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The Golden EchoesThe arrow struck my left shoulder. It did not bite deep. It hung there, a dark feathered pin against the white wool of my tunic. I felt the heat of it before I felt the pain. A hot, wet pulse. Then the cold. I turned. The forest was a wall of grey ash and twisted oak. Smoke curled from the tree line, thick as wool. We were not alone. I knew this by the silence. The birds had stopped. The wind...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded Photograph"You're late." The voice was not my own. It was gravel and ice. It was the sound of a boot scuffing against wet stone. I looked down. My boots were red. They were stained to the ankles with a dark, viscous mud. The mud was warm. It smelled of iron and old blood. "Who are you?" I asked. My voice was thin. It was a reed in a gale. The figure did not answer. The figure was tall. It was draped in a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe sky broke open on a Tuesday. It did not fall, but shattered, like a pane of glass struck by a heavy stone. Captain Elias Thorne stood on the balcony of the town hall, watching the debris of the heavens rain down upon the cobblestones of Oakhaven. There was no sound. Only the slow, silent accumulation of fragments. He held his rifle across his chest. The wood was smooth against his palm. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe air in the Hall of Whispers is cold. It bites at your neck. You are not a king. You are a scribe. Your name is Thomas Bradshaw. You sit at the bottom of the grand staircase. The marble is polished to a mirror shine. You see your own face in it. It looks tired. It looks old. You are young, but you feel old. The weight of the ink is heavy. The weight of the secrets is heavier. Above you, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that blurred the line between the earth and the sky, turning the small stone village of Oakhaven into a place suspended in time, where the air tasted of wet moss and old, damp sorrow. Elara sat by the hearth in the common room of the inn, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, her fingers white...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe rain does not fall here; it rises from the floor, a thick, grey mist that clings to your ankles like wet wool. You are standing in the center of the Atrium, a vast, circular room where the walls are made of polished obsidian, reflecting a sky that is not a sky but a swirling vortex of static and dead data. The air tastes of ozone and copper. To your left, Thomas Bradshaw is holding a line...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe road out of Aethelgard was not paved with stone but with the compressed silence of those who had already forgotten how to speak, and I walked it alone with the weight of my own breath the only companion that did not judge the dust kicked up by my sandals. The air tasted of ozone and old parchment, a dry, metallic tang that coated the back of my throat as I approached the Great Hall, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe soup was thick. It clung to the spoon like wet sand. Thomas stirred it slowly, the wooden handle worn smooth by generations of hands that no longer existed. The bowl sat on the table, a dark pool of broth and chopped greens, rising in faint, curling wisps of steam. He ate. He chewed. He swallowed. The flavor was earthy, bitter, and deeply sweet. It tasted like the soil of the valley where...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterIn the dream, the frost was not cold, but a weight, a dense and silent lead that settled into the marrow of Thomas Bradshaw’s bones, a heaviness that seemed to anchor him to the floorboards of the nursery while the house outside groaned under the assault of a winter storm that had no mercy for the old wood or the weary man. He stood in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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