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The Distant MachineThe ironworks at the edge of the village did not hum, it screamed, a low, constant thrum that settled in the marrow of the bones and rattled the teeth in their sockets, a sound that was less heard than felt, a physical weight pressing against the sternum until the heart beat in time with the pistons, and in that rhythmic violence, in that unceasing mechanical churning of heat and iron and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownYou hold the ring. It is cold. Iron. Black. Heavy. You sit in the dark. The city sleeps. Rain taps the window. You are alone. You are the seeker. You have come for the truth. You have come for the crown. The ring is a key. It fits the lock in your mind. You turn it. Nothing happens. You look at the door. The door is locked. You are not supposed to be here. You are the shadow. You are the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded SutraI dreamt of a hand, pale and trembling, holding a shard of glass that was not glass but bone, a fragment of my own radius that had broken years ago in the frozen yards of the base, a piece of self that I had never fully set, never fully healed, and yet I held it up to the light with the reverence one might show a saint’s relic, watching the jagged edges catch the sun, slicing the air into...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyThe blade is in your hand, and the weight of it is the only truth that remains when the air turns to ash. You are not a man anymore; you are a function of the shield and the spear, a muscle memory repeated until the soul has been filed away like rust from iron. The keep of Saint Aldric’s Gate is not a home, but a machine of stone and hunger, and today the machine has broken. The bread is gone....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe bread is black and dense, a loaf of rye baked in the belly of an oven that has burned for three hundred years, and you hold it in your hands as if it were a living thing, warm and pulsing with a heat that does not come from the fire but from the earth itself, and the smell of it, that thick, yeasty scent of fermentation and char, is the only thing that keeps you tethered to the world when...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe feast in the great hall of the manor was a cacophony of clinking silver and roaring fire, yet you sat at the far end of the long oak table, feeling the weight of the silence that lived inside your chest. You were only twelve years old, small for your age, with hair the color of dried wheat and eyes that had learned to look away before anyone could see the fear in them. Your mother, Lady...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaYou stand at the center of the long oak table, the wood worn smooth by generations of hands that have poured and spilled and clinked glasses in the dark, and the candlelight flickers against the stone walls of the hall, casting long, wavering shadows that seem to breathe with the rhythm of the feast, for tonight is the night of the Binding, when the village of Ashford, ancient and immovable as...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe brass calipers sat on the drafting table, their jaws open like the mouth of a sleeping beast, waiting to measure the distance between what was and what could be. I held the stylus in my right hand, a tool of precision that had become an instrument of penance, and I looked out the high, arched windows of the Ashworth & Sterling Precision Works toward the river, where the fog lay thick and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe dream began with the smell of wet wool and rot. I stood in a corridor that stretched endlessly into the dark, the floorboards black with age and damp. At the far end, a single light burned. It was not a flame. It was a moth. A large, grey thing, its wings tattered and thin as parchment, pulsing with a faint, sickly luminescence. I reached for it. My hand closed on nothing. The air was cold....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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