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The Distant GardenThe thorned vine is green. It coils around your wrist. The thorns are sharp. They bite deep. Blood wells. Red. Hot. You do not pull away. You hold it. The vine is a living thing. It pulses. It breathes. You are in the room. The room is stone. The walls are cold. The air is thick. It tastes of dust. And iron. You are the Warden. You have the badge. It is heavy. It sits on your chest. It weighs...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe mud was black. It sucked at my boots with a wet, greedy mouth. I stood in the center of the square, rain lashing my face, my rifle held loose but ready. The village of Oakhaven lay broken around me. Half the roofs were gone. The air smelled of wet ash and fear. I was the new warden. I had come to bring order. I had come to stop the bleeding. I had been here three days. In that time, I had...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe ink was wet. It bled into the parchment like a bruise. I held the quill. My hand shook. Not from fear. From cold. The air in the crypt was thick. Stagnant. It tasted of iron and old dust. I was only a scribe. A clerk of the dead. My name was Thomas. I served the Order. I did not question. I copied. But this text was different. The letters moved. They slithered across the page. Like worms....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe rain fell on the cobblestones of the old quarter, turning the grey light to a dull, wet sheen. Elias stood at the threshold of the tavern, his hand resting on the iron bar. He did not look back. He carried a leather satchel, heavy with a single, folded letter. The paper was thick, cream-colored, and brittle with age. It was the only thing he had left. Inside, the air was thick with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe fever broke at dawn, though the air in the cloister remained thick with the scent of boiled hemlock and stale incense. Julian sat on the edge of his narrow cot, his limbs feeling less like flesh and more like wire, taut and humming with a terrible, electric potential. He was a scholar of the natural order, a man who had spent three decades cataloging the rigid laws of decay and growth, yet...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe door did not creak. It shuddered. Elias stood in the vestibule of the Abbey of St. Jude, his breath visible in the cold stone air. The air tasted of damp moss and old iron. He looked up. The vaulted ceiling was a dark sea, riddled with holes where the light had rotted out years ago. "Is he here?" the warden asked. His voice was dry. Like leaves scraping against gravel. Elias did not turn....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe ice breaks. Not shatters. Not cracks. It breaks. You hear it from the other side of the dream. A dull, wet crunch. Like a bone snapping in a thick coat. You are standing in a field of white. The sky is gray. The air is thin. You are holding a rifle. The stock is cold against your cheek. You do not remember loading it. You do not remember why you are here. You wake up. The ceiling is...0 Comments 0 Shares 26 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe ink was black. It was not just dark; it was a void. It swallowed the light. It swallowed the air. Miles sat in the corner of the stone cell. The walls were damp. They wept cold water. The floor was stone. It hurt his knees. He did not care. He held the sheet of parchment in his hands. The paper was rough. It smelled of old oak and fear. He was a man of few words. He was a man of sharp eyes....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe rain did not fall so much as it was extracted from the sky by the sheer, grinding weight of the city’s indifference, a grey, viscous drizzle that seeped into the marrow of the bones of those who walked the cobblestones of Old Market Square without the privilege of a carriage or a coat lined with fox fur. Elias Thorne stood beneath the eaves of the apothecary, his fingers, stained...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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