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The Distant AffairThe dream came to me not as a vision, but as a smell. It was the scent of wet limestone and old blood, a pungency that clung to the back of my throat even as I lay in the narrow bed of my exile in Paris. I was standing in the great hall of Blackwood Manor, the estate my father had left to me, now crumbling under the weight of a century’s neglect. In the dream, the hall was not empty. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe feast was a riot of tallow smoke and roasted boar, the air so thick with grease and stale beer that breathing felt like drinking. Sir Aldric sat at the head of the long oak table, his plate untouched, his eyes fixed on the hands of his younger brother, Thomas, who was tearing a chicken leg with a violence that seemed entirely disproportionate to the meal. They were in the highlands of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Witness"Look at you." Margaret’s voice was flat. It was the voice she used for the weather, for the grocery list, for the slow, grinding erosion of her own body. She stood by the window of the bedroom. The glass was cold against her forehead. Outside, the rain in Portland was a gray sheet, blurring the streetlamps into halos of sickly yellow. "I looked at you," I said. "You looked at the mirror," she...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Campus"Is it the rot?" asked Thomas. He held the branch up. It was pale. It was dry. It crumbled under his thumb. "Look at the grain," said the Magistrate. His voice was flat. It was cold. "It is not rot. It is age. It is the way of things." Thomas did not drop the wood. He gripped it tighter. His knuckles were white. The wood splintered. A small shard cut his palm. He did not flinch. He did not...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe rain had stopped three hours ago, but the air in the corridor still hung heavy with the metallic scent of wet stone and old dust, a smell that seemed to seep into the very fibers of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s uniform, a fabric that had once been crisp white but now carried the grey, weary patina of a man who had spent too long standing guard over things that did not wish to be guarded. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe rain hits the stone. It is a cold, grey rain. It soaks into the mortar. It seeps into your bones. You are a man of the law. You are a keeper of the peace. You stand at the gate. The gate is high. The walls are higher. You do not look up. You look down. You look at the mud. You look at the boots of the men behind you. They are young. They are afraid. You are not afraid. Fear is a luxury. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe ballroom of the Ashworth Manor had not been swept in three days, a fact that hung in the air like a heavy, grey curtain. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light that pierced the high, arched windows, swirling in slow, deliberate spirals that defied the stillness of the room. Margaret stood in the center of the parquet floor, her hands clasped tightly behind her back, her knuckles white....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a relentless, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the city into a smear of wet asphalt and neon, washing the streets clean of anything solid or real until the only things left were the voices, the clatter of the subway far below, and the heavy, suffocating silence of the apartment where I sat watching my brother’s face dissolve into the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe ice did not break; it shattered. It fell in a thousand jagged teeth of blue crystal, screaming as it tore open the surface of the lake. Elias stood on the bank, his boots sinking into the wet mud of the shore. He did not move. He watched the water churn, black and churning, swallowing the fragments of the world that had been above it. The cold was a physical weight, pressing against his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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