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The Pale DanceThe harvest festival at the village of Oakhaven was a cacophony of roasted pork, spiced wine, and the heavy, cloying scent of overripe apples that hung in the autumn air like a threat, and it was in the center of this chaotic, sweating mass of wool and wood and breath that Master Elias Thorne stood, his hands resting not on his sword, which he had long since left rusting in the cellar, but on...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe rain did not fall so much as it was expelled from the sky, a grey, relentless spit that turned the King’s Highway into a slurry of mud and broken promises. I stood beneath the eaves of a collapsed tollbooth, my armor heavy with water, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts that fogged and vanished in the chill. My name is Thomas, and until this morning, I was the Crown’s most celebrated...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe fog did not move with the wind. It moved against it, a cold, persistent thing that pressed against the iron gate of the Blackwood Ironworks like a hand trying to break through glass. I stood on the other side of the boundary line, my breath visible in the dark, waiting for the first light to prove I had not stolen the iron. I was Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, and I had walked this...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyI woke with the taste of ash on my tongue, though I had not lit a fire, and the silence of the bedroom was so heavy, so absolute, that it pressed against my eardrums like deep water, forcing me to sit up in the dark where the only light came from the streetlamp outside casting long, skeletal shadows of the curtains across the floorboards. I was seventy-two years old, and my knees, which had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe final invoice for the structural restoration of St. Jude’s Chapel sat on your desk, a crisp white rectangle that felt heavier than the concrete slabs you had spent the last eighteen months reinforcing, and you stared at the signature line where your name was already printed, waiting for the ink to dry before the winter freeze could set the cracks in the old stone. You were Elias Thorne,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe dream was always the same, a recurring fracture in the fabric of Elias Thorne’s sleep. He stood in a grove of ancient oaks, the bark rough and grey, and there, carved into the heartwood of the largest tree, was the face of his wife, Clara. It was not a portrait, but a wound, the wood weeping amber sap that smelled of rot and honey. Elias woke in his narrow cot in the archive, the air thick...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ExileThe rain hammered against the high, arched windows of the scriptorium, a relentless drumming that seemed to vibrate in the bones of the stone walls. Brother Thomas sat hunched over his desk, the smell of iron-gall ink and damp wool thick in the air, his fingers stained black up to the knuckles. He held the final page of the *Codex Aeternum* in one hand and a quill in the other, but he did not...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ApartmentThe coal dust in the air of Harrowgate tasted of ash and old regret, a gritty film that settled on the tongue and lingered in the throat. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood alone in the center of his sparse apartment, the room stripped of anything that might suggest a life rather than a waiting, his eyes fixed on the object in his hands. It was a wool shawl, faded to a bruised violet, the wool felt by...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe letter in your hand is not paper, but skin. It is a fragment of your own shoulder, torn away by the wind that howls through the narrow pass of the Blackwood Valley, and it whispers your name in a voice that sounds exactly like your own, only older, only tired. You are Sir Alaric, and you are walking away from the fortress you have sworn to defend, carrying the weight of a duty that has...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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