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The Wistful CrossroadsIn the grey, soot-stained heart of the industrial city, where the iron lungs of the factories heaved their perpetual, suffocating breath into the low-hanging smog, Elias Thorne sat alone in the narrow, drafty room above his shop, his hands resting heavily upon a piece of mahogany that had begun to crack along its grain. The air in the room was thick with the scent of linseed oil and the faint,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverI am writing this from the hollow of a tree that has long since rotted into the earth, a space so tight and dark that the air tastes of wet rot and old blood, and I can feel the pulse of the wood against my back like a second heartbeat, a slow, terrible drumming that reminds me that I am still alive even as I try to convince myself that I am already gone. The walls are not solid stone but the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe rain did not fall so much as it insisted, a gray, industrial curtain that blurred the distinction between the cobblestones and the sky, turning the city of Oakhaven into a watercolor of soot and steel. I stood at the edge of the river, my coat soaked through to the skin, watching the dark water churn with a rhythmic, mechanical pulse that seemed less like nature and more like the heartbeat...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SuspectThe rain hits the tower. It hits the stone. You feel it. Your armor is wet. It is heavy. You stand on the battlement. The wind howls. It is cold. You are a soldier. You are alone. The castle is old. It is yours. It is a ruin now. The walls are thin. The mortar crumbles. You touch the brick. It flakes away. Dust falls on your hand. You wipe it off. You look at your wife. She is in the hall...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, gray mist that clung to the cobblestones of the old quarter and settled into the crevices of the skin. Elias Thorne moved through this dampness with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had long since accepted that gravity was not an enemy to be fought, but a companion to be endured. He was a fighter, or had been, in the days when...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe bus smelled of wet wool and stale coffee. It was a smell that had become Mara’s own signature over the last three months, a scent that clung to her clothes, her hair, and the inside of her nose. She sat by the window, watching the grey rain streak the glass, blurring the suburban sprawl into a smear of mud and brick. Her hand rested on her lap, fingers curled around the strap of her bag....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe ink was dry, but the weight of it was not. "You have done well, Master Alder," the Duke said. His voice was a low rumble, like stones shifting in a riverbed. He did not look up from the parchment. He only turned the page, a slow, deliberate motion that seemed to consume the light in the room. "The seal is perfect." Alder nodded. He did not bow. Bows were for those who sought favor. Alder...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe wind did not howl; it screamed, a thin, reedy shriek that tore through the eaves of the lighthouse like a needle through wet canvas. Inside, the air was stale, thick with the smell of damp wool and the metallic tang of old blood, though there was no one there to bleed. Elias Thorne sat at the heavy oak table, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the wood, his eyes fixed on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SuspectThe soup was cold, a thick, grey sludge of turnip and bone that sat in the clay bowl like a heavy, sleeping eye. Marguerite stared at it, her fingers trembling slightly against the rough, splintered wood of the refectory table, feeling the chill of the stone floor seep up through the thin soles of her shoes. She was a woman of forty, though the years had carved deep canyons into her face,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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