ancient grievance, lay across your lap. It was not a weapon of war, you knew that now. It was a...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe morning mist clung to the cobblestones of the old town, a thick, grey shroud that smelled of damp wool and extinguished fires. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the corner of the tavern, his hands wrapped around a mug of ale that had long since gone cold. He was a man built for the garrison, broad-shouldered and silent, with a face that seemed carved from the same stone as the castle walls overlooking...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe building stood at the end of the long, sloping street in the district known colloquially as the Hollow, a place where the brickwork wept with damp and the shadows lengthened prematurely as if the sun itself were afraid to commit to the evening, and I stood before its heavy, iron-banded oak door with my coat unbuttoned and my breath coming in short, sharp gasps that misted in the cold...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe letter arrived in a damp envelope, sealed with wax the color of dried blood. It was dated three days prior, though the ink had not yet dried on the paper. It smelled of ozone and rotting copper. Elias Thorne held it in his left hand, the fingers of his right trembling against the cold iron of the workbench. He was a clockmaker of modest renown in the industrial sprawl of Pittsburgh, a man...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe train moved. It moved through the dark. The lights were low. They hummed. A low, constant drone. It filled the space. It pressed against the glass. Elias sat. He held his ticket. It was a small card. White paper. Black ink. The route was printed there. North to South. The distance was long. The time was short. He did not look at the clock. He looked at his hands. They were steady. They were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythYou held the cup up to the light again, turning it slowly in your thick, stained fingers, listening to the silence that had settled over the Guildhall like a heavy, suffocating blanket that no wind could ever lift, and I watched the way the fractured glaze caught the dusty beams of the afternoon sun, seeing in that broken curvature a reflection of my own face, distorted and hollowed out by...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe ink dried black and sharp on the parchment. It was a color that did not belong to the world. I stared at the word *Eternity*. The letters stood rigid, like iron bars. The candle flame guttered in the draft. The shadows in the stone tower stretched long and thin. They reached for my hands. They wanted to bind me. I had written it. I had committed the act. The seal of wax pressed into the...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe cart wheels grind against the packed earth of the village lane, a sound like bone scraping stone. You feel the vibration travel up through the wooden seat, into your spine, and settle in the hollow of your chest. The air is thick with the smell of wet wool and woodsmoke, a scent that has defined your life since you left the lowlands. You are carrying the last of the harvest, sacks of grain...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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