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The Faded FrontierYou wake with the taste of copper and rotting apples in your mouth, a flavor that has become as familiar to you as the grain of the wooden floorboards in your kitchen. The dream was brief, a flicker of smoke before the hearth fire dies, but the residue lingers, thick and heavy in your throat. You are Thomas Bradshaw, and you are thirty years old, and you live in the small, soot-stained town of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CompassThe old woman did not look up when Margaret entered the chamber, her eyes fixed instead on the intricate, gnarled knot of her own left hand, a limb that seemed to have grown less like flesh and more like the twisted roots of a winter elm. Margaret, the Lady of the House, stood in the doorway of the high tower, where the wind whistled through the stone slits with a voice that sounded...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe feast was loud. It was a roar of silver and glass, a cacophony of laughter that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of your bones. You sat at the head of the table, a long expanse of white linen that stretched into the dark, misty distance. The air smelled of roasted pheasant and old, damp wool. Around you, the faces were blurred, shifting, like smoke caught in a draft. You could not remember...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe rain does not fall so much as it settles, a heavy, grey silt that coats the cobblestones of the old quarter and seeps into the porous bones of the city, a city that has forgotten how to breathe and now only heaves, a great stone lung struggling against the weight of its own history. You are here, in this place where the fog clings to the eaves like a widow’s veil, and you are not entirely...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe iron gate of the Citadel stood open, a jagged mouth breathing cold mist into the dawn. Elias Thorne stood before it, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in ten years. He was not a warrior in the way the bards sang. He was a keeper of the threshold. A sentinel of the edge. For three centuries, the gate had held the world at bay. Not against armies. Against the...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe clock is broken. It has been broken for three days. Or perhaps it was always broken. You no longer care. You sit in the dark of the workshop. The air smells of oil and old wood. The rain taps against the window. It is a soft, persistent drumming. You listen to it. The door opens. A cold wind rushes in. It smells of wet earth and iron. You do not look up. You know who it is. You have known...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe bell in the tower of St. Jude’s did not ring to mark the hour. It screamed. It was a sound that tore the sky open, a jagged rib of noise that cut through the fog of the industrial valley. We were standing on the scaffolding, three of us, our boots slick with soot and rain. Below us, the city of Oakhaven sprawled like a rotting carcass, black smoke curling from ten thousand chimneys. The air...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe gate slammed shut with a finality that rattled the windowpanes, a sharp crack that echoed in the hollow space of Gerald’s chest. He stood on the other side, the iron bars cold against his knuckles, the air biting at his face. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday; the days had begun to bleed into one another, indistinguishable except for the rhythmic, metallic clatter of the cell blocks...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe iron gate of the Blackwood Keep did not creak. It never did. The hinges were oiled by hands that had long since turned to dust, or perhaps the silence was simply so thick it swallowed sound before it could form. Elias Thorne stood before it, his breath pluming in the cold October air, and watched the mist. It was a grey, churning thing, a sea of vapor that rose from the valley floor and...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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