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The Distant PromiseThe rain has been falling for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that blurs the edges of the village and turns the cobblestones into slick, black mirrors. You stand in the center of the apothecary, the smell of dried lavender and rotting wood thick in your throat, and you feel the weight of the ledger in your hands as if it were a stone. It is not the paper that is heavy, nor the ink, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe bees did not leave. They stayed. This was wrong. Margaret stood in the cellar. The air was thick. It smelled of wet stone. It smelled of old honey. A single candle burned. The flame did not dance. It held still. Her brother lay on the stone floor. Thomas. He was small. He was young. His eyes were open. They were dark. They were fixed on the ceiling. He did not blink. He did not breathe....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe fog rolls in. It is thick. It is gray. It smells of wet wool and old stone. You stand on the bridge. The water below is black. You hold your lantern. The glass is cracked. The flame flickers. You are leaving. This is a fact. You have packed your bag. It is small. It is brown. It contains three shirts. It contains a comb. It contains the letter. The letter is from the Magistrate. He calls...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitThe dream was always of the bread. It rose in the dark, a pale, sweating dome in the center of the room, expanding against the ceiling beams until the wood groaned in protest. Thomas had not slept in three days, his body a hollowed-out vessel where only the thrumming anxiety of the plague lived. He woke with the taste of yeast and dust on his tongue, the phantom weight of a loaf still pressing...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe dream began not with light, but with the smell of damp wool and old iron. Elara woke in the high tower of the Chantry, her breath pluming in the frigid air. Outside, the fog of the Grey Coast swallowed the world, a thick, suffocating shroud that had not lifted in three days. She lay still for a moment, listening to the wind rattle the leaded panes, a sound like the tapping of bones against...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe cold in the Keep was not merely a temperature. It was a presence. It settled in the marrow of the stone and seeped into the skin of anyone who dared to linger. Elias stood before the great mirror, the only object in the cavernous room that did not weep with condensation. He was a man of forty winters, though his face bore the hollows of a man twice that age. His hair, once the color of dark...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the ancient, moss-slicked paths of the Blackwood Forest into rivers of mud and decay, and Elias Thorne walked with the heavy, deliberate gait of a man whose bones had forgotten the concept of rest, carrying upon his back a pack that contained nothing but the remnants of a life he had tried to discard, specifically...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe rain fell in sheets. It hammered against the mud of the road. Caelum walked. His boots were heavy. They were caked in the red clay of the valley. He walked toward the city. The city was a stone beast. It crouched on the hill. It waited for him. He carried a sword. It was old. The steel was dark. It did not shine. It drank the light. He had carried it for ten years. He had carried it through...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe fever hits you first. A spike. A spike. A spike. You are in the white room. The tiles are cold. Your feet are bare. The air smells of bleach and copper. You are a man. You are a weapon. You are broken. "Sir, you need to sit." The voice is thin. It belongs to Miller. He is young. He is afraid. He holds a clipboard. The clipboard is a shield. "Sit down, Thomas." You do not sit. You stand....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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