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The Pale TowerThe rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the slate roof of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility with a rhythmic, persistent violence that felt less like weather and more like a siege. I stood by the window of my office, watching the gray mist swirl through the courtyard, my hands resting on the cold metal of the railing. My uniform felt heavy, not with weight, but with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe taste of iron and wet loam filled Thomas Bradshaw’s mouth, a metallic tang that coated his tongue like a thin film of rust, and he woke with the sensation that his hands were buried to the wrist in the frozen mud of the Appalachian foothills, a dream so visceral that the cold seeped through his flannel shirt and into the marrow of his bones even as he lay in the narrow cot of the quarantine...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeYou wake to the sound of your own breathing, a ragged, wet thing that fills the small, damp cellar where you have been keeping watch for three days. The air tastes of wet stone and stale iron, the metallic tang of blood that is not yours, or perhaps it is, you can no longer tell the difference between the rust of the old pipes and the copper in your mouth. You are a soldier in a war that has no...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe collapse of the Atrium did not sound like an explosion, but rather like the long, shuddering exhalation of a dying giant, a sound that vibrated in the marrow of my bones before it reached my ears. I stood in the center of the rubble, my uniform torn, my face smeared with ash and the red dust of the collapsed foundations, while around me the air shimmered with a heat that smelled of ozone...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain drawn tight against the world. It soaked into the wool of Margaret’s coat, a heavy, cold weight that settled on her shoulders like a second skin. She walked. The road was mud, deep and treacherous, sucking at her boots with each step. Around her, the village was empty. The shutters were down. The chimneys were silent. It was a silence...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe soup was gone, but the smell remained, a thick, coppery haze that clung to the back of Clara’s throat. She sat at the head of the table in the dining room, which was no longer a dining room but a waiting room for a judgment that had not yet been pronounced. The house was breathing. That was the only way to describe it. The walls expanded and contracted with a slow, tidal rhythm, and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe dream was always the same, a recurring frequency in the static of his sleep. A river of black ink, thick and viscous, pooling in the basements of the University of Oxford’s oldest halls. It did not flow; it accumulated. It pressed against the stone walls with the patience of centuries. And standing at the edge of this dark tide, holding a glass vial that caught the moonlight, was Arthur...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded Dust"Look at you. Covered in soot. Smelling of sulfur and lies." The voice was not mine. It was the voice of the Magistrate, though I was not in his courtroom. I was in the workshop. My hands were black. The glass beads on the loom crunched under my boot. "I am a maker," I said. My voice was thin. It broke. "I do not lie. I make." "Lies," the Magistrate repeated. He stood by the door. He wore...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe bell tolled. It was a heavy, iron sound that shook the dust from the high beams of the infirmary. It did not ring for the hour. It rang for the sickness. Silas sat on the edge of the stone bench. His hands were bound by a simple rope. The rope was rough. It bit into his wrists. He did not move. He watched the pot on the hearth. The liquid inside was black. It boiled with a low, rhythmic...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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