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The Faded ShieldThe rain in the city of Aethelgard did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors for the bruised sky above. Inside the high window of the Watchtower, Thomas Ashworth sat alone, his back to the door, his eyes fixed on the object in his hands. It was a shield, small enough to fit within the span of his palms, crafted from a metal that had long...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe door creaks. It is a sound you have come to hate, a dry shriek of wood against wood that cuts through the silence of the house. You stand by the hearth, your hands buried in the wool of your shawl. The fire is low. The embers glow with a sickly, dying light. You are waiting. You have been waiting for three days. The air in the room is thick with the smell of wet ash and old fear. Your name...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe rain tasted of iron. Elara spat into the gutter. The water pooled black. It reflected the face above. It was not her face. It was a mask. A smooth, golden thing. She pressed her hand to her cheek. The skin was warm. It hummed. A low vibration. Like a cello string plucked in an empty room. She walked fast. Her boots slapped the wet cobblestones. The city of Oakhaven was dying. The fog was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Mountain"Look at it." Father stood in the doorway. His hand was heavy on the frame. The wood groaned. "Look at the coat," he said. I did not look. I looked at the floor. The dust motes danced. They were gray. They were still. "It is torn," Father said. His voice was flat. It was cold. "I know," I said. "Who did this?" "Nobody." "Did you?" "Yes." He stepped inside. His boots squeaked. The floorboards...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe rain hit the window like gravel. Hard. Fast. We were at the table. Just the three of us. And the ghosts. It was a feast. Or so they called it. A celebration. For the new owner. Me. I had bought the estate. The whole thing. Brick by brick. Debt by debt. I paid in cash. Crisp notes. Smelling of ink and fear. The guests looked at me. They did not look at the food. They looked at my hands....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitThe dream was always the same. A red gate. Locked. I stood before it, my hands shaking, holding a key that felt too heavy for my palm. In the dream, the gate did not open. I woke with the taste of iron on my tongue. I am Sergeant Elias Thorne. I have worn the uniform for twenty years. Twenty years of holding the line. Or so I thought. The town of Millbrook is small. You can walk from the jail...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe dream was not a dream but a bruise, purple and swollen against the membrane of waking. Margaret stood in the atrium of the Sanatorium, a place that existed only in the grey water of her sleep and the sharp, antiseptic air of her waking. The floor was black marble, polished to a mirror shine that reflected her own face, distorted and elongated. In her hands, she held a bouquet of white...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe rain had been falling for three days, a ceaseless, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and softened the sharpness of the old manor into a smudge of wet stone and moss. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair by the cold hearth, his hands resting on his knees, fingers pale and still. He was a clerk in the estate’s ledger room, a man of precise calculations and quiet habits,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe cloak was woven from the shadow of a single, dying star. It hung on the hook by the door, a heavy, velvet thing that smelled of iron and old rain. I had worn it for thirty years. It was my skin, my shield, my name. Without it, I was nothing but a hollow reed in the wind. I lived in Oakhaven. The town was small, tucked into a valley where the mist never fully lifted. We were a people of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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