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The Distant CrownThe iron was cold. I held it in my palm. It did not burn. That was the first wrong thing. I am Sir Thomas. I am the shield. I am the wall. The room was small. Stone walls. A single window. Rain lashed the glass. I sat in a chair. My legs were stiff. I looked at the iron. It was a horseshoe. No. It was a fragment of a crown. Iron. Black. Rust ate the edges. I picked it up. It was light. Too...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RiverThe rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the courtyard into slick, dark mirrors, reflecting the high, arched windows of the keep where I sat in the silence of my own body, feeling the heavy, dull ache of my left knee, that joint which had carried me through a dozen winters of marches and a hundred skirmishes until it finally began to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe rain on the windshield of the rusted-out Ford F-150 did not fall so much as it smeared itself across the glass, a viscous, grey paste that blurred the world into a watercolor of dead trees and muddy ditches, and Elias Thorne, whose hands had not trembled since he was twenty-four but whose spine had begun to creak like a door left open in a draft for too long, drove with a ferocity that was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the lane into slick, treacherous mirrors reflecting the dim glow of our gas lamps. I stood in the doorway of the manor, my coat damp and heavy, watching the mud churn under the hooves of the horse that had brought me here, while behind me, the warmth of the hallway and the scent of beeswax and old...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden Scar"You’re late, Thomas." The voice was thin. It cut through the fog. It cut through the silence of the coal cellar. Thomas did not answer. He stood by the door. His coat was wet. The water dripped onto the dust. He held his hat in his hand. His fingers were stiff. They were cold. "I am here, Margaret." She looked up. Her eyes were dark. They were deep. She sat on a crate. The crate was old. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe scriptorium of the Abbey of Saint Jude was not merely burning; it was being devoured by a hunger that smelled of ozone and old blood. Elias, the royal scribe, stood amidst the collapsing shelves, his fingers white-knuckled around a single sheet of vellum that pulsed with a faint, sickly luminescence. The air was thick with the scent of scorched parchment and the wet, metallic tang of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded DustThe fire had taken the granary before dawn, a slow, red blooming in the dark that turned the morning air to ash. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the edge of the field, his boots sinking into the cold, wet earth, and watched the smoke rise like a grey ghost into the pale sky. He was a man of the law, a keeper of the peace in this forgotten corner of the highlands, but the fire had stripped him of his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe collapse of the eastern wall did not happen with a sound, but with a sigh, a long, shuddering exhalation of dust and ancient stone that filled the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling with a thick, grey fog, and you stood there, your uniform torn and stained with the red of your own vitality, watching the sky bleed through the holes in the masonry, realizing that the building you had sworn to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe bell rang. It was a low sound. Deep. Like a stone dropping into a well. I packed the last box. My hands shook. The ink was dry. The city outside was gray. It was always gray. I looked at the wall. There was a mark. A scratch. I made it years ago. Or maybe it was him. I did not remember. We were merchants. We traded in words. Not goods. Not cloth. Not grain. We sold silence. We sold the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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