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The Wistful CrossroadsThe gate of the Citadel of Ashworth opened with a groan that sounded like a dying beast, its iron hinges screaming against the rusted stone, a sound you have come to know as the voice of your own confinement. You step out onto the cobblestones of the lower city, the air thick with the scent of coal smoke and damp wool, a sensory assault that feels less like freedom and more like a physical blow...0 Comments 0 Shares 30 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe feast is over. The hall is cold. You stand in the center of the room. Your boots are caked in mud. The torches sputter. The light is dying. You look at your hands. They are red. Not with blood. With wine. Or perhaps it is both. You cannot tell. The wine has stained the fabric of your tunic. It has soaked into the skin. It is warm. It feels like life. But it is drying. It is turning black....0 Comments 0 Shares 34 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographThe rain fell in sheets. It hammered the leather of my cap. It slicked the mud into a grey paste. I pulled the reins tight. The horse shied. I kicked the flank. We moved. My hands were numb. The cold bit deep. I could not feel my fingers. I only knew the weight of the saddle. I knew the ache in my back. I was a tanner. I had been a tanner for forty years. I knew hide. I knew skin. I knew how to...0 Comments 0 Shares 36 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceYou dream of the gold. Not the yellow of sunlight, but the heavy, dull gleam of coin. It fills your mouth. It chokes you. You wake gasping in the narrow bed of the attic room, the air thick with the smell of wet wool and old dust. Your mother is there. She sits on the edge of the mattress, her hands folded in her lap. She looks at you with eyes that have seen too much and kept too little....0 Comments 0 Shares 35 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe ink is dry. The paper smells of wet stone and iron. I write this by the light of a single tallow stub, the wax sputtering as if it, too, is dying. My hand shakes. Not from cold, though the air in the Keep is thin and sharp. It shakes from the weight of what I have done, and what I have lost. You will read this, Master Aldric. You will expect a report. You will expect the name of the thief....0 Comments 0 Shares 36 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe air inside the mill did not merely smell of wet wool and machine oil; it tasted of copper, a sharp metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled in the lungs like fine, grey silt, a particulate matter that the overseer, a man named Mr. Thorne with eyes as flat and unyielding as river stones, claimed was the very essence of productivity, the invisible tax one paid to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 31 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe bell rang. It was a dull sound, like a stone hitting mud. Elias stood by the door. He held a box. The box was small. It was made of dark wood. The wood was smooth. He had sanded it for three days. His hands were raw. They were red and cracked. He did not care. He looked at the clerk. The clerk looked at the floor. Elias was a carver. He carved wood. He carved small things. Keys. Handles....0 Comments 0 Shares 33 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe rain did not fall. It hovered. A gray, suspended mist clung to the eaves of the asylum, dampening the stone into a slick, breathing skin. I pressed my hand against the window. Cold bit through my glove. Inside, the ward was silent. Too silent. The air tasted of rotting lilies and antiseptic, a sharp, medicinal tang that coated the back of my throat. I was looking for a recipe. Or so I told...0 Comments 0 Shares 33 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe rain in Oakhaven does not wash the streets clean, it just makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflect the soot from the foundry chimneys, and I stood in the doorway of the general store holding my notebook, the leather cover worn smooth as a river stone by the friction of my thumb, watching the water bead on the windowpane and distort the face of the man...0 Comments 0 Shares 24 Views 0 Reviews
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