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The Wistful PetalThe morning the frost finally decided to claim the valley, Elias Thorne found his friend’s last breath still clinging to the inside of the iron gate, a cold, metallic taste that sat heavy on the tongue like a forgotten penny. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, the days having blurred into a single, grey smear of wool and damp wood, but the departure was absolute, a severing of the cord...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe morning fog lies thick and white against the windowpanes of your quarters, a suffocating shroud that blurs the sharp, ironclad geometry of the city outside, and you sit there, still in your dress uniform, the brass buttons cold against your chest like the eyes of dead men, watching the steam rise from your untouched coffee, a ghostly column that dissolves into the heavy air before it can...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe banquet hall of the Ironworks sat in the center of the valley like a golden eye staring up at the churning, soot-stained sky, a place where the air tasted of copper and burnt sugar and where the machines did not merely produce steel but seemed to breathe, their pistons heaving in a rhythmic, terrible pulse that I felt in my own teeth. We had gathered there, the hundreds of us, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe mud is cold. It bites into your boots. You are running. Your lungs burn. The air tastes of iron and wet stone. Behind you, the thing screams. It is not a scream of flesh. It is a scream of void. You know this. You have always known this. Your name is not important. Your rank is not important. You are a soldier. You are a man. You are being hunted. The forest is dense. The trees are black...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe fog did not roll in; it seeped up from the black mud of the harbor, a cold, wet breath that tasted of iron and rot. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the pier, his coat buttoned to the chin, watching the grey water swallow the last of the day. He had spent three years mapping the subterranean veins of Oakhaven, a town that seemed to exist on a hinge, swinging between the solid earth and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe iron bar bent like a reed in the gale, the sound it made a shriek that tore through the humid, coal-thickened air of the Blackwood Foundry, and I stood there, not with the grace of a dancer or the precision of a surgeon, but with the raw, animal persistence of a man who had forgotten how to breathe except in short, ragged gasps, my hands slick with sweat and the reddish dust of the embers,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ChronicleI woke up with the taste of ash and iron in my mouth, the kind of metallic tang that settles in the back of the throat after a long, hard fight or a fever that has burned through the last of your reserves, and I realized that I was no longer in the trench, nor was I in the hospital tent with its smell of carbolic soap and rotting flesh, but I was standing in a room that seemed to be made...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe hand, that fleshy, trembling appendage which I had spent the last three decades treating as a mere tool, a blunt instrument for gripping the hilt of my sword and striking down the dissenters who plagued the lower floors of the Administration, had begun to whisper to me in the dead of night, a low, rhythmic hum that sounded suspiciously like the creaking of old timber or the settling of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeYou stand at the window. The glass is cold against your forehead. Outside, the town of Oakhaven sleeps under a bruised sky, the kind that promises rain but delivers only a heavy, silent wind. It is late. Too late for this. You are a detective, or rather, you were. The badge is gone, filed away in a drawer along with your reputation, but the eyes remain. They are trained to see what is not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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