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The Distant SummerThe iron gate screamed as it swung open. A sound like a dying beast. I stepped over the threshold. Mud sucked at my boots. Thick. Black. Smelling of rot and rain. "Is it done?" the voice asked from the shadows. Low. Gravelly. I did not look up. I could not. "It is done, sir." Silence. Heavy. Pressing against my eardrums. The air tasted of copper. Of old blood. "Good," the voice said. "Go to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe bell tower of St. Jude’s had been ringing for three days. The sound was not a ring, but a tear. It split the air in the valley below, a thin, white line that cut through the fog. Elias stood on the edge of the cliff, his fingers wrapped around the iron railing. The metal was cold. It bit into his skin. He did not let go. Below, the village was silent. The houses were dark. The windows were...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumYou are walking through the city, which is not a city but a wound that has forgotten how to heal, a sprawling expanse of grey stone and wet cobblestones where the fog does not lift but thickens, pressing against your skin like a damp cloth that never dries, and you are looking for something, or rather, you are trying to forget that you are looking for something, because the looking itself is a...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe house was a skeleton of white beams. It stood on a hill that overlooked the grey, churning sea. The wind did not blow. It pressed. It pushed against the glass panes with a dull, persistent thud. Elias sat in the center of the room. The floorboards were cold. He wore a wool coat that smelled of damp wool and old paper. His hands rested on his knees. They were still. He had been still for...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineMaren sat on the cold stone floor of the cell, her hands resting in her lap, fingers intertwined so tightly the knuckles had turned the color of old bone. The air here was thick, not with damp, as one might expect in a dungeon, but with a heavy, sweet rot, like flowers left too long in a vase without water. She did not look up. She knew the footsteps coming down the corridor. They were...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe ink was drying on the parchment. It smelled of oak gall and iron. I watched the black lines settle into the vellum. They did not bleed. They held their shape. This was a good day for work. The scriptorium was cold. The stones were damp. Outside, the rain fell on the slate roofs. It sounded like a whisper. It sounded like a warning. I did not look up. I kept my eyes on the letter. My hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolYou wake in the mud. The rain is cold. It soaks into your wool coat. It soaks into your bones. You are in the fen. The reeds are tall. They whisper. You are here because of the letter. You wrote it three days ago. You burned it. Or so you thought. The ash is in your pocket. It clings to your thigh. You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are a clerk. You are no one. You walk. The path is narrow. The water...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe ink is dry. The door is locked. You are leaving. You do not look back. Looking back is for those who have not yet paid the price. You carry the satchel. It is light. It is heavy. It contains the truth. The truth is a mirror. The mirror is cracked. You hold it to your chest. It cuts your skin. You do not bleed. You are hollow. You are full. The corridor stretches. It is long. It is dark. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe rain fell in sheets, grey and relentless, against the blackened windows of the transit car. We were moving north, toward the border, though the borders had ceased to be lines on a map and had become scars in the earth. I held my rifle across my knees. The wood was slick with moisture and something darker. My hands shook. Not from cold. The cold was a distant thing, a memory of winter that...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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