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The Distant LegendThe dream is always the same. It is a corridor of wet stone, slick with condensation, stretching into a darkness that breathes. You are running, though your legs are made of lead and sand. Your right hand is open, palm up, and in it rests a key. It is not a key of metal, but of bone. It is warm. It pulses against your skin like a second heartbeat, a frantic, arrhythmic drumming that matches the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceThe frost on the windowpane of the infirmary was not merely ice, but a living map of the winter that had settled into your bones, a white webbing that held the cold in place like a spider’s silk holds a fly, and you watched it thicken while the silence in the room grew heavy, dense as wet wool, pressing against your eardrums with a weight that made the air feel thick enough to chew. You were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe dream always began with the smell of ozone and wet wool. It was a sharp, metallic tang that sat on the back of the throat, a precursor to violence. In the dream, the walls of the chateau were breathing, expanding and contracting with a slow, tidal rhythm. The air was thick, viscous, heavy with a humidity that felt less like weather and more like a physical weight pressing against the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe bell tolled. It shook the dust. It shook my bones. I stood. I was old. I was cold. My sword hung heavy. It was rusted. I looked at the wall. There was a crack. It was small. It was wide. It was deep. I reached for it. My hand trembled. My hand shook. I could not hold it. The crack was a path. It was a boundary. I had chased it. I had chased it for years. My brother was inside. He was lost....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueThe smoke tastes of copper and burnt wool, a thick, cloying taste that coats your tongue and settles deep in the throat, and you are holding the line, you are holding the line, your hands shaking so violently against the cold iron of the rifle stock that you cannot feel the cold anymore, only the heat of the explosion that just tore the earth open three yards to your left, sending a shower of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe fog did not lift. It thickened. It pressed against the windowpane of the chapel like a wet, heavy cloth, muffling the sound of the sea beyond. I sat in the back pew, my hands folded, trembling not from cold but from the sheer weight of the silence. The air smelled of salt and old stone, of incense burned down to ash. Outside, the tide was rising, invisible and inevitable. I had come here to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RootThe banquet hall smelled of wet wool and stale yeast, a heavy, cloying scent that seemed to coat the back of my throat with a thick, viscous film that I could not spit out, no matter how hard I tried to clear my airway of the particulate matter that hung suspended in the amber light of the chandeliers. We were gathered there, the entire district, sitting on folding metal chairs that scraped...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe rain fell in sheets of grey. Cold. Sharp. It soaked the wool of the uniform. It seeped into the bone. Thomas stood at the edge of the fog. He held his left hand up. The fingers were stiff. The knuckles swollen. He looked at them. They were not his. They belonged to the machine. To the thing he wore. He was a soldier. He had always been a soldier. But here, the war was not against men. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe morning light in the Hall of Records does not shine so much as it presses against the glass, a heavy, amber weight that settles on your shoulders before you have even reached your desk, a physical manifestation of the dust that hangs in the still air, suspended like the motes of a life you are trying to catalogue but can never quite contain. You sit in the chair that was built for a man...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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