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The Distant PromiseThe ink had dried on the page before I realized my hand was trembling. It was a small tremor, barely a shiver in the air, but it betrayed the magnitude of what I had just inscribed. I was sitting in the back of the station wagon, the engine ticking as it cooled in the gravel lot of the observatory, the glass walls reflecting the first bruised purple of the twilight. Elias sat in the driver’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe rain in the city did not fall so much as it seeped, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the brickwork of the old quarter and soaked into the marrow of anyone foolish enough to walk without an umbrella, which is precisely why Cillian stood there, shivering under the awning of the apothecary on Mercer Street, watching the droplets trace erratic, weeping lines down the glass. It was the kind...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe collapse of the Great Atrium did not happen with a crash, but with a sigh, a long, tectonic exhalation that seemed to drain the very air from the city of Velloria. Dust, thick and gray as the ash of forgotten winters, settled over the spires, swallowing the sunlight that had once poured through the stained glass in rivers of color. Elias Thorne stood in the ruins of the Department of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe ice started with a whisper. It was not the sound of a crack, but the sigh of a breath held too long finally letting go. Elias Vane lay in the narrow cot in the attic, his body a map of aches, the cold seeping through the wool blanket like a slow tide. Below him, through the thin floorboards, the house settled. Outside, the town of Oakhaven was asleep, but the lake was not. The lake, that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe bell tolled. Seven times. The sound was a physical weight, pressing against the windows of the Great Hall. Elias stood by the window. His hands were steady. They had always been steady. He was the Keeper of the Word. For forty years, he had guarded the Lexicon. It was not a book. It was a room. A cold, stone room deep beneath the Abbey. He turned from the glass. The frost had drawn ferns on...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe dream always starts with the smell of ozone and wet wool. I am standing in the workshop. It is a place that does not exist on any map. The walls are made of brick, but the bricks breathe. They expand and contract with a slow, rhythmic sigh. Dust motes hang in the air, suspended like insects in amber. I am holding a blade. It is long and thin. The steel is dark, almost black. It feels warm...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe rain did not fall so much as it was forced down, a grey curtain pulled tight against the stone walls of the High Street, slicking the cobblestones until they shone like the polished scales of some drowned beast. In the center of this wet, thrumming chaos, young Thomas stood with his arms crossed, not in defiance, but in the rigid posture of a boy who had decided to become a statue before...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe iron gate of the Abbey of Saint Jude does not rust, a fact that troubles you more than the cold which settles into your marrow each morning when you rise from the straw to tend the sick, for the metal remains a dull, unyielding grey while the world around it rots and decays with the relentless, indifferent patience of winter. You are a knight, or you were, before the coins ran out and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled from the bruised belly of the sky, a thick, grey mist that clung to the limestone walls of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Preservation of Heritage, a sprawling, gothic beast of a building that seemed to grow out of the damp earth of the English countryside like a malignant tumor of stone and ivy. I stood at the window of the archive room, my...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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