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The Distant WoundThe air in the dining hall smells of roasted duck and ozone. It is a thick, cloying scent that hangs low in the room, pressing against the skin. You sit at the head of the table. The candles are made of rendered fat, their flames trembling in the draft from the open shutters. Outside, the wind howls through the skeletal trees. It sounds like a warning. It sounds like a laugh. Your hands are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe rain in the city of Aethelgard did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, persistent mist that clung to the wool of cloaks and the stone of the high walls, turning the world into a gray smear of dampness and silence. Thomas stood at the gate of the Infirmary, his hand resting on the iron ring, feeling the cold metal bite into his palm. He was young, barely twenty, with the kind of face...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe candle sputters. You watch the flame die. Then it returns. This is the first sign. You know it. We all know it, though we speak of it in whispers, in the corridors of the Iron Hall, where the air tastes of rust and cold iron. You are an inspector. Your job is to find the leak. To find the error in the machine. But the machine is a person. It is your brother. He sits across from you. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe mud is thick and cold, sucking at the boots as you push forward through the tree line, the air heavy with the scent of wet pine and the metallic tang of fear. You are moving fast, or so it feels, though your legs feel like lead, weighed down by the gear and the sheer, crushing gravity of the moment. The radio crackles in your ear, a static-laced whisper of commands that have already...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe fog in the industrial district of Ashworth did not lift; it merely thinned, revealing the skeletal ribs of the ironworks and the soot-blackened faces of the men who toiled within. You were not one of them, not in the way that mattered to the foremen, yet you moved among them with the same heavy, rhythmic gait. Your name, if it was a name at all, was Elias, though the others called you the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe rain fell in sheets, gray and relentless, against the black iron bars of the cell. Silas woke. He was not in his bed. He was not in the cold mud of the trench. He was here. The air smelled of wet wool and rust. He coughed, a dry, hacking sound that scraped his throat raw. His hands were bound. Not with rope. With leather. Thick, dark leather straps, tight across his wrists. He tried to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe road to the citadel was long. It wound through the mist. The mist was thick. It tasted of iron. It tasted of old rain. Sir Thomas Ashworth walked alone. He walked with purpose. His boots were heavy. They were caked in mud. The mud was dark. It clung to the leather. It clung to the stone. He carried no sword. He carried no shield. He carried a scroll. The scroll was waxed. The wax was pale....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CompassThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the red clay of the county road into a slick, breathing mud that swallowed the tires of your sedan with a sound like wet lungs clearing. You drove slowly, the wipers sweeping back and forth in a rhythmic, mechanical sigh that seemed to mirror the hollow ache behind your ribs. The dashboard light cast a jaundiced glow on your hands, which rested...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe feast was loud. It was bright. It smelled of roasting pork and wet wool. I sat at the edge of the table. My hand rested on my hilt. The steel was cold. The room was hot. I am a soldier. I wear the grey coat of the King’s Guard. My name is Thomas. I do not matter. The men who matter are here. They drink from silver cups. They laugh too loud. They are the Council. They decide who lives. They...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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