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The Pale FractureThe collapse was not a sound. It was a vibration that traveled up through the soles of my boots, a low-frequency hum that resonated in the marrow of my shins and settled into the base of my skull. I stood in the center of the atrium, the great glass dome above us fracturing into a spiderweb of white lines, and I felt nothing but a profound, clinical detachment. This was the end of the Meridian...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe dream is wet. It is a thick, gray slurry of mist and old rain that coats the inside of your nose, tastes of copper and rot. You are standing in the keep of a castle that does not exist, or perhaps one that never was, the stones slick with a moss that pulses like a slow, green heart. You are the Warden. You know this because you feel the weight of the iron ring on your finger, cold and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in cold, steady sheets on the grey heather of the Scottish highlands, turning the tracks into rivers of brown sludge. Thomas Ashworth walked with a limp that had worsened with every mile. His left knee, a joint of fused bone and scar tissue, screamed with a dull, rhythmic throb that matched his heartbeat. He was sixty years old, but the cold air...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded Portrait"You have no right here," the man said. His voice was soft, but it cut like a wire. I stood in the corridor of the Grand Hall. The air smelled of old varnish and rain. I was not supposed to be there. I was a prisoner of my own silence. The man was Sir Julian. He wore a suit the color of dried blood. His eyes were flat stones. "Look at you," he continued. "A ghost with a map." I did not answer....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe hall was a cavern of warm breath and clinking silver, the air thick with the scent of roasted lamb and the damp wool of a hundred coats hanging in the foyer. I stood at the edge of the long table, my fingers trembling around the stem of a glass I had not yet lifted, watching the golden light of the chandeliers pool on the polished oak floor. It was the end-of-year gala for St. Jude’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe train rattled. The window was fogged. I wiped a circle. The view was gray. The town of Blackwood was close. It sat in the valley. It looked small. It looked tired. I held my bag tight. My knuckles were white. I had been away for ten years. Ten years of silence. Ten years of running. I was coming back to the house. The house that was mine. Or so I told myself. The driver stopped. The brakes...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe water tastes like iron and old pennies, a metallic tang that coats your tongue and refuses to be swallowed, and you stand at the edge of the riverbank where the grass grows thick and black, whispering secrets to the mud. You are here to build, or rather, to repair, for the bridge of white stone that spans the chasm between the living shore and the pale, mist-shrouded isle is crumbling, its...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe bread was hard. It was a loaf of rye, dense as stone, cut into thick, uneven slabs. It sat on the table between them, sweating in the damp air of the wagon. Thomas did not look at it. He looked at the road. The road was a ribbon of mud that wound up the mountain, disappearing into the grey mist that clung to the pines like wet wool. "Cut it," said the Captain. Thomas picked up the knife....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe dream began not with sound but with the tactile sensation of ink bleeding into the grain of a mahogany desk, a slow, dark tide that swallowed the crisp white geometry of the quarterly reports and the gleaming silver of the fountain pen resting beside them. Thomas Bradshaw woke with the smell of wet iron still clinging to the back of his throat, the metallic tang of old blood or perhaps just...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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