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The Golden HarborThe kettle clicks off. You do not move. You sit at the kitchen table in the house on Sorrow Hill, the one that leans into the fog like a drunkard leaning on a wall. The air smells of wet wool and old copper. It smells like the town. It smells like the thing they are going to do to you. You look at the object on the table. It is a small brass compass. It does not work. The needle spins lazily,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe table groaned. It was a oak slab, scarred by decades of knives and spills. We sat around it. There were twelve of us. We ate. We drank. We laughed. The laughter was too loud. It bounced off the high ceilings. It stuck to the walls. It felt like oil. I looked at Margaret. She was cutting her meat. The fork made a scraping sound. It was a high, thin note. It cut through the noise. I focused...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe iron taste of the rain hung in the air of the Lower Ward, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat and settled deep in the lungs like sediment in a stagnant pool. I sat on the edge of the cot, my hands resting on the hilt of the short sword that had been issued to me not for glory, but for the maintenance of the perimeter, that thin, trembling line between the sanctioned order of...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe rain does not fall; it hangs. A suspended grey veil, thick with the smell of wet ash and ozone. You stand at the edge of the Chasm, the wind tearing at the hem of your coat, and you count the seconds until the next tremor. One. Two. Three. The ground shudders. A crack splits the obsidian floor like a vein of black lightning. You are a restorer. A mender of broken things. In the city above,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowYou are alone on the ridge. The wind cuts through your wool coat, a cold, thin needle stitching the air to your skin. You do not shiver. You are too busy watching the mist. It rolls down from the peaks, not like water, but like a slow, grey breath. You have been here for three days. Your boots are heavy with mud and old blood. Your hand aches where the sword hilt has rubbed the callus raw. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyThe letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges softened by years of handling, the ink faded to a ghostly violet against the yellowed paper. It was dated November 14th, three years ago, and it was written by Thomas Bradshaw to his son, Julian. "Julian," Thomas had begun, his hand trembling as he held the pen. "You ask why I am leaving. You ask if I am afraid. I am not afraid. I am tired. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe hall smelled of roasted garlic and old sweat. Candles flickered. Shadows danced on the high beams. Elias stood in the center. He was a large man. Broad shoulders. Thick neck. He held a sword. It was a heavy thing. Iron and wood. The room was full. Faces watched him. Smiling. Nodding. But their eyes were cold. They called him the Monster. They called him the Beast. Elias did not care. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe glass was not clean. It had not been clean in the three years I had lived in this house, and in the three years before that when I was merely a tenant of my own mind, drifting through the streets of a town that had swallowed me whole like a stone in a slow, grinding throat. The greenhouse stood at the back of the property, a skeletal ribcage of iron and fractured crystal, leaking the damp...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe rain fell in sheets, a cold and relentless curtain that blurred the line between the earth and the sky. Edward Ashworth walked with his head bowed, the heavy wool of his cloak clinging to his shoulders, soaked through to the skin. He had left the city of Valerius behind, not by choice, but by necessity. The bells had rung at dawn, a mournful toll that signaled the end of his tenure and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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