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The Faded BouquetThe air tasted of rust and old blood. Wren sat on the cold stone. His knees were drawn up. He held a single white lily. It was wilting. The petals curled inward. Like fists. Like dying lips. He was in the Deep. No one called it that to his face. They called it the Undercroft. The Cellar. The Quiet Place. But Wren knew it was a world. A separate skin of the castle. The stone breathed here. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe heater in the basement office of the university library groaned, a low, metallic moan that seemed to vibrate through the soles of Dr. Elias Thorne’s thin socks. It was a sound of exhaustion, of metal tired of holding back the cold that pressed against the single, dirty window. Elias sat at his desk, a cluttered fortress of paperbacks and cold coffee, staring at the screen where the cursor...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe steam from the junction box hissed against your face, hot and metallic, tasting of copper and old rain. You are standing in the middle of a frozen tundra, the wind a physical weight pressing against your chest, and your hands are trembling so violently that you cannot grip the wrench. The facility is a skeletal thing of steel and rivets, rising out of the snow like a rusted ribcage, its...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsYou wake up with the taste of copper in your mouth. It is a thick, metallic taste. Like old pennies. Like blood. You spit into the sink. The water is brown. You look at the mirror. Your face is pale. Your eyes are red. You are in the break room of the municipal building. The fluorescent lights hum. A low, constant drone. It vibrates in your teeth. Your name is Arthur. You are a clerk. You file...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MirrorThe mirror is not a window, but a prison cell made of silvered glass, and you are the inmate who has forgotten the date of his sentencing. You stand in the center of the room, the air thick with the scent of damp wool and old stone, your breath forming small, ghostly clouds that vanish before they can touch the surface. The object before you is massive, a slab of polished obsidian framed in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe map was wet. Elara held it in her hands. The ink bled. The lines of the continent dissolved into brown sludge. She watched the mountains flatten. She watched the rivers become tears. The room shook. Dust fell from the ceiling. It was not an earthquake. It was a breath. The room was not a room. It was the inside of a skull. Or perhaps the inside of a lung. The walls were wet with fluid. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain in this place did not fall; it hovered, a thick, gray curtain of suspended droplets that smelled of wet copper and old ozone, and I stood in the center of the atrium with my back against the cold marble of the central pillar, my hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword that was not there, or perhaps was everywhere, a phantom weight that pulled at the muscles of my shoulders even though...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe table is long. It stretches like a spine across the dining room, polished to a mirror sheen that reflects your own hollow face. You sit at the head. You always sit at the head. The candles are thick, tallow, dripping slowly into the brass holders. They look like tears. They look like wax. They look like the things you make. You are Margaret. You are the woman who eats the silence. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe banquet hall of the Ironworks, a cavernous space that smelled perpetually of rust and stale beer, was alive with a cacophony that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of anyone who dared linger too long near the walls, where the steam pipes hissed their metallic lullabies to the indifferent dark. Inspector Thomas Bradshaw stood at the periphery, his uniform pressed to a mirror shine that was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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