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The Wistful CrossroadsThe rain had not stopped for nine days, and the water in the cellar of the old botanical institute was rising, inch by slow, sickening inch, against the foundation stones. You stand at the window, your hand resting on the cold glass, watching the gray curtain of mist that swallows the town of Oakhaven whole. It is a place where the boundaries between the living and the dead have always been...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe train did not run on rails. It ran on the marrow of the earth. Silas stood by the window. The glass was cold. It pressed against his cheek. He felt a pulse beneath the metal. A slow, rhythmic throb. The engine was not a machine. It was a beast. It chewed the landscape. It digested the horizon. He held his hat in his hands. The wool was damp. It smelled of rain and iron. "Next stop," the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe velvet lining of the great coat was fraying at the elbow, a dark tear in the midnight blue fabric that exposed the pale, rough wool beneath, and Elias Thorne stood in the center of the cobblestone square, watching the rain slick the ancient stones until they shimmered like the scales of some buried, forgotten beast. He was a man whose hands had built the city’s most celebrated tapestries,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe dream had no ceiling, only a low, humming pressure in the air, like the static charge before a thunderstorm that never breaks. Thomas Ashworth stood in the center of a room that felt too large for its contents, the walls lined with filing cabinets that stretched into a grey, infinite fog. He was holding a single card, its edges soft and worn from handling. The ink on the card was black, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CircuitMarch 14th, 0400 hours. The rain has not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey static that hums against the reinforced glass of the observation deck, blurring the city below into a smear of wet asphalt and neon, a world dissolved by the relentless wash of the storm. I am writing this from the corner of the secure room, the only place where the lights do not flicker, the only place where...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe frost did not creep. It struck. One moment, the valley of the River Ouse lay in grey mist, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and burning peat. The next, the world turned white. A wall of sleet slammed against the stone walls of the Abbey of St. Jude. It was not rain. It was ice. It was the end of the season, and it was here before the bells had finished tolling Vespers. Brother...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe bell rang. It hung from the oak beam in the center of the hall. We struck it every hour. The sound was dull. It was heavy. It shook the dust from the rafters. We lived in the cellar. The air smelled of damp stone. It smelled of old wool. It smelled of fear. I was twelve years old. My friend was Thomas. He was taller than me. He had quiet hands. We worked for Master Aldric. He was a man of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe ink is still wet on your skin, a black vein pulsing beneath the translucent membrane of your wrist, and you are laughing, God help you, you are laughing because the candlelight is so bright it bleaches the color from the room, and the wine in your goblet is red enough to stop a heart. You are a man of letters, a scribe in the service of the Duke, and tonight, at the feast in the great hall,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CampusThe soup was cold, a thick, grey sludge that had congealed in the bowl, smelling faintly of iron and old pennies. Thomas Ashworth stared at the surface, where a single, unbroken yolk floated like a pale eye, refusing to sink. He did not eat. He simply watched it, the way a man watches a slow-acting poison take hold in his veins. Across the table, Captain Halloway was already finished, his plate...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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