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The Distant NightmareThe air in the Hall of Mirrors smelled of ozone and old blood. Elara stood before the glass. Her reflection did not blink. “Do you see it?” the King asked. He did not look at her. He looked at the table between them. On the table lay a single object. It was a sphere of black iron. It was no larger than a plum. It was heavy. It was cold. Elara looked at the sphere. “I see a stone,” she said. “It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe fog did not roll in so much as it stood up, a vertical wall of damp grey wool that erased the horizon and swallowed the spires of the abbey whole, leaving the world reduced to a tight, breathing circle of stone and silence where Elias Thorne sat alone in his narrow office, a man whose life had been measured not in years but in the precise, monotonous accumulation of ledger entries and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe house was not a house, not really, but a mouth that had forgotten how to close, standing open against the grey November sky with its teeth of broken guttering and its tongue of moss that had long since swallowed the foundation stones. We called it the Asylum, though it had held no patients for sixty years, only memories, and memories, as I was beginning to learn, are far more volatile than...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe air in the Hall of Verdicts did not smell of incense or rot, as you might expect from a place where souls are weighed, but of old iron and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone that precedes a storm which has been waiting centuries to break. You stand before the Dismantling Engine, a monstrosity of brass gears and blackened steel that dominates the center of the room, its teeth grinding slowly...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe rain in the capital does not wash things clean; it merely makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflect the rot of the empire back up at you. You have been walking for three days, your boots heavy with the mud of the countryside, your spine aching from the weight of the dossier you carry in your chest, not in a bag, but in the hollow place behind your ribs...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseMy mother said I was a ghost before I was born. She said it with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She said it while scrubbing the blood from the basin. The water turned pink. Then red. Then clear. She looked at me. I was a squirming thing. I was not a promise. I was a mistake. We lived in the house on the hill. The stones were cold. The air was thin. My mother, Eleanor, was tall. She moved...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MachineThe rain fell in sheets of grey, washing the cobblestones of the old square until they gleamed like polished obsidian, and I stood there with the heavy, iron-bound book clutched to my chest, feeling the cold seep through my wool coat and into the marrow of my bones, while the crowd swayed around me in a silent, hypnotic rhythm that seemed to pull the breath from my lungs. It had been three days...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe smell of boiled cabbage and antiseptic hangs heavy in the air, a thick, greasy veil that coats the back of your throat. You stand in the center of the refectory, the long wooden table stretching out before you like a dissection table, its surface slick with the residue of a meal that tastes of ash and fear. This is the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility for the Mentally Insane, established in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe road was not a line but a wound in the earth, ragged and red, stretching out into the grey throat of the heath. Elias Thorne drove his cart with a hand that trembled less than the reins, for the wood of the handle had been sanded smooth by decades of sweat and prayer, a familiar companion that seemed to extend his own nervous system into the iron wheels. He was a man who had spent his life...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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