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The Distant JokeThe feast hall of the White Keep smelled of roasted boar, stale wine, and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep from the very stones, a scent that clung to the skin of every man and woman present, including myself, who sat at the far end of the long oak table with my hood pulled low and my hands folded in my lap, watching the lord’s jester, a wiry man named Petyr, leap upon the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale Bonsai"The tree is dying, Master." The words hung in the cold air of the garden, sharp as a snapped twig. I stood before the great stone basin, my hands still stained with the dark, wet soil of the earth I had left behind. The bonsai, a pale, twisted thing of white bark and silver leaves, shivered in the wind that howled through the high windows of the tower. It was not a tree from this world. I knew...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe iron key in my pocket weighed more than my conscience, a cold anchor dragging against the silk of my trousers. I sat in the high-backed chair by the hearth, watching the embers die, each spark a tiny, furious star falling into the black void of the hearthstone. Outside, the wind howled through the eaves of Blackwood Manor, a sound like a man screaming for help that no one could hear. My...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe coat had been there, draped over the back of the high-backed chair in the parlor, for as long as Elias remembered, a heavy thing of black wool that seemed to absorb the light from the gas lamps rather than reflect it. It was not merely worn; it was frayed at the elbows and the cuffs, the fabric thinning to a translucent gray where the hands of the wearer had rubbed against the wood of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe rain against the window of the holding cell was a monotonous, rhythmic drumming that seemed to erode the very mortar of the walls. Elias Thorne sat on the steel bench, his uniform pressed and immaculate, a stark contrast to the damp, gray air that permeated the small, windowless room. He was a man who had built his life on the architecture of order, a fortress against the chaos that often...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe hand was gone. Thomas stared at the empty space on the table. It had been there all night. A pale, skeletal thing. Fingers curled like dry leaves. It pulsed with a faint, cold light. He had tried to hold it. It felt like ice. Then it was ash. Then it was nothing. He looked at his own hand. It was trembling. The house groaned. Rain hammered the slate roof. It was the old house. The Blackwood...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe rain fell in thin, cold sheets against the glass of the observation post. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The wood of the desk before him was worn smooth by decades of use, a path of boundary lines etched into the grain by the friction of files and reports. He watched the water drip from the eaves. It fell with a steady, mechanical precision....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe road was red. Not with blood, but with the rust of old iron and the dust of a world that had forgotten its name. Thomas walked. His boots were heavy. They were made of leather, thick and dark. They had been made by his own hands. He had stitched them. He had oiled them. They were perfect. They were the best things he had ever made. And they were wearing out. The wind blew cold. It cut...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageYou are seven years old. The house is dying. It stands in a field of dead wheat, the windows gaping like missing teeth. The wind howls through the rot. You stand in the kitchen. Your father stands by the stove. He is large. He is quiet. He does not look at you. "Get the bag," he says. You do not ask why. You get the bag. It is heavy. It smells of damp wool and old iron. You follow him out the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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