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The Distant LegendThe wind off the moor did not howl; it whispered, a dry and rasping sound like the turning of old parchment, carrying with it the scent of wet peat and the metallic tang of approaching rain. Elara walked with her head bowed, the hem of her grey wool dress dragging through the mud, leaving a dark, wet trail that the wind quickly erased. She was carrying nothing but the weight of the silence in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineYou are standing in the rain, and the rain is not wetting you. This is the first thing you must accept. The water beads on the surface of your skin, sliding off your shoulders, dripping from your chin, but it does not soak into the fabric of your existence. You are dry. You have been dry for a long time. The street is slick with black mud and the reflection of the gas lamps, which burn with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiYou are standing in the middle of the Grand Hall. The chandelier above is broken. Glass rains down, soft as snow, around your shoulders. You do not flinch. You are holding it. The bonsai. It is pale. Dead. A white skeleton of wood in a black pot. The room is full of smoke. The air tastes of iron and old money. “Did you do it?” asks Mr. Sterling. He is your boss. He is tall. He wears a suit the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe rain hit the slate roof like gravel. Elias did not flinch. He held the wrench steady. The bolt would not turn. It had not turned in three days. He was sixty-two. His knees ached with a dull, persistent throb. The pain was a clock. It ticked in his joints. It marked the hours. It measured the distance to the end. The room was small. A single window. A workbench. The smell of oil and rust....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe mud sucked at Aldric’s boots like a hungry mouth. Rain slashed down, cold and sharp, mixing with the grime on his face. He gripped the handle of his axe. It was heavy. It was wet. It was the only thing he had left. The forest roared. Not with wind, but with a low, grinding hum that vibrated in his teeth. Trees twisted. Branches snapped like dry bone. Something moved in the dark. Something...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe iron lung hissed. It was the only sound in the world. Silas coughed. The glass bell shook. Dust motes danced in the beam of the kerosene lamp. He was dying. Everyone knew it. The city of Ashport was dying too. The sky was the color of bruised plums. The air tasted of coal and rot. He reached for the lever. His hand was a claw. The leather cuff bit into his wrist. Pain was a bright, clean...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe mirror in the attic of the Whitmore manor did not reflect the room as it was, but as the boy, Julian, had feared it would, which was to say, it reflected the room as it had been before the silence took hold, before the dust settled into a fine, gray powder that coated the lungs of the house itself, a place where time did not march forward but pooled in stagnant, silver eddies, waiting for a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe mud on your boots is black and caked thick, a testament to the three days you have spent digging through the trench line, and the air tastes of iron and wet wool. You are Thomas Ashworth, a man who once measured the worth of a life in the weight of gold bars, but now your hands are cracked and bleeding, and your mind is a chaotic storm of static. The war has stripped you of your title, your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe iron gate groaned. It was a low sound, like a dying animal. Thomas stood before it. His hands were shaking. He held a lantern. The flame was small. It trembled in the wind. He was not a soldier anymore. He had been one for twenty years. Now he was just a man in a grey coat. The coat was wet. The rain had not stopped for three days. The city of Aldenbury was silent. The streets were empty....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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