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The Pale ProtocolThe ink on the parchment is still wet, a dark mirror reflecting a face I no longer recognize. I write this to you, my beloved Eleanor, from the cell that has become my world, a place where the air tastes of damp stone and old dust, and where the only light comes from the pale, spectral glow of the root I hold in my trembling hands. It is a strange thing to be a prisoner of knowledge, especially...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe iron taste of blood is the first thing you notice. It coats your tongue, thick and metallic, as you spit it onto the cobblestones. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets slick and black, reflecting the gaslight that hisses against the wet air. You are bleeding from the nose. You press your handkerchief to it, but the red seeps through the white linen. You are in the basement of the old...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe dream began with the smell of wet wool and iron. It was a cold, metallic tang that coated the back of Elias Thorne’s tongue. He stood in the center of the Great Hall, the vaulted ceiling lost in shadow above him. Before him sat the Abbot, a figure carved from stone and silence. The Abbot did not speak. He only looked. Elias looked down at his hands. They were stained. Not with blood, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe world did not end with a bang, nor with a whimper, but with the sudden, catastrophic, and absolute dissolution of the left side of my body into a mist of grey, swirling ash that smelled distinctly of burnt copper and old, forgotten libraries, an event that occurred on a Tuesday afternoon while I was standing in the middle of a muddy field, trying to explain to a terrified, wide-eyed boy...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe bell of the Great Keep did not ring so much as it groaned, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through the soles of Edward Ashworth’s boots and settled heavy in his chest. It was a sound that had defined the rhythm of his life for forty years, a metronome for the rise and fall of the kingdom’s power, but today the rhythm was broken. The sky above the citadel was not the blue of a summer...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe coat was the first thing to go. It did not vanish in a puff of smoke or a dramatic swirl of shadow, but simply ceased to be heavy. One moment, Eleanor was trudging through the slush of the parking lot, the wool soaking up the dampness of a November afternoon, feeling the weight of it like a second skin that had grown into her ribs. The next, she was walking in only her blouse, the cold air...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe bread had gone stale three days ago. It sat in a clay bowl on the table, hard as river stones, the crust cracked and dry. Thomas held a piece in his hand, turning it over, feeling the rough texture against his calloused palm. He was a man of the court, a keeper of the peace in the lower halls, but today he felt nothing but the weight of the stone in his cup. The air in the chamber was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe tower stood. It stood because Arthur said it did. Arthur worked in the basement. He sorted papers. He stacked them. High. Very high. The papers were heavy. They smelled of dust and old ink. And something else. Something sweet. Like rot. He was a man of few words. He was a man of few needs. He had a wife. Her name was Elise. She was quiet. She watched him. She did not speak. She only...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe rain hit the cobblestones with a rhythmic, metallic clatter. It was a cold sound. I stood by the window. The glass was fogged. I watched my breath fog the pane. It was 1912. The city was grey. The soot from the factories hung low. It smelled of coal and wet wool. I was a constable. My name was Thomas Bradshaw. I wore the blue uniform. It fit poorly. The shoulders were tight. The waist was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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