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The Pale MeridianThe gate was made of iron, but it felt like bone. It stood at the threshold of the Ashworth Manor, a skeleton of rusted bars that had once guarded the wealth of a dynasty now reduced to dust and echoes. I stood before it, my uniform pressed and cold, the brass buttons biting into my chest like teeth. Inside, the manor loomed, a vast, decaying beast of stone and slate, its windows dark as unwept...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful Petal%3Ch1%3EThe+Wistful+Petal%3C%2Fh1%3E%0A%3Cp%3EI+found+the+first+petal+in+the+pocket+of+my+coat.%3C%2Fp%3E%0A%3Cp%3EIt+was+not+a+petal+I+recognised.+I+have+lived+in+London+for+thirty-four+years%E2%80%94thirty-four+years+of+collecting+things+in+pockets%2C+the+small+detritus+of+movement+through+the+city.+A+tube+ticket+from+2011.+A+cork+from+a+bottle+of+champagne+I+never+opened.+A+dried+leaf+from+a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe mud is cold against your face, thick and tasting of iron, as you roll beneath the swinging mace of the Duke’s hound. You do not hear the snarl, only the wet, tearing sound of your own shoulder giving way, a sharp, bright pain that blooms outwards into the rest of you like ink in water. You are on your back now, staring up at the grey, bruised sky of the highlands, watching the rain fall in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale AltarThe feast was a river of gold and grease, flowing over the tables of the high hall. Candles burned in hundreds, their flames trembling in the draft that seeped through the stone walls. The air smelled of roasted boar, spiced wine, and the sweat of many bodies pressed together in the dark. Elara sat at the edge of the table, her hands folded in her lap. She was the daughter of the Lord, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe sky tore open above the valley of Ashwood. Not a cloud, not a storm, but a wound. A jagged, purple gash in the fabric of the world, bleeding smoke and silence. You stood on the ridge, the wind whipping your coat, holding the shield. It was not metal. It was not wood. It was bone. Your own bone, pulled from your arm years ago and reassembled, white and yellowed, etched with the names of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe dust in the library did not settle; it hovered, a suspended galaxy of particulate matter caught in the stagnant air of the vault. I stood before the great oak desk, my fingers tracing the grooves of the varnish, feeling the cold bite of the wood against my skin. The object sat there, innocuous and heavy: a silver astrolabe, its brass gears tarnished to the color of dried blood. It was not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerYou stand before the heavy oak doors of the St. Jude’s Orphanage, the iron handle cold against your palm, slick with the condensation of a fog that has not lifted since dawn, and you know with a certainty that settles deep in your marrow, colder than the stone floor beneath your boots, that you have made a terrible mistake by coming here, yet you cannot turn back because the weight of what you...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe rain did not fall; it was extracted from the sky by a gravity that felt personal, heavy, and indifferent. It hammered against the leaded glass of the watchtower, a rhythmic percussion that sounded less like weather and more like the tapping of knuckles on a table, a silent demand for attention. Thomas Bradshaw sat in the center of the room, his spine rigid against the cold stone, his hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe rain hits the cobblestones like a drumroll for the dead. You stand on the balcony. The air is wet. It smells of wet stone and old iron. Your hand rests on the pommel of your sword. The leather is worn smooth. You have polished it for ten years. You have sharpened it for ten years. You do it for him. For your brother. He is dead. He died three winters ago. A fever took him. Or so they say....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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