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The Wistful SagaThe banquet hall of the Ironclad Hotel, a sprawling Victorian relic of mahogany and brass that dominated the center of Ashworth, smelled of roasted pheasant, stale cigar smoke, and the underlying, metallic tang of old money. It was a night of excess, a celebration for the Mayor, a man whose face was as round and unyielding as a river stone, and his wife, a woman who wore diamonds like armor....0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale Altar"You will not leave until the Tithe is paid," the Warden said, his voice not loud but carrying a weight that seemed to press the air out of the chapel. It was a dry, papery sound, like the rustle of old vellum, and it came from behind the heavy oak desk where he sat, his hands folded over a ledger that smelled of ink and mildew. I stood in the nave, my boots caked with the red clay of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe feast was a riot of tallow and blood. They crowded the hall. Torches sputtered. The air was thick. It smelled of wet wool. It smelled of iron. It smelled of fear. Elara stood in the corner. Her back was against the stone. The stone was cold. It bit into her spine. She did not move. She watched them eat. They tore at the meat. Jaws worked. Eyes were low. They did not look at her. They never...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe rain did not fall so much as it was forced into the earth, a gray, relentless sleet that turned the heath into a churning sea of mud and blackthorn. Sir Aldous Vane held his position at the crest of the ridge, his breath coming in ragged, white plumes that vanished almost before they formed. He was not a man given to poetry, nor to the softness of thought, but in this moment, the weight of...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe ink did not merely stain the parchment; it seeped into the grain of the oak, turning the white surface a bruised and living violet, as if the words themselves were bleeding from the page into the bone of the desk. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair, his fingers trembling not from the cold that crept through the stone walls of the University of St. Jude’s, but from the sudden, violent...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe hall is full of light. It is white. It is cold. You stand at the center. The stone floor is smooth. It is wet. It smells of rain. It smells of iron. The walls are high. They have no windows. The ceiling is lost in mist. You are not alone. There are others. They sit in rows. They wear gray robes. They have no faces. You know them. You know their weight. They are the Judges. They are the...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale VerdictHe woke in the dream. It was always the same. The sky was the color of old bruised plums. The ground was hard. He stood on a ridge. Below, the valley lay white. Not snow. Mist. It hid the world. It swallowed the trees. It took the roads. He held his sword. It was heavy. Cold. The metal bit into his palm. He waited. He did not know for what. He waited for the enemy. Or for the end. The dream...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe box was heavy. It smelled of dust and old varnish. I set it on the desk. The wood grain was dark. Oak, I think. It had been my father’s. He kept it in the attic. I found it after the funeral. The department was quiet. The rain tapped on the glass. I am a historian. I study the past. Specifically, I study the archives of the University of St. Jude’s. It is a dry work. It requires patience....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe carriage wheels rattled over the cobblestones of the old capital, a rhythmic clatter that seemed to count down the remaining minutes of Thomas Bradshaw’s life, or perhaps merely the remaining hours of his professional reputation. He sat rigid in the back, his coat buttoned to the throat despite the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun filtering through the dust motes dancing in the air. In his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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