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The Wistful VoyageThe bell did not ring. It screamed. A sound like tearing metal. A sound like a bone snapping under a heavy boot. It ripped through the fog. It ripped through the silence of the night. Elias stood in the dark. He held his rifle. His hands were steady. They were always steady. That was the job. To be the stone in the stream. To be the wall against the wind. He looked at the object in his hand....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden OathThe cellar of the Ashworth estate smelled of damp earth, rotting apples, and the metallic tang of old fear. It was a place where the light did not reach, where the air hung heavy and still, pressing against the lungs like a wet wool blanket. Sir Julian Ashworth sat on a stool that was too small for his long legs, his back pressed against the stone wall. He was a man of fifty, his hair the color...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe rain did not fall. It hovered. A thick, gray mist clung to the streets of Oakhaven, turning the neon signs into bleeding watercolors. Elias stood on the corner of 5th and Main, his uniform damp, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He was a constable. A small man in a large city. The badge on his chest felt heavy, a cold stone against his ribcage. He had come to say goodbye. Not to a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe Wistful Atlas The parcel arrived on a Tuesday, the sort of Tuesday that seemed to have been folded inside itself and tucked behind all the other Tuesdays in Edward Ashworth-Cross's forty-three years. It came from the estate sale of Margaux Duval-Lacombe—his friend of twenty years, the woman who had taught him that maps were not descriptions of the world but confessions of the people who...0 Comments 0 Shares 16 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe incense burned with a scent of black amber and wet stone, a fragrance that seemed to suspend the air in a thick, violet haze. I held the censer in my hands, the heat seeping into my palms, a physical reminder of the burden I had carried for three hundred years. My name was Julian, though in the Kingdom of Aethelgard, names were little more than shadows cast by one’s deeds. I was a Keeper of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe branch snaps. It is a thin, brittle sound. You feel the vibration in your teeth. The air is cold. It is the kind of cold that settles in the lungs. You are running. Your boots slap against the frozen earth. The forest is a blur of gray and white. You do not look back. You know he is there. You know the horse is there. You know the men are there. You are not running from the trees. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe carriage wheels screamed against the cobblestones of the lower city, a jagged, metallic shriek that tore through the thick, coal-heavy fog of the industrial dusk as we left the gates of the Whitmore Estate, a place where the air itself tasted of rust and old blood. I looked at my father, the Duke of Ashworth, sitting rigid in the leather seat opposite me, his face a mask of such profound,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe rain had not stopped for three days, a cold, persistent mist that turned the red clay roads of the valley into a thick, sucking paste that swallowed the soles of our boots and dragged at our ankles with a heavy, wet resistance that felt less like weather and more like the earth itself trying to hold us in place, to stop the slow, grinding march of the patrol that stretched out behind me in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe dust in the corridor tastes of iron and old blood, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat as you adjust the grip on the sword, the leather worn thin by years of obsessive maintenance. You are walking toward the High Court, a place where the air is always still and the silence has a weight that presses against the eardrums, but you are not there to speak. You are there to be...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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