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The Wistful DinnerYou dream of the glass. It is a heavy, green pane. It sits in your hands. The edges are sharp. You hold it up to the moonlight. The light bends through the thickness. It is beautiful. It is fragile. You know this. You have known it since the beginning. The glass is your life. It is your duty. It is the thing that holds the cold out. You wake with the taste of iron in your mouth. The room is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe coat was red. It hung on the hook by the door. It had not been there before. Elias saw it. He did not touch it. He looked at his brother. Thomas stood in the hallway. Thomas was tall. Elias was small. The house was old. The walls were damp. The air smelled of rot. "We do not know," Thomas said. His voice was low. It was a whisper. It cut the air. Elias looked at the coat. It was his size....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe ink on the contract was not yet dry, and it smelled of iron and old blood, a scent that clung to the parchment like a shroud. I sat in the high-backed chair of the Guildhall, the oak beneath my hands cold and unyielding, while the air around us shimmered with the faint, iridescent dust of the Threshold. To my right stood Elowen, my partner of twenty years, her face a mask of polite...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe house groaned. It was a deep, tectonic sound. Not wind. Not pipes. The wood itself was settling. Or dying. Elara stood in the center of the room. She held a glass of wine. It was red. Cheap. It tasted like iron and dirt. Around her, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper. And decay. Her brother sat on the edge of the sofa. His legs dangled. He did not reach the floor. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey weeping that turned the cobblestones of Oakhaven into slick, black mirrors reflecting the gas lamps’ sickly yellow glow. Silas Thorne walked with the heavy, deliberate pace of a man who had long since stopped running, his boots striking a rhythmic thud against the wet stone, a sound that seemed to echo in the hollows of his own chest....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale CircusThe rain did not fall so much as it was erased from the sky, a gray static that pressed against the high, arched windows of the Sanatorium for the Chronically Dissonant, a place where the air tasted of wet wool and antiseptic and the silence was so heavy it had a physical weight, settling on the shoulders of the patients like a second skin that never dried. Silas Vane stood in the center of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a steady, monotonous rhythm against the high, arched windows of the vault, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He stood by the iron railing, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the grey water trickle down the stone face of the fortress. The air inside was thick, stale, and smelled of wet wool, old...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownYou are standing in the center of the atrium of the Department of Anomalous Containment, a space that should be sterile and white but is instead saturated with the thick, cloying scent of ozone and crushed marigolds, the air so heavy with static electricity that the fine hairs on your forearms stand rigid like the quills of a frightened porcupine, and you are wearing your uniform, the deep navy...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale AltarThe rain did not fall so much as it was thrown against the windowpanes of the manor, a relentless, gritty assault that turned the glass into a frosted veil, blurring the dark, churning fields of Yorkshire into a smear of grey and bruised purple. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool and the metallic tang of old paper, a scent that Harold Penhallow had come to associate with his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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