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The Faded RuinThe train rattled. I looked at my hands. They were shaking. Not from cold. From fear. From the weight of what I carried. It was not a bag. It was a memory. A heavy, wet thing. It sat in my chest. It breathed. It beat. Like a second heart. I am an exile. I am a ghost. I am here. But I am not here. The city outside was gray. Gray sky. Gray rain. Gray buildings. They looked like teeth. Bared and...0 Comments 0 Shares 24 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe mud on the road was thick and black, sticking to the boots of the men of the 4th Light Infantry as they marched toward the border. It was a wet, grey afternoon in the year of the King’s reign, a time when the sun rarely dared to show its face above the low-hanging clouds of the valley. They were not going to war, not in the way the songs described. There were no trumpets, no banners flying...0 Comments 0 Shares 28 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe barn smelled of wet straw and old rust. Elias stood in the center of the dusty floor, his hands wrapped around the neck of a grey horse. The animal was quiet. It had been quiet for three days. Its eyes were flat, like stones sunk in mud. Elias was a merchant of oddities. He traded in things that did not belong in the open market. Clocks that ticked backward. Maps of countries that no longer...0 Comments 0 Shares 30 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe rain had not stopped for nine days, a relentless, grey curtain that turned the ancient stone of the Abbey of St. Jude into a weeping thing, the mortar slick and the ivy heavy with a dampness that seemed to seep into the bones of the world. In the small, windowless scriptorium at the base of the tower, Master Elias sat hunched over a desk of black oak, his quill scratching a rhythm that was...0 Comments 0 Shares 24 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownYou are standing at the edge of the precipice, looking down into the valley where the mist does not lift. It is a place that exists only in the space between breaths, a medieval hollow carved out of time and shadow. The air tastes of iron and old rain. You are not alone. Thomas stands beside you, his hand gripping the cold iron of his walking staff, his face a map of lines that seem to deepen...0 Comments 0 Shares 33 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WhispersIn the heavy, suffocating heat of the July afternoon, the air inside the old manor house hung thick with the scent of wilting lavender and the stale, sweet rot of overripe plums that sat in a cracked porcelain bowl on the windowsill, their skins splitting under the weight of their own sugary juice, creating a sticky, dark residue that trapped the dust motes dancing in the slant of golden light....0 Comments 0 Shares 28 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe chisel slipped. It was a small thing, a vibration in the bone, but the sound that followed was loud in the silence of the attic. A sharp crack. A final, definitive separation. Elias stood still. He did not breathe. He held the chisel in one hand and the fragment of the porcelain bowl in the other. The bowl had been blue. It had been the color of the sky over the valley before the smoke...0 Comments 0 Shares 27 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe fog did not roll in. It seeped up from the cellar, cold and damp, carrying the scent of wet wool and old iron. You stood at the bottom of the spiral stairs, your hand gripping the railing, the wood slick beneath your fingers. Above you, the house breathed. It was a deep, rhythmic exhalation that shook the dust from the rafters and settled it on the shoulders of the coats hanging by the...0 Comments 0 Shares 35 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierYou hold the ink. It is black. It is wet. It stains your fingers. The stain does not wash out. "Do you feel it?" Thomas asks. His voice is low. He stands by the door. He wears grey wool. He looks tired. He has always looked tired. "I feel the weight," you say. You do not look at him. You look at the page. The paper is white. It is smooth. It waits. "The weight is the price," Thomas says. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 27 Views 0 Reviews
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