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The Golden DowntownThe shrapnel in Marcus’s left lung had turned the air into a liquid, thick and tasting of copper and old pennies. He was running, though the concept of running seemed absurd given that his legs had not touched solid ground for three days. The sky above was not a sky at all, but a vast, inverted ocean of swirling violet clouds that churned with a slow, majestic indifference to the war below....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale VerdictThe frost had not yet melted from the stone of the Great Hall, but the air inside was thick with the scent of damp wool and old fear. Margery stood alone by the hearth, her back to the fire. She did not feel the heat. She felt only the cold that lived in her own marrow, a chill that had settled there three days ago when the accusations began. She was the Steward. The keeper of the accounts. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling glass of my study, a rhythmic drumming that did little to drown out the sound of my own breathing. I held the silver brooch in my hand, its surface cold and heavy, catching the dim light of the desk lamp. It was a simple design, a cluster of wisteria blossoms rendered in polished metal, but to me, it was a tombstone. I had found it in the lining of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe river did not flow. It stood. A black wall of water. A glass ceiling over the world. Marek looked up. He was alone. The city was gone. Or rather, the city had been replaced by this. A cathedral of stillness. The sky above was not blue. It was a mirror. He saw himself. High above the black water, his own face stared down. But it was older. Worn. A face carved from gray stone. The eyes were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe coal fire roared in the grate, a hungry, black mouth consuming the night. We sat around the oak table in the command tent, the canvas walls trembling with the vibration of the artillery bombardment beyond the wire. The air smelled of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of fear. I watched the flames dance, their orange light flickering across the faces of my men. There was no...0 Comments 0 Shares 19 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe morning light filtered through the dusty lattice of the workshop window, catching the suspended motes in a slow, golden suspension that felt less like illumination and more like the breath of a sleeping god, and in the center of this suspended atmosphere stood Elias Thorne, his hands deep in the viscous, iridescent slurry of the alchemical loom, the rhythmic clatter of the wooden frame...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain against the high, arched windows of the manor. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood. Commander Elias Thorne stood in the center of the library, his boots heavy on the ancient oak floorboards. He was a large man, built for the rigors of the border patrols, his uniform a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe banquet hall of the Abbey of St. Jude, a place where the stone walls wept with centuries of condensation and the air hung thick with the cloying, medicinal scent of dried wormwood and crushed lavender, was not a place for silence, yet for three days following the arrival of the new Inquisitor, a profound and terrifying quiet had settled over the refectory like a burial shroud, broken only...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe coat was blue. Not the blue of the sky, which was often grey and low. Not the blue of the sea, which was far away. It was a deep, indigo blue, the color of bruises, the color of old ink. It hung in the corner of the attic room. It did not move. The air in the attic was still. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light from the window. They did not settle. They floated, suspended in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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