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The Pale MistThe sky did not break open so much as it peeled away, the familiar blue canvas tearing to reveal a void of swirling, iridescent mist that smelled of ozone and old, dried lavender, a scent that had no business existing in the late autumn chill of the Pennsylvania countryside, yet it hung heavy in the air, pressing against the windows of the Whitmore farmhouse until the glass groaned in protest....0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe ink did not dry; it breathed. Silas Vane stood before the ledger, his quill suspended in the air. The room was not a shop. It was not a house. It was a cathedral of fog, suspended in a void that had no horizon. The air tasted of iron and burnt sugar. He looked at the page. The numbers had moved. They were not digits. They were small, black moths, fluttering against the vellum, trying to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe jar sat on the counter. It was glass, thick and green at the rim, filled with a liquid that shifted from amber to black depending on the light. You knew what it was. Everyone in the city knew, though few spoke of it. The Honey of Saint Aldric. It was not food. It was not medicine, though it cured the coughs of the old and the fevers of the young. It was memory. Or rather, it was the thing...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe kettle screamed. It was a thin, high sound. It cut through the silence of the barracks. Sergeant Elias Thorne held the pot. His hands shook. Not from cold. The iron stove roared. It was hungry. It ate the coal. It ate the air. It ate the quiet. Elias poured the water. Steam rose. It curled. It twisted. It looked like a ghost. It looked like a child. He set the cup on the metal table. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe rain fell on the estate of Silas Vane not as water, but as a grey, industrial mist that clung to the brickwork and seeped into the joints of the foundation. It was a damp that had no end, a constant, low-frequency hum of decay that Silas had come to associate with the weight of his own uniform. He stood at the threshold of the manor house, his boots heavy with the mud of the lower fields,...0 Comments 0 Shares 31 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe rain on the cobblestones of Aethelgard smelled of wet iron and old bone, a scent that had not changed in three hundred years, nor would it change for three more. You stood at the edge of the university courtyard, your fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of a sword that was, in truth, only a stylized piece of wood painted to look like steel, while the crowd before you hummed with the low,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe fog in the valley did not lift; it merely thinned, revealing the skeletal remains of a forest that had long since been consumed by the fire of time. I stood at the edge of the clearing, my boots sinking into the loam that smelled of wet iron and decay. It was here, in the shadow of the old mill, that I had found the first of the birds. They were not alive, nor were they dead in the manner...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitThe ring is on your finger. It is gold. It is thin. It is a circuit. You are Margaret. You are a scholar. You study the texts. The texts are old. They are written in ink. The ink is black. The paper is yellow. You hold the quill. Your hand is steady. You are calm. You are steady. The room is small. The walls are stone. The stone is cold. The window is narrow. The light is grey. The city is...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ParadoxIn the dream, the air tastes of iron and rotting apples, a thick, coppery film that coats the back of your throat and refuses to be swallowed. You are standing in the vast, vaulted hall of the King’s Court, the stone floor cold beneath your bare feet, and the silence is so absolute it rings in your ears like a struck bell. This is the court of your memory, or perhaps the court of your madness,...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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