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The Distant AffairThe dream is not a dream but a waking, a slow bleeding of the spirit into the walls of the keep, where the air tastes of iron and old stone and the heavy, cloying scent of rosemary that has dried in the crevices of the mortar. You are here, in the high tower of Ashworth, and the wind does not blow so much as it presses against the shutters, a living thing seeking entry, yet you do not open...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale LetterThe rain fell upon the ridge with the persistence of a debt that could never be fully repaid, a cold, silver sheet that blurred the line between the earth and the sky, turning the jagged granite of the Appalachian highlands into a smear of gray and black. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the precipice, his boots sinking into the mud that had long since given up any claim to solidity,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe rain hits the slate roof. It sounds like knuckles rapping on a table. You sit by the window. The glass is cold. Your breath fogs it. You wipe it away. A circle of clear. Outside, the world is gray. The trees are bare. They stand like old men with their hands in their pockets. You watch them. You always watch them. They are the only thing that stays. "Stop staring." The voice is low. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe frost had taken the windowpanes first. It crept in like a white vein, intricate and cold, sealing the glass from the inside. I watched it spread. The room was small. The air was thin. I was tired. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a scholar of history. Or I was. Now I am only a man sitting in a chair that does not fit my back, staring at a wall that does not hold my eyes. Outside, the snow...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded GuestThe rain against the windowpane sounds like fingernails scraping glass, a rhythmic, insistent tapping that you have come to know so well it no longer registers as sound but as a vibration in your bones, a low hum that ties your body to the rotting wood of this house, this place where the air smells of damp wool and old paper, and where you sit with your back straight against the high-backed...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe fire started at the elbows. Margaret felt the heat before she saw the smoke. It bloomed in the cartilage. A red pulse. Then a yellow spread. It was not painful. It was a tingling. A warning. She looked down. Her hands were on fire. She dropped the ledger. It hit the wet floor of the warehouse. The paper sizzled. No. The paper did not sizzle. Her hands did. She stared. The skin was bubbling....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe air in the Great Hall of the Whitmore Estate smelled of damp stone and old wax, a scent that had settled into the very grain of the oak floorboards where you now knelt, your knees aching against the cold. It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, the days having blurred into a single, long stretch of gray light that filtered through the high, arched windows, illuminating the dust motes that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe rain hit the windowpane like gravel. It was a steady, gray hammering that turned the night into a blur of streaks. Elias stood by the door. He wore his armor. It was not steel. It was plate glass. He had built it over the years. Thin sheets, cut from the windows of the old chapel. They were clear, or they were supposed to be. Now they were clouded with dust and age. They did not reflect the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe air in the Grand Hall of the Ministry of Civic Harmony tasted of copper and stale lavender, a scent that Margaret Holloway had grown so accustomed to over the last three decades that she could no longer distinguish it from the smell of her own blood, which was running, thin and warm, down her left temple where the baton of the Order’s enforcer had struck her during the morning’s chaotic...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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