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The Pale DanceThe blade sang. It cut the air with a thin, high whine. I swung it. The leather of the gauntlet creaked. Dust rose in the grey light. It was the Market Square. Or what had been the Market Square. Now it was a wound in the city. Stone had fallen. Smoke hung low, thick as wool. It tasted of ash. It tasted of iron. I stood there. My name is Edward. I am a Warden. My coat is black. It is stained....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe bone breaks. You feel it. A sharp, white crack under the skin of your left hand. You are running. The forest is thick. The air tastes of iron and rot. You do not look back. You cannot stop. Your father’s voice is a whip. It lashes at your heels. Run, he says. Run until the pain stops. Run until you are nothing. You are not a soldier. You are a refugee. The war is far away, but it is in your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe dream was wet. It was always wet. Elian woke with the taste of iron in his mouth. Copper. Old pennies. The cellar air clung to his skin. He was twelve. The city slept. Or so it seemed. The towers of St. Jude’s loomed over the cobblestones, black teeth in a grinning jaw. Below, the river churned. Not water. Sludge. Thick, oily, alive. His mother stood by the door. She did not look at him....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe sky tore open with a sound like tearing silk. It was not thunder. Thunder is a rumble, a distant growl. This was a shriek. A high, thin wail that cut through the air and lodged itself in the marrow of my bones. I stood on the ramparts of Oakhaven, my hand wrapped around the hilt of my sword. The steel was cold. It had always been cold. But today it felt alive, trembling with a fear that was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe air in the attic smelled of dried lavender and old dust, a scent that had seeped into the weave of the rug and the grain of the floorboards over decades. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my hands trembling slightly as I held the brass compass. It was a heavy thing, cold to the touch, its face clouded by time. I had found it in the bottom of my father’s desk, tucked beneath a stack of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseYou stand at the edge of the precipice, where the stone gives way to the churning, black water of the River Aves, and the mist rises off the surface like the breath of a dying god, thick and cloying and smelling of ancient rot and crushed mint, and you realize that your hands, those hands which have held the heavy iron hilt of the royal guard’s sword for thirty years without a tremor, are now...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ParadoxThe rain did not fall. It hovered. Silas stood in the center of the circle. The stone was cold. The mist was thick. He held his sword. The blade was dull. It had not been sharpened in a week. He looked at the fog. The fog looked back. Or so he thought. He was a Keeper of the Gate. The title was heavy. The weight was real. It pressed on his shoulders. It pressed on his mind. He had served the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden GreenhouseThe glass shattered not with a sound but with a silence so profound it swallowed the air, leaving Margaret Holloway standing in the center of the rotunda with the dust of the shattered dome still hanging in the stale, ancient light, a fine powder that settled on her eyelashes like the snow that had been promised in the prophecies but never arrived. She held the fragment, a jagged shard of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe road to the Abbey of St. Jude was not paved, but packed with the dust of centuries and the silence of the dead. You walked it with a heavy step, your boots worn thin, your mind a labyrinth of technical precision and spiritual terror. You were not a pilgrim seeking absolution, but a surveyor seeking the truth of a structure that refused to remain still. The air smelled of wet stone and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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