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The Golden OathThe rain did not fall so much as it invaded, a cold, relentless mist that seeped into the marrow of the bones and turned the red clay of the Appalachian foothills into a sucking, treacherous mire that threatened to swallow whole the weary procession of twelve men who had marched out of the town of Harrow’s Creek three days prior with nothing but the promise of a harvest that the dry summer had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorThe dream is not a dream but a memory of a mirror shattering, and you are standing in the center of the shards, not on them, because the glass is liquid now, a cold silver river that flows up your legs and into your lungs, and you are trying to tell someone that the water is gold, that it is not dirty, that it is just the truth reflecting back at you in a way that is too bright to look at, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain had been falling on the stone roof of the infirmary for three days, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to vibrate through the marrow of your bones, a sound so constant it had become a kind of silence, a hollow space where the world used to be. You sat on the edge of the cot, your hands resting on your knees, fingers curled into the coarse wool of your sleeves, watching the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe bell did not ring, for the tongue of the great bronze beast had been severed by a stray ballista bolt three days prior, leaving only a hollow, screaming mouth that exhaled the cold breath of the city’s dying soul into the cobblestone streets of Aethelgard. It was a Tuesday, or what passed for a Tuesday in the endless grey haze of a siege that had forgotten the sun, when Elias Vane, a man...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe fog did not lift; it thickened, a wet, grey wool that strangled the air until every breath tasted of rot and cold iron. I had walked for three days, or perhaps four. Time had lost its rigid architecture, crumbling into a slurry of hours that felt identical in their oppression. My boots, once polished leather, were now sodden sacks of mud that slapped against the cobblestones with a heavy,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe seal was broken. Not by force. Not by knife. By time. Elara stood before the high table. The wood was dark. The air was still. She held the signet ring in her left hand. It was cold. It was heavy. It was her father’s. It was her father’s shame. It was her father’s lie. She had come to the Court of Whispers. This was the end. The final hearing. The last breath of the old law. The High...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe banquet hall smelled of roasted lamb, stale beeswax, and the particular, metallic tang of fear that settles in the air before a storm breaks, a scent that clung to the velvet drapery and the polished mahogany tables where the officers of the garrison sat in rows, their faces illuminated by the flickering candlelight that danced like nervous spirits across the gold leaf of the chandeliers....0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe dream always began with the sound of scratching. It was not the scratch of a mouse, nor the tick of a clock. It was the deep, resonant rasp of a quill against parchment. A sound that seemed to vibrate in the teeth. In the dream, the air was thick with the scent of ink and old paper. The room was dim, lit only by a single tallow candle that burned with a steady, blue flame. Walter sat at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe archive smelled of dry rot and old paper, a scent that had long since ceased to be mere odor and had become a physical weight in the chest. I sat in the corner, the only light source a single, harsh bulb that buzzed like an angry wasp. The room was circular, a concrete bowl sunk into the hillside, designed to hold records that no one wished to look at but everyone needed to keep. I was here...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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