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The Faded GuestThe rain had not stopped in three days. It drummed a relentless, hollow rhythm against the reinforced glass of the observation deck, blurring the city lights of Chicago into smeared streaks of amber and grey. Margaret sat in the corner, her back pressed against the cold metal of the wall. She was small, pale, and trembling. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap, the knuckles white, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GardenThe air in the Hall of Whispers did not smell of incense or old parchment, as the legends claimed. It smelled of wet wool and iron filings, a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of Caelan’s throat. He stood before the High Chancellor, a man whose face was less a face and more a topographical map of wrinkles, deep and shifting like dried riverbeds. "You are late," the Chancellor said. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe rain did not fall. It stood. I saw it in the dream, suspended like glass beads in a jar, each droplet holding a fractured reflection of the city below. I woke with the taste of copper in my mouth. The air in the room was thick, stagnant, smelling of wet wool and old paper. I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. My father, Thomas, sat in the armchair by the window. He was not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe mist sat heavy on the valley floor. It was not a natural fog. It smelled of sulfur and old copper. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the cliff, his boots sinking into the wet grass. He looked down. The town of Oakhaven lay below, shrouded in the pale swirl. It looked like a wound that would not close. He was tired. His bones ached with a deep, dull throb. He had walked for three days. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AlibiThe river did not stop. That was the thing about the river, the thing that held the world together when the rest of it threatened to scatter like dust in a windless room. It flowed with a terrible, indifferent consistency, dark and deep, carrying the silt of a thousand years toward the sea. Elias stood on the stone embankment, his boots slick with the damp chill of the autumn earth, and watched...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe rain fell in long, grey sheets. It washed the mud from the road. It slicked the stones. It made the world smell of wet iron and decay. Thomas Ashworth walked. His boots were heavy. They were soaked through. He did not feel the cold. He did not feel the pain in his ribs. He only felt the weight of the badge on his chest. It was cold steel. It was heavy. It pulled at his neck. He walked...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe air in the Great Hall of the St. Jude’s Asylum for the Chronically Insane tasted of boiled turnips and rusted iron, a thick, cloying fog that settled in the lungs and refused to leave. Inspector Arthur Penhaligon stood at the head of the long, scarred oak table, his uniform buttoned to the throat, the brass epaulets catching the dim, flickering gaslight that hissed from the sconces along...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe feast was held in the great hall of the Iron Citadel, a structure that had stood for three hundred years, watching the river below turn from silver to black and back again. The air smelled of roasted lamb, beeswax, and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep from the very stones. Captain Elias Thorne sat at the high table, his armor polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraThe rain did not fall. It was squeezed out of the sky, a grey, weeping thing that turned the cobblestones slick and the air thick with the smell of wet wool and old stone. I walked. My boots were heavy. The mud sucked at them. I had come to the Abbey of St. Jude. It stood in the valley, a broken jaw of black rock against the grey. I am a seeker. I look for sins. I look for the cracks in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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