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The Wistful SkylineThe iron clatters against the stone with a sound like a dying bell, and I am on my knees, the mud of the courtyard soaking into the wool of my breeches, the taste of copper and old blood thick and heavy on my tongue, while the guardsmen of the High Court advance upon me with spears that catch the dying light of the autumn sun in sharp, indifferent glints. I do not raise my sword, for I know...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe air in the library did not smell of old paper, as one might expect, but of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of fear that had settled into the floorboards decades ago. It was a smell that clung to the back of the throat, a persistent ghost of a sensation that no amount of fresh air could scrub away. Margaret stood in the center of the room, her fingers tracing the edge of a heavy oak...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe air in the Hollow tasted of ozone and old rust. It was a thin, metallic flavor that coated the tongue, a constant reminder that the world here was not solid. It was a construct. A leaky vessel held together by will and wire. Mara sat on the edge of the precipice, her legs dangling over a void that did not end. It simply faded into a static gray. She was counting the seconds between the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe bonsai was dying, and Captain Elias Thorne knew it with the same cold, clinical certainty he applied to the diagnosis of a fractured femur or the necrosis of a gangrenous toe, yet he could not bring himself to look at the blackened, brittle needles that clung to the gnarled juniper as if they were the last, desperate grasps of a drowning man’s fingers, for to look at them would be to admit...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe seal was red. It pressed into the wax. Sharp. Clean. No name. Just a grid. Four lines. Crosswise. Mara held the letter. Her hands shook. The room was cold. Stone walls. Damp. She was alone. Always alone. Here, in the Spire. The air smelled of dust and old iron. Mara looked at the seal again. The Grid. She had seen it before. On the gates. On the floor. In the eyes of the Wardens. It meant...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe rain had stopped. The mud on the road was slick and black, reflecting the gray sky. I looked at the man holding my hand. He was tall. He wore a leather coat. It smelled of oil and old sweat. We stood at the edge of the field. The trees were bare. There was no color left in the world. Just gray and brown and the dull red of the dirt. "Go," he said. His voice was rough. It scraped against my...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe door was pale. It stood alone in the center of the grey field. No hinges. No handle. Just wood. Elias stared at it. He did not move. He waited. The sky was the color of wet ash. It hung low. It pressed down. He was a soldier. Or he had been. The uniform was gone. The rank was gone. Only the door remained. It did not rot. It did not fade. It stayed. Always. Elias took a step. His boot sank...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe banquet hall of St. Aldric’s University smelled of roasted lamb and damp wool, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to seep into the pores of every scholar present. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers wrapped tightly around a chalice of dark red wine that trembled slightly in his hand. He was a man of the mind, a keeper of old texts and newer heresies, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe blade of the chalice was already singing, a high, thin note that cut through the humid air of the cathedral nave, vibrating in the teeth of every soul present. Elara stood at the center of the mosaic floor, the stone cold and damp beneath her bare feet, and felt the weight of the glass object in her hands not as a burden, but as a second heart, beating in a rhythm that did not match her...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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