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The Wistful IncenseThe iron gates of the Ministry of Internal Order groaned open with a sound like the breaking of old bones, admitting us into the suffocating, soot-stained belly of the Victorian metropolis where the air tasted of coal dust and impending judgment. I stood at the bottom of the grand marble staircase, my hands bound in cuffs of cold, unyielding steel, while the heavy footfalls of the guards echoed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe city hums. It is a low, thrumming note, felt in the teeth more than heard by the ear. You stand at the center of the square, surrounded by the feast. Tables stretch out in long, white lines, draped in linen that looks like skin. The air smells of roasted meat, heavy spices, and the metallic tang of rain on wet stone. People move around you. They are blurred shapes, dressed in the sharp,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe bell rang in the Great Hall of Aethelgard, a sound so deep and resonant it seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Edward Ashworth’s bones. He stood in the center of the circular room, his armor polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the flickering torchlight, making him look less like a man and more like a statue carved from cold iron. Around him, the other knights of the Order of the Silver...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticI woke in the white noise of the centrifuge, a sound that had ceased to be a sound and had instead become a texture, a fine grit of vibration that settled into the marrow of my bones and refused to dissolve, and I lay there on the narrow cot in the isolation ward, staring at the ceiling tiles which were stained with the ghostly, yellowish maps of old water leaks, and I thought about the fact...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographYou are seven years old, and the air in the Grand Hall tastes of damp stone and old dust, a flavor that coats your tongue with the weight of centuries. The fire in the hearth is not a warm companion but a hungry mouth, eating the oak logs until they groan and spit sparks into the dark. You stand before the High Seat, where Lord Ashworth sits, his face a mask of polished wood, unyielding and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant Garden"You're late, Thomas." The voice came from the shadows of the oak doorframe. It was not a voice, not truly. It was the sound of wind through a keyhole, of dry leaves skittering across stone. But it wore the face of Arthur, my brother, who had been dead for three years. He stood there, pale as the moonlight that cut through the window, wearing the tunic I had last seen him in at the battle of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe feast hall of Oakhaven did not smell of roast boar or spiced wine but of wet wool, old blood, and the sharp, metallic tang of the iron pots that clanged against the stone floor as the servants moved with the frantic, jittery energy of trapped mice. Outside, the rain lashed against the high, narrow windows in sheets of grey, blurring the silhouette of the forest into a trembling, indistinct...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographThe blood was hot. It ran down Elias’s forearm, thick and dark. He did not look down. He looked at the wall. The plaster was cracked. A spider web hung in the corner, trembling. "Stop it," said Thomas. His voice was low. He stood by the door. He held his rifle across his chest. The wood was smooth. It was oiled. Elias wiped his hand on his trousers. The cloth was wet. The red stain spread. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe hall smelled of beeswax and old blood. I stood before the mirror. The glass was cracked, a web of silver scars across the face. I looked at my hands. They were trembling. I wore the coat. It was black wool. It fit me like a second skin. Like a cage. The buttons were mother-of-pearl. They had turned yellow with age. I touched the left cuff. The silk lining was worn thin. I could feel the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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