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The Distant WhispersThe feast was a wound in the dark. We sat around a table of polished oak, the wood grain swirling like storm clouds. The candles burned low. The air smelled of roasted meat and damp wool. I wiped my mouth with a cloth napkin. My hand trembled. I hid it beneath the table. My wife, Elise, sat across from me. Her face was pale in the flickering light. She watched me. Her eyes were deep wells. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe rain did not fall; it hung. It suspended in the air like a fine, grey mist, a veil that blurred the edges of the world and softened the sharp corners of my despair. I stood at the center of the square, the cobblestones slick and black beneath my boots, and I waited for the end. The sky above was a bruised purple, swollen with clouds that seemed to breathe. They pulsed with a slow, rhythmic...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe feast in the high tower was a riot of gold and shadow. Candles burned low in iron sconces, dripping wax that hardened into ugly, amber tears on the stone table. The air smelled of roasted pheasant, stale wine, and the metallic tang of old blood. Maud sat at the far end of the long oak table, her hands folded in her lap, fingers pale as the ash in the hearth. She was not invited to speak....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe glass shatters. It is not a metaphor. It is a sound like a bone snapping in the dark. You watch the shards fall. They are beautiful, jagged teeth of blue and green, catching the candlelight. They cut the air. They cut your breath. You are in the Hall of Mirrors. No, that is too soft. It is the Hall of Judgement. The stones are cold. The air smells of wet wool and old blood. You are an...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe rain had stopped, but the air still held the wet, heavy scent of turned earth and diesel, a smell that clung to the wool of my coat and seeped into the pores of my skin. I stood alone at the edge of the ravine, the black mud sucking at my boots with a slow, rhythmic pull, as if the ground itself were trying to drag me down into its dark, silent belly. My hand rested on the hilt of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe glass was cold. It was the only thing in the house that felt real. I held it against my cheek, feeling the jagged edge bite into the skin. A thin line of blood welled up, bright and warm. It ran down my jaw, mixing with the salt of the tears I had been holding back for three years. My name is Elias. I am leaving. The apartment is small. It smells of damp plaster and old paper. Outside, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe dream was always the same, a recurring fever that burned through the nights of Elias Thorne. He stood in a field of tall, golden wheat that stretched to the horizon, the stalks whispering a sound like static. In the center of the field stood his daughter, Clara, no older than six. She was reaching up, her arms outstretched as if trying to catch a bird that wasn’t there. Elias knew, with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe rain has been falling for three days, a steady, grey curtain that turns the cobblestones of the old town into slick, black mirrors, and you stand there, your hands still shaking from the weight of the sword you no longer carry, watching the river that runs through the center of your life, which has not changed, which will not change, which remains cold and indifferent and utterly eternal...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe feast had lasted for three days, a relentless tide of roasted boar, spiced wine, and the heavy, suffocating perfume of lilies that clung to the velvet drapes of the great hall. I sat at the far end of the long oak table, my hands folded in my lap, the leather of my gloves stiff and unyielding against the chill that seemed to emanate from the stone floor despite the roaring hearths. My...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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