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The Faded BouquetThe blood was warm, a shocking, visceral orange against the grey wool of my coat, and I did not wipe it away, for to wipe it away would be to deny the violence that had just erupted from my own chest, a violence that felt less like murder and more like a necessary exhalation after years of holding my breath in the damp, coal-choked air of this godforsaken mill town. I stood there, in the center...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe road into Ashworth was not paved, but packed with the grey mud of a hundred rainy seasons, and it smelled of wet wool and old iron. Elias Thorne drove his cart slowly, the wheels sinking into the soft earth with a rhythmic, sucking sound that seemed to drain the life from the air around him. He was a man who dealt in small truths, a merchant of hinges, latches, and the quiet mechanisms that...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThomas woke with the taste of copper and wet wool in his mouth. The dream was already dissolving, a grey mist clearing off the surface of his mind, leaving only the residue of cold. He lay still in the dark, listening to the tick of the radiator. It was a mechanical sound, rhythmic and indifferent, the heartbeat of the house. He did not move. His body was heavy, a dense mass of muscle and scar...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundI woke up with the taste of rust in my mouth. The air was thin. Cold. It bit into my lungs like a splinter. I was standing on the edge of the White Sea. The fog was so thick it swallowed the horizon. It swallowed the ground. It swallowed me. I looked down. My boots were gone. I was barefoot on the ice. The ice was black. It was smooth. It was cracked. I could see the water underneath. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe morning bell in the Imperial Archive did not ring so much as it groaned, a low, metallic thrum that vibrated through the soles of my boots and settled in the marrow of my bones, a sound that had become the metronome of my thirty-two years of life, marking time in increments of dust and silence. I sat at my desk, a narrow sliver of oak in the vast, cavernous reading room, my hands resting on...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ParadoxThe rain slicks the cobblestones. You are bleeding. Not much. Just a warm trickle down your temple. It tastes of copper and rust. You are in the alley. The shadows are deep. You hold the letter. It is wet. The ink is blurring. You are a detective. You wear a trench coat. It is heavy. It smells of smoke and old paper. You are not supposed to be here. You are supposed to be at the station. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe train cut through the mist like a blade through silk. I stood by the window. The glass was cold. It bit my cheek. I felt the vibration in my teeth. A low hum. A promise. I closed my eyes. The darkness behind my lids was thick. It tasted of iron and old paper. I was going to see him. The Council. They called it a meeting. I called it a sentencing. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a reader. Not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe smell of roasted mutton and wet wool hung thick in the Oakhaven Hall, a heavy, savory fog that clung to the throats of the men who sat at the long trestle tables. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat at the head of the second table, his uniform pressed and stiff, his hands wrapped around a leather-bound ledger that felt colder than the stone floor beneath the rugs. The harvest feast was meant to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe date is the fourteenth of November, in the year of our Lord 1342, and I write this by the failing light of a tallow candle, my hands still stained with the grey residue of the lead cames that bind the heart of the Wistful Grid. I am a glassblower, a craftsman of the molten and the fragile, and for twenty years I have served the Duke of Ashworth, a man who views art not as a devotion to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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