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The Distant BladeThe air in the undercroft tasted of wet stone and the slow, heavy decay of centuries, a flavor that had settled into my very marrow until I could no longer distinguish the dampness of the walls from the dampness of my own fear, and as I held the hilt of the sword, which was cold and slick with the condensation of the earth, I felt the weight of it not as a burden but as a second skeleton, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe hammer struck the anvil. It did not ring. It thudded. A dull, wet sound, like a meat block dropped on stone. Silas Vance wiped his forehead with a rag stained black by grease and old blood. The workshop smelled of sulfur and cold iron. Outside, the bells of the Citadel tolled the hour. They were not made of metal. They were made of bone. "You hit it again," said a voice from the shadows....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe frost came first. It crept under my door like a thief. I woke to the cold. The glass was white. I looked out. The town was sleeping. But the ice was not sleeping. It was growing. I am not from here. I am from the river. I am the water that froze. My name is Elian. They call me the stranger. They say I bring the cold. They say I bring the death. I do not argue. I am too tired to argue. My...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureYou walk. The road is red clay. It dries your boots. You are tired. Your body is a cage. It creaks with every step. You carry the sword. It is heavy. It is not for cutting. It is for holding. You hold it because the Order says so. The Order is the Law. The Law is the silence. You have walked for days. The sun is a white eye. It stares. You do not blink. Your name is Thomas. It is a small name....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe coat was red. It was a bright, aggressive red that seemed to bleed into the gray mud of the road, a color that did not belong to the world of rationed wool and faded tweed. Thomas stood at the edge of the clearing, his small hands gripping the strap of his rucksack, watching the figure in the red coat walk away into the treeline. He did not know the name of the man. He did not know why the...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ParadoxThe air in the sub-basement of the Sterling & Vane Forensic Accounting firm did not smell of paper or coffee, as one might expect from a place devoted to the quiet exhumation of ledgers and the cold dissection of corporate souls, but rather of ozone, wet copper, and the faint, sweet rot of lilies that had been left in a vase on the reception desk three days prior and had since been forgotten by...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe ink is wet. You know this because the smell of iron and rain clings to your fingers, a scent that has defined your existence for forty years. You stand before the door. It is pale, bleached by the sun and the salt of the northern sea, a slab of wood that looks less like an entrance and more like a wound in the earth. The villagers call it the Pale Door. They say it was carved from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe train stopped at 4:00 PM. Rain hit the glass. Hard. Wet. Cold. Elias sat in the corner. He held his hat. His knuckles were white. His hands shook. A tremor. Constant. He looked at the window. His reflection stared back. Pale. Thin. Eyes like hollowed-out sockets. He was not alone. A woman sat across. Mrs. Gable. She wore grey. A shawl over her shoulders. Her face was tight. Angry. She...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographMarta stood in the corridor. The floor was cold. She wore thin socks. The walls were white. They were too white. They reflected the light from the ceiling fixtures. The light hummed. It was a low sound. It sat in her teeth. She held the letter in her hand. The paper was heavy. Cream colored. It smelled of ink and old air. It was an invitation. Or perhaps a command. The words were formal. They...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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