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The Wistful DinnerThe dream was not of a place, but of a sensation, a heavy, wet pressure against the left flank where the ribs should have been. Elias woke with the taste of iron and old blood in his mouth, the taste of a wound that had never healed, only scarred over with a tissue that felt less like skin and more like wet clay. He was lying in the straw of the infirmary wing of the St. Jude’s Order, a place...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe rain fell like iron filings. It slicked the road into a black ribbon that stretched out toward the horizon, a path with no end. Silas walked. His boots were heavy. They were caked in mud that smelled of rot and old blood. He carried the lantern. It was a brass thing. It hummed. It was warm against his chest, a second heart. He was a man of the law. Or he had been. The badge was gone. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe seal was heavy. It sat in the palm of Arthur’s hand like a stone from a dried-up riverbed. Cold. Unyielding. The wax was black. It had not been black before. It had been crimson, vibrant and fresh, only a week ago. Now it was dull. Ashen. A bruise that would not heal. Arthur stood in the center of the room. The room was large. It was the Chancellor’s office. The walls were lined with books....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe centrifuge spun with a low, persistent hum that vibrated through the soles of my shoes and into the marrow of my tibia, a rhythmic thumping that matched the erratic, accelerating flutter of my own heart as I watched the amber fluid separate into its distinct, layered components, the heavy precipitate sinking like sediment in a stagnant pond while the lighter serum floated above, a perfect,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe ink was dry before I touched the parchment. I held the quill. My hand shook. The script glowed. It was a name. It was my name. It was not mine. The tower was cold. Stone bit my skin. I am the Archivist. I keep the records. I keep the silence. The High Inquisitor stood by the door. His shadow fell across me. He did not speak. He waited. I waited. The scroll was heavy. The paper smelled of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe dream began with the smell of rotting lilies. Miles awoke. Sweat slicked his brow. The candle guttered. He sat up. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The room was dark. The air was thick. A whisper slithered through the shadows. *You know.* Miles closed his eyes. He tried to breathe. The air tasted of ash. He knew. He always knew. The city of Oakhaven slept. But not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe mist clings to the valley floor like a shroud that has not yet been lifted. You know this fog. It is not merely weather. It is the breath of the town, held too long in the lungs of the hills. You stand at the edge of the orchard, watching it thicken. Your fingers are numb, but the cold is a familiar companion. It bites, yet it does not kill. You are Eleanor Ashworth. You are the one who...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe ash falls like a slow, grey snow that does not melt, coating the cobblestones of Millhaven in a fine, powdery layer that turns black under the weight of your boots, and you stand there in the square, holding the clay jar with both hands, feeling the heat of the contents seep through the thin, glazed surface into your palms, burning your skin with a pain that is sharp and immediate and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe ale was thick and dark as the soil of the fields we had lost, and it sloshed against the clay bottom of the bowl as you held it, your knuckles white, your fingers trembling not from the cold of the hall but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had settled over the feast. You sat at the far end of the long oak table, in the shadow of the trestle legs, while the Lord’s retinue...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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