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The Wistful AsylumThe rain against the windowpane sounded like a slow, rhythmic tapping, a knuckle rapping on the door of a house that had forgotten to lock it. I stood by the fire, watching the embers die, feeling the heat of the room seep into my bones, a warmth that felt stolen, illicit. My father sat in the wingback chair, his face turned away from me, his hands resting on his knees with the heavy,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersThe brass bell above the door of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Chronically Infirm did not ring when Elias Thorne entered; it had been silent for three years, its clapper wrapped in a damp cloth to dampen the chime that seemed to agitate the residents in the east wing, and instead the door gave a heavy, wooden groan, a sound that felt less like a welcome and more like a joint popping open in...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe sky over the valley of the River Arne was not grey but the color of bruised iron, a heavy, suffocating slate that pressed down upon the rolling hills with a weight that seemed to crush the very breath out of the air, and I stood there, my boots sinking into the wet, sucking mud of the path that wound precariously along the cliff edge, watching the last of the wild thistles, those proud and...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe iron bell of St. Jude’s Orphanage rang out at dusk, a sound so sharp it felt like a physical blow against the chest. Ten-year-old Thomas Bradshaw was not in the dormitory. He was in the cellar, in the dark, holding the only thing in the world that still felt warm. It was a small, clay vessel, no bigger than a grapefruit, glazed in a chipped, faded blue. It was his mother’s. She had died...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe ink on the ledger pages was still wet when I first noticed the smell of ozone and burning hair that clung to the wool of my coat, a scent that seemed to have seeped into the very fibers of my being during the long, rattling journey from the front lines to the rear echelons of the administrative offices in the damp, industrial town of Blackwood. I had spent the last three weeks in a trench...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe wall wept. Not with rain. Not with condensation. It bled a slow, viscous amber. The substance oozed from the mortar joints of the Great Hall’s eastern face. It smelled of burnt sugar and old blood. Major Elias Thorne stood before it. He was still in his dress uniform. The brass buttons caught the dying light. His hands were stiff. His left hand shook. A tremor that had no name. The medical...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe hammer struck the anvil with a rhythm that had become indistinguishable from the beating of his own heart, a dull, rhythmic thud that vibrated through the sole of Thomas Bradshaw’s boot and up into the marrow of his shin. The forge was a small, rectangular box of brick and soot, sealed against the howling winter wind that battered the outside world, a world that had turned its back on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe soup was warm. That was the first thing Elias noticed. Not the smell, not the color, but the heat. It seeped into his palms, into the calluses that had built up over forty years of swinging a mace. The bowl was ceramic, thick and white, chipped at the rim. It sat on a table of polished oak in a room that did not exist in the maps of the city above. Elias looked at the liquid. It was a pale,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorYou drive the sedan down the wet asphalt, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the rain. The city blurs outside the window, a smear of neon and grey. You are going to the house. You have to. The envelope is in your jacket pocket, heavy with the weight of a secret you kept for ten years. Your hands are steady. They are always steady. You are a man of precision. A man of law. Or you were....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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