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The Faded PortraitThe carriage wheels had not yet ceased their rhythmic, iron-clad clattering against the cobblestones of the old quarter when I first noticed the mark on my own hand, a faint, bruised purpleness that seemed to pulse in time with the dying breath of the industrial city outside the window. We were traveling to the estate of Mr. Blackwood, a man whose name was spoken in the drawing rooms of London...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe iron bit into my teeth. I spat blood. The floor was wet. "You bleed," said the Warden. His voice was wet. Like gravel in a tin cup. I looked up. My hands were bound. Rope. Thick rope. It bit into my wrists. I did not look away. "Look at me," he commanded. I looked. He held a mirror. A hand mirror. The glass was clouded. Old. Cracked down the middle. "Is this your face?" It was. And it was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ChronicleThe bone was in the wall. It was not a relic. It was not a trophy. It was a piece of me. I had carved it from my own leg. The village of Oakhaven did not exist on any map. It sat in the hollow of a valley where the mist never lifted. The air tasted of iron and old snow. I had walked for three days to find it. My feet bled. I did not care. My name is Thomas. I am a stranger here. I carried a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe bell in the steeple shatters. It does not break cleanly. It bursts. A scream of bronze tears through the air, high and jagged, splitting the morning fog over the town of Oakhaven. You stand in the square, holding your satchel. The metal shards rain down like dark hail. One strikes the cobblestones near your boot. It spins, stops. You do not move. You watch the pieces. You count them. There...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe soup is black. It is thick as oil. It smells of burnt sugar and iron. You are standing in a kitchen that does not exist. The tiles are checkered in slate and bone, stretching out into a fog that has no horizon. A single window looks out onto a city of smokestacks, but the smoke rises downward, pooling on the invisible street like gray snow. You are an old man. Your hands are steady. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the city into mirrors of the broken sky. Elias Vane stood in the center of the intersection, his back to the alleyway that smelled of wet ash and old iron, and he watched the police line tighten around the square like a noose. He was a tall man, gaunt as a winter birch, with hands that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Silence"You look like a ghost." I didn't turn. I kept my eyes on the wet gravel. The rain in Ohio was different than in Dublin. Heavier. It didn't mist. It fell. It hit you. It wanted to bury you. "Is that a compliment?" I asked. My voice was thin. Dry. Like old paper. "It’s an observation," he said. We stood by the fence. The corn was dead. Brown. Rotting in the rows. The air smelled of mud and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ParadoxThe mud caked into the grooves of his boots. It was thick and red. It smelled of iron and old blood. Thomas stood at the edge of the King’s garden. He did not move. The air was cold. It bit his nose. Behind him, the city slept. But not here. Here, the statues watched. They had no eyes. Yet they saw everything. Thomas pulled his hand from his pocket. He held a glove. It was white. Silk. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the air into a heavy, wet wool. Inside the precinct’s breakroom, a space that smelled of stale coffee and damp wool, Captain Elias Thorne sat alone at a scarred wooden table, his hands wrapped around a mug that had long since gone cold. He was a man carved from the same material as...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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