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The Golden DowntownThe road out of the city was a ribbon of wet asphalt, slick and black, cutting through the dark woods that pressed close on either side. You were driving your father’s old sedan, the engine coughing and shivering in the cold, while the wipers beat a frantic, rhythmic tattoo against the windshield. It was November, the air thin and sharp, carrying the scent of rotting leaves and distant...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe mud is not merely wet but alive, a thick, sucking medium that pulls at your boots with the tenacious, blind affection of a starving dog, and you are deep in the center of it, the iron of your breastplate singing a low, discordant note against the air as you swing your sword in a wide, desperate arc that catches nothing but the heavy, humid breath of the forest, the rain falling in sheets...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe road to the Abbey of St. Jude did not lead so much as it ascended, a pale ribbon of packed earth climbing through the mist that clung to the valley floor like a shroud. Thomas Ashworth rode at the head of the column, his horse, a gray destrier named Balthazar, picking its way with the weary certainty of an animal that had walked these paths for decades. Behind him, the procession wound...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongMaren woke inside the dream. It was not a waking she remembered. It was a becoming. The air tasted of iron and old rain. She stood in the center of a vast, circular hall. The floor was black stone, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected her own face back at her, but the reflection did not move when she did. It waited. The walls were made of bone. Not the brittle, yellowed bones of the dead,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe chisel snaps in your hand, the splinter of oak whistling past your ear to embed itself in the rough-hewn timber of the wall, and you stand there, breathless, the jagged end of the handle still warm against your palm, while the silence in the workshop grows heavy and thick as wet wool. "You are bleeding," says old Elias, not looking up from his own work, his voice a dry rasp that seems to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe rain does not fall here; it is extracted. You feel it pulling at the skin of your face, a cold, metallic suction that draws the warmth from your bones and replaces it with the damp chill of the iron city. You are running. Your lungs burn with a taste like copper and rust, the air thick with the particulate haze of the steam engines that drive the skyline of Oakhaven. This is not a city of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe steel was cold, not with the chill of the metal itself, but with the absence of the blood that should have warmed it, and Elias Thorne stood in the center of the sterile, white-walled interrogation room, his hands bound by the invisible, crushing weight of his own rigid adherence to a code that had long since rusted into an inescapable cage, while the camera in the corner, a black...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe dream always began with the smell of wet stone and old iron. Thomas Wynn woke in the grey pre-dawn, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He lay still, listening to the drip of condensation from the eaves of his modest workshop in the old quarter of London. It was the year 1348, and the air smelled of rot, but in the dream, the air smelled of ozone and the sharp,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe soup was thick. It was cold. It tasted of iron and old pennies. Gareth sat at the head of the table. His hands were steady. He did not tremble. He picked up the spoon. He lifted it. The broth clung to the metal. It dripped. A single drop. It hit the wood. It spread. "You are eating," said the man across from him. The man was tall. He wore a coat of grey wool. It was heavy. It smelled of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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