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The Wistful AtlasThe hand was gone. It sat on the table. A slab of pale meat. The fingers were severed at the knuckles. The nails were yellowed. The skin was dry. It looked like a piece of driftwood. It looked like a root. Elias stared at it. The room was cold. The stone walls sweated. A single torch flickered. Shadows danced on the floor. They moved like water. They moved like snakes. He held the hand. He held...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinIn the dream, the fog was thick as wool. It pressed against the windows of the train, a grey, breathing wall. Elias sat in the corner, his hands folded on his lap. They were still. Too still. The rhythm of the wheels was a low, metallic thrum. It vibrated in his teeth. He wore a coat. It was blue. Once, it had been a deep, royal blue. Now it was the color of dried blood. The fabric was thin. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe wool cloak was heavy, not with weight but with the accumulated silence of forty years. It hung on the iron hook behind the door of the scriptorium, its hem dragging through the dust that settled in the deep shadows of the stone floor. Brother Anselm stood before it, his hands trembling slightly as he ran his fingers over the coarse weave. The fabric was worn thin at the elbows, the color of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden Scar"Show me the mark." The voice was thin. It scraped against the silence of the room. You held your breath. The air tasted of dust and old paper. It tasted of fear. You looked down at your hand. The skin was pale. The lines were deep. You turned it over. Slowly. Deliberately. The scar was there. A jagged white line. It ran from your wrist to your elbow. It was ugly. It was bright. It was the only...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe iron key hung at his belt. It was cold. It was heavy. It scraped against his hip bone with every step. Thomas Bradshaw walked the perimeter. He walked it daily. The gravel crunched under his boots. It sounded like teeth breaking. The town of Harrow Creek sat below him. The factories puffed smoke into the grey sky. The smoke never cleared. It settled in the lungs. It settled in the soul....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe ash fell like snow that had forgotten how to melt. It coated the grey streets of Ostrava in a fine, gritty layer that tasted of copper and old smoke. Elias Thorne stood on the bridge over the River Ostravice, his hand resting on the cold iron railing, feeling the vibration of the city beneath his feet. It was a low, thrumming pulse, the heartbeat of a machine that had long since outgrown...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe feast was loud. It was a sound that had no end. The tables stretched out into the dark. The candles burned high. They did not flicker. The air smelled of roast meat and old wood. It smelled of dust. It smelled of time. Mara sat at the head of the table. She wore a red dress. The fabric was heavy. It weighed on her shoulders. It weighed on her soul. Around her neck hung a necklace. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale VerdictThe dream came to me again, as it always did in the deep hours of the night, a cold hand pressing against the back of my skull. I was standing in the Hall of Whispers, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and old blood. The candles were out. There was only the moonlight, pale and thin as a wire, cutting through the high windows. I saw myself standing before the High Magister, my head...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe coffee tasted of rust and burnt sugar. It was the last cup. I knew it was the last because the tin was empty. Because the sun had dipped below the ridge. Because my hands were shaking so hard the ceramic rattled against the saucer. We were in the wilds. The kind of wild that doesn’t care about your rank or your name. Just the wind and the dirt and the cold that settles in your bones....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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