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The Pale ShadowsThe bread was stale. I told the King so. He laughed. It was a dry sound. Like leaves. Scratching. On stone. "Stale?" he asked. "Yes, Your Grace." "Is it not fresh?" "No." "Then it is good." I bowed. My head hurt. The crown felt heavy. Not the gold. The silence. I am Eleanor. I am the baker’s wife. I am the exile. I came here. To save us. To save my love. William is in the tower. He is quiet. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 16 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe train pulled away from the station in a long, shuddering exhale of steam and iron, and I watched the platform slide backward until it was just a smear of gray concrete and forgotten luggage, my mother’s silhouette shrinking into the distance until she was indistinguishable from the other ghosts of commuters who had passed through that station for a hundred years. I was twelve years old,...0 Comments 0 Shares 15 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe dream began not with a sight, but with a sensation of cold iron against the sternum, a chill that seeped through wool and bone, settling deep in the marrow where the heat of the living body usually resided. Elias Thorne stood in a room that smelled of ozone and old paper, the air thick with the static charge of a storm that had been trapped indoors for a century. It was a library, or...0 Comments 0 Shares 15 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerYou are standing on the precipice of the world, where the air is so thin and cold that it feels less like atmosphere and more like a solid, invisible wall pressing against your lungs, and the silence that has accompanied you for the last three days has finally begun to crack, not with sound, but with a vibration that travels up through the soles of your boots and settles deep in the marrow of...0 Comments 0 Shares 16 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe ink did not dry. It did not settle into the parchment as it was supposed to, nor did it fade with the passing of the afternoon light. It pulsed. It breathed. It was a living thing, a dark vein of absolute knowledge that spread across the desk of Master Aldous, the city’s foremost scribe, with the slow, inevitable creep of a stain that no amount of scrubbing could remove. Thomas stood before...0 Comments 0 Shares 17 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe rain does not fall so much as it insists, a cold, gray sheet that blurs the world outside the window of your office into a smear of mud and steel. You are sitting in the corner of the Administration Building, a squat, brick structure that feels less like a place of learning and more like a vault for secrets. The year is 1924, or perhaps 1925; the dates have begun to slip, sliding off your...0 Comments 0 Shares 16 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe smell of burning sage hangs in the air, thick and cloying, a perfume for the dead. You are standing in the center of the great hall, the floorboards cold beneath your feet, and you are dreaming of the smell. In the dream, the smoke is not grey but gold, swirling like living things, and you can see the faces of those who have passed. They are waiting for you. They are always waiting. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 19 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale VerdictThe rain did not fall so much as it was poured, a cold, grey liquid that turned the cobblestones of the High City into mirrors of the sky. Alderman Silas Vane stood at the edge of the precipice, his cloak heavy with the weight of the water and the judgment he carried. He was not a man of the sword, though he wore the iron star of the Warden’s office on his chest, a badge that had once meant...0 Comments 0 Shares 16 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe garden was not empty. It was full of things that had once been alive and were now merely broken. You stood at the iron gate, the rust flakes falling onto your boots like dry snow. Your hands were stained green to the wrist. Not with dirt. With sap. With the lifeblood of the yew. You had been cutting them down. One by one. For three days. You remember why. You do not remember how you...0 Comments 0 Shares 15 Views 0 Reviews
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