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The Wistful ThroneThe hall smelled of roasted boar and old stone, a thick, cloying perfume that seemed to settle in the back of my throat and refuse to clear, a physical weight that matched the iron bands clamped around my wrists, which hummed with a low, constant vibration that I had long since stopped hearing as sound and began to feel only as a dull, throbbing ache in the bones of my arms. We sat in a circle...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe frost came in a scream. It wasn’t a sound. It was a feeling. A bite. A break. I woke up wet. The water was cold. It was black. It was me. I stood in the center of the floor. The warehouse was empty. The lights buzzed. They hummed a low note. A drone. My hands were slick. I looked down. My fingers were long. Too long. They were branches. They were roots. I pulled them back. They snapped. No...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the lower quarter into slick, black mirrors that reflected the flickering tallow of the streetlamps. You stood in the corridor of your father’s house, a man’s house that was becoming a ruin, your hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in a decade. The air smelled of wet wool, stale bread, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe horse was dead. It lay in the ditch. Its legs were stiff. The flies were thick. They hummed a low, black note. Elias sat on the ridge. He held his musket. The barrel was cold. He did not move. The wind cut through his coat. It was thin. It offered no warmth. He had walked for three days. His boots were soaked. His feet bled. He did not feel it. Pain was a distant thing. It lived in a house...0 Comments 0 Shares 26 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden VisitThe rain in the industrial district of Ashworth did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the soot-stained cobblestones into a mirror of the low, hanging sky. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the foyer of the Pemberton estate, his boots leaving dark, wet prints on the parquet floor that had not seen sunlight in weeks. He was not there as a guest, nor yet as a jailer, but as a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe rain hits the cobblestones with a rhythm that feels like a heartbeat. It is a slow, heavy beat. You stand at the edge of the town. The town is small. It is made of stone and shadow. The mist curls around your ankles. You are leaving. You carry a pack. It is light. It should be heavier. It holds only bread and a knife. Your brother waits for you. His name is Thomas. He is older. He has a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe coat was red. Not a bright red, but the deep, arterial crimson of a wound that had been scabbed over and then picked at, again and again, until the flesh beneath was raw and white. It hung on the back of a chair in the corner of the room, a heavy wool thing that smelled of damp earth and old smoke. Arthur had worn it for three years. Three years in the lower levels, where the air tasted of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe bus hummed. It was a low, continuous thrum that vibrated in the bones of the twelve-year-old boy, Julian. He sat by the window. The glass was cold. Outside, the city of Oakhaven scrolled by in gray sheets. Rain slicked the streets. The rain was not water. It was memory. It was the residue of everyone who had ever lived and died in this place. Julian knew this. He had always known this. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe roof caved in. It happened at noon. The sun was a white coin. It did not shine. It burned. The oak beams groaned. Then they snapped. Dust filled the air. It tasted of iron. It tasted of old blood. Elara stood in the center. She was ten. She held the stone. It was warm. It was heavy. It pulsed against her palms like a second heart. The house was her world. It was also her prison. The walls...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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