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The Wistful WitnessThe chandelier above you is a constellation of cut crystal, each facet catching the light of the chandeliers until the air itself seems to shatter into a thousand cold, bright points that reflect back at you, mocking your own reflection in the glass of the wine in your hand, a thin red line of vulnerability in a room full of power and polished stone. You are Elara, thirty-two, and you are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded BouquetThe feast hall of Lord Vane’s castle smelled of roasting goose and stale wine, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the tapestries and the breath of the thirty knights seated at the long oak table. Sir Aldric sat rigidly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed not on the food before him but on the wrist of his squire, Thomas. The black sigil, the Mark, had spread from...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesThe fire started in the east quarter. You saw it first as a smear of orange on the horizon, a bruise spreading across the grey sky. Then the wind turned. It carried the smell of burning pine and wet ash into the alleyways. You stood on the bridge, looking down at the river. The water was black and still. It did not move. It did not care. Your name is Elara. You live in the city of Orem. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe rain does not fall so much as it presses against the windowpanes, a wet, heavy hand trying to push its way into the warmth of the study, and you are sitting there with a book open on your knee that you are no longer reading, the words blurring into a meaningless gray sludge that matches the sky outside, because the coat is gone, the coat that your brother wore until the day he died, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe dream was always the same: a clock tower of white stone, its face fractured, the gears hanging in the air like broken teeth. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of copper in his mouth and the cold settling deep in his joints. It was 1912, and the air in his small flat in Manchester was thick with the smell of coal smoke and damp wool. He sat up, wincing as his right hand spasmed, the fingers...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe air in the Great Hall of Aethelgard was not merely still but suspended, a thick, amber viscosity that pressed against the lungs like wet wool, and it was within this suffocating stillness that Sir Julian Vane stood at the edge of the dais, his armor polished to a mirror-like sheen that reflected the distorted, trembling faces of the courtiers who watched him with eyes wide and unblinking, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden DowntownThe champagne in the crystal flute was not cold, but I drank it anyway, the bubbles sticking to the back of my throat like tiny, frantic hearts. We were standing in the center of the rotunda of the Grand Hotel Aeterna, a space so vast and white that it seemed to swallow sound, a place where the air was filtered of dust and doubt, leaving only the sharp, metallic scent of success and the heavy,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceYou have always known that the wool sweater burns differently when it is not meant for you. It is a subtle heat, a prickling sensation that begins at the base of the skull and radiates outward, like the first tremor of a winter storm. For years, you have worn this garment, a thick, hand-knit thing of undyed gray wool, heavy as wet stone. It belongs to your brother, Elias, though he has not worn...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe cough starts in the throat, a dry, scraping thing that tastes of iron. You press a handkerchief to your mouth and pull it away. Red spots bloom on the white fabric. You fold it quickly, hiding the evidence from the empty room, from the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, the city’s archivist. You have spent twenty years cataloging the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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