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The Wistful SkylineThe rain in the city did not fall; it hovered, a suspended mist that clung to the wool of my coat and the glass of the windows, turning the world into a watercolor of grey and bruised purple. I had been walking for three hours, my shoes soaking through with a cold that settled deep in the marrow, but I did not stop. To stop was to think, and to think was to invite the memory of Elias back into...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe bread was dry. It was a stale thing, hard as stone. It sat on the table. It was the only thing on the table. Thomas held it. He held it tight. The crust crumbled. It fell to the floor. He did not pick it up. He was not home. Not really. The city was loud. It was always loud. The bells rang in the square. They rang for the dead. They rang for the sick. They rang for the sinners. Thomas...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe bell rang. Not once. Twice. Three times. My bones shook. I woke in the cold. The room was gray. The light was thin. It cut through the glass. It hit the floor. It hit the dust. I saw the map. It was old. The ink was dry. The lines were dead. I touched the paper. It felt like skin. It felt like ash. I knew I was here. I knew I was late. The clock ticked. Tick. Tick. Tick. It was a knife. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe cellar smelled of damp stone and the sharp, yeasty tang of fermentation, a scent that had become as familiar to my nostrils as the rhythm of my own breathing. I stood before the oak vats, my hands stained with the purple residue of crushed grapes, watching the foam rise and fall in a slow, hypnotic dance. It was a quiet sort of work, this tending to the vintages, a labor that required...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe blood was still wet on the floor of the archive when I found the file, and it was mine. It lay open on the steel table, the pages slick with a dark, viscous sheen that smelled of iron and old copper. I did not scream. I did not run. I simply stood there, my hands trembling at my sides, staring at the name typed in stark, black Courier font on the first page: Elias Thorne. That was me. That...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe rain did not fall. It hung. A grey curtain stretched across the yard, thick as wool, smelling of wet stone and old iron. Inside the kitchen, the air was still. It smelled of boiled cabbage and something sweeter, something rotting. Margaret stood by the sink. Her hands were red. They were raw. She scrubbed a plate. Again. And again. The water was cold. She did not feel it. Her brother,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe iron bars of the window in the east tower room did not rattle, for the wind was dead that morning, but the silence they imposed was a living thing, pressing its cold face against the skin of Eamon Blackwood’s chest as he sat on the edge of the narrow bed, his hands resting on the worn quilt that had once belonged to his mother. He looked down at his own knuckles, those thick, reddened nodes...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe dream came to Sergeant Elias Thorne not as a vision of peace, but as a suffocating weight, a heavy, wet wool blanket pressed against his nose and mouth, smelling of iron and old blood. In the dream, he was standing in the center of the town square in Oakhaven, a place where the cobblestones had been paved over with smooth, unforgiving concrete decades ago, yet his feet sank into the ground...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyThe feast hall was thick with smoke and the smell of roasted boar. Torches flickered against the rough-hewn stone walls. Shadows danced. They were alive. They breathed. The air was heavy. It pressed down on the shoulders of the men. They were soldiers. They were tired. Their armor was dented. Their faces were grim. Sir Thomas sat at the head of the table. He held a goblet of dark ale. His hand...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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