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The Golden MazeThe iron collar bit into Margaret’s neck, cold and unyielding, a constant reminder that she was no longer a woman of flesh but a vessel for a curse. She stood on the precipice of the Obsidian Gate, the wind howling through the hollows of the ancient stone, carrying with it the scent of wet ash and rotting lilies. Behind her, the labyrinth of the Blackwood stretched out, a tangle of thorns and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe rain falls hard on the cobblestones of the Grey Ward. It is a cold, metallic rain. It tastes of iron and old blood. You walk with your back straight. Your boots strike the wet stone in a steady rhythm. *Clack. Clack. Clack.* You are a Sentinel of the High Keep. Your uniform is grey wool, stiff with damp. On your chest, pinned over the heart, is the Meridian. It is a brooch of pale,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe rain lashed against the slate roof of the Blackwood Institute like a thousand small, angry fists, a sound that had long since ceased to be weather and become a kind of rhythm, a pulse that throbbed through the bones of the old stone walls and into the marrow of the men who walked its corridors. Professor Elias Thorne stood in the center of the Assembly Hall, his hands clasped behind his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe rain hits the pavement in a steady, gray drumbeat. You are not supposed to be here. You are not supposed to be working. The shop is closed, the sign in the window says closed, but you are inside, hunched over the workbench, your hands moving with a frantic, mechanical precision. You are cutting a piece of velvet. It is midnight in Chicago, or maybe one, the time has lost its meaning. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe dream began with the smell of ozone and wet wool, a scent that Elara Vance had come to associate with the thinning of the veil between the living and the dead. She stood in the vast, echoing hall of the Ashworth Industrial Complex, a place of soot-stained brick and the rhythmic, metallic heartbeat of the new steam engines that churned the city’s lifeblood. In her hands, she held a simple...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe collar was white. Not the clean, starched white of a hospital sheet or a fresh page, but a pale, yellowed ivory, like the bone of a long-dead bird. It sat on the desk in front of me, a small, stiff thing that smelled faintly of lavender and old dust. I had worn it for six years, from the age of nine until I turned fifteen. It was the only thing I owned that belonged to her. The institution...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SuspectThe boy, whose name was Arthur, sat within the confines of the stone cellar beneath the old manor, his back pressed against the cold, damp wall where the moss grew thick and green in the perpetual twilight, and he watched the single wren that had perched upon the rim of the clay water jug, trembling not from fear but from a profound and ancient exhaustion that mirrored the hollow ache in his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe smell of boiled turnips hung in the air. It was thick. It was sweet. It was wrong. Rowan slept. He dreamed of the cellar. The stones were wet. The cold bit into his bones. He held a bowl. The bowl was made of clay. It was heavy. It was warm. He opened his eyes. The room was dark. Only the window let in the moon. The light was thin. It cut across the floor. It touched his hand. He sat up....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe rain in this part of the valley does not fall so much as it presses down, a heavy, gray hand against the glass, blurring the world outside into a smear of mud and wet asphalt. You are standing in the archive room of the municipal records office, the air thick with the smell of decaying paper and the faint, metallic tang of old dust. It is a place of silence, a sterile box of concrete and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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