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The Pale MistThe soup was thin. It tasted of salt and old iron. Elias stared at the bowl. The liquid swirled, a pale, muddy vortex. He did not eat. He watched the steam rise and die in the cold air of the kitchen. "You are wasting it," said the voice from the doorway. Elias did not turn. "I am not hungry." "Hunger is a duty. Eating is the act that keeps the body loyal to the state." The man in the doorway...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe dream came to old Silas Thorne not as a vision of light, but as a smell of wet wool and iron filings, a scent so thick it choked the breath from his lungs before he was even awake, waking him in the small hours when the frost had turned the single pane of his workshop window into a lacework of white spiders that wept silent tears onto the sill. He lay there, his body a map of aches that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe smell of tallow and rendered lard hung thick in the air of the cellar, a scent that was both familiar and alien to Elias Thorne. He stood before the oak table, his hands slick with grease, holding a wheel of cheese that had been aging in the dark for three months. It was a hard cheese, pale as bone, with a rind that looked like the dried skin of an old man. This was his life now: the quiet,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, industrial deluge that turned the cobblestones of the mill district into a slick, grey mirror reflecting the jagged, iron-clad teeth of the factory chimneys, and it was into this grey, weeping world that Arthur Pendelton walked, his boots heavy with the sludge of the canal side, his shoulders hunched against a wind that smelled of sulfur...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe leather of the gloves had long since surrendered to the damp air of the warehouse, turning into a soft, bruised flesh that clung to Elias Thorne’s hands like a second skin. He sat on the overturned crate in the corner, the fluorescent lights humming a low, sickly note above him, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the stagnant air. His thumbs were raw, the skin cracked and weeping a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe fire started in the basement, which was strange, because you had been sitting in the parlor, staring at the dust motes dancing in the single beam of sunlight that pierced the heavy velvet curtains. You remember the smell before you saw the smoke. It was the scent of old paper and wet wool, a cloying, domestic odor that usually signaled nothing more than a damp day in the valley. But then...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded GuestThe iron in my sword tasted of blood and rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat as I stood amidst the shattered remnants of the courtyard. It was not a battlefield, not in the way the chroniclers would later describe it, with its grand sweeping lines and heroic charges. It was merely a stone-paved square in the heart of the old palace, slick with mud and the red wash of a minor...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe air tasted of copper and old stone. It was a taste Elias had known for forty years, the metallic tang of fear that clung to the back of his throat. He stood in the center of the room, though "room" was a generous term for the void. The floor was not wood or tile. It was a seamless expanse of pale, translucent matter, like bone left in the sun for a century. It pulsed faintly beneath his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the high, narrow windows of the stone house on the hill, a persistent, rhythmic tapping that felt less like weather and more like a judgment. I sat in the study, the room I had occupied for the last decade, my hands folded in my lap, resting on the cold mahogany. The air smelled of damp wool and old paper, a scent that had become...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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