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The Faded AlibiWe stood before the Great Glass, that singular, unblinking eye of the universe, and I heard the hum of our own blood in my ears, a sound so loud it drowned out the wind outside, a wind that did not blow here but seemed to be the memory of a wind, a ghost of a gale that had swept across the plains of a world we had left behind or perhaps a world we had never truly entered, only dreamed into...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe rain has been falling for three days, a persistent, grey curtain that blurs the edges of the city into a watercolor smear, and you stand at the window of your study, watching the water trace its slow, inevitable paths down the glass, feeling a strange, hollow lightness in your chest that you refuse to name. You are a scholar of medieval folklore, a man of books and dust, whose life is...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe rain fell in sheets. It hammered the slate roof of the inn. A sound like bones breaking. Captain Elias Thorne sat in the corner. He did not look up. His hands rested on the table. They were steady. They were always steady. That was the problem. A door burst open. Wind rushed in. It carried the smell of wet wool and ozone. Three men entered. They wore the grey coats of the High Magistrates....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe rain in Alderford did not wash things clean. It only made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors of filth that reflected the low, bruised sky. You stood at the corner of Sorrow Lane, your cloak heavy with water, your hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had seen better centuries. The sword was old. The wood of the hilt was worn smooth, polished by generations of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe soup was cold. You tasted the iron in it. It tasted of rust and old blood. You held the bowl with both hands, the ceramic warm against your palms, yet the liquid inside remained stubbornly, impossibly chill. "Drink," said the voice. It was not a voice. It was a pressure. A weight pressing down on the base of your skull. "Drink, and be clean." You were in the cell. The stone walls were slick...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe dream was not of a house, but of a garment, suspended in a void that smelled of wet ash and copper. It was a shawl of deep indigo wool, woven with a pattern so complex it seemed to shift when the eyes tried to fix upon it, a tapestry of stars and thorns that breathed with a slow, rhythmic pulse. I held it in my hands, or perhaps it held me, for the weight was immense, crushing the air from...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe bell rang. It was not a sound of metal. It was a sound of bone. "You are late," said the Master. "I am here," said Thomas. "You are present. You are not here. There is a difference." Thomas stood still. The floor was cold. The stone was old. It had seen kings. It had seen plague. It saw Thomas. Thomas was small. He was a clerk. He held the quill. The ink was black. The ink was wet. "Speak,"...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe rain did not fall; it was driven, a horizontal assault that blurred the line between the heather and the grey sky. Margaret Holloway walked with her head down, shoulders hunched against the wind, her coat soaked through to the skin. In her left hand, she clutched a bouquet of dried lavender, brittle and brown, wrapped in yellowing newsprint. It was an object out of time, a relic from a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe soup was cold. I watched the fat congeal on the surface. White. Thick. A skin forming over the broth. It looked like skin. My own skin, peeling away in the dark. "Thomas," my mother said. She did not look up from her needle. The thread pulled tight. A thin white line against the dark wool of her sleeve. "I am here, Mother." "Is it cold?" "Yes." She nodded. A small, dry motion. Like a bird...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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