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The Distant GhostThe dream was always of the gear. It was a massive, rusted iron wheel, spinning slowly in a void of grey fog, its teeth gnashing against nothing but the air. In the dream, I was holding the handle. My hands were calloused, the skin cracked and bleeding, but I did not let go. The weight was immense, a gravitational pull that anchored me to the axis of the machine. I woke with the taste of copper...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CipherThe candle flame in the scriptorium flickered, not with the draft from the window, but with a hunger that seemed to pull the light toward the center of the room where the shadow of the Abbot stretched, long and distorted, across the parchment. It is the winter of 1342, and you are Elias, a scribe of forty years, your hands stained with ink that has long since dried into the creases of your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe river ran black and still. It did not move. It sat in the valley like a pool of ink spilled by a careless god, reflecting the pale, indifferent sky. I stood on the bank. My boots were heavy. They were caked in the mud of the lower wards. I looked at the water. I looked at my reflection. It was distorted. It was a stranger. I was a man of the Order. I was a seeker. I had come to find the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe ink is dry. The paper is thin. I write this by the window. The rain taps the glass. It sounds like knuckles. It sounds like warning. The room is cold. The coal fire has died. I do not care. I care only for the words. They are the only thing left. We are at the Institute. It stands on the hill. It looms over the town. It is made of black stone. It is old. It is heavy. It has stood for a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe dream was always the same, a violent fracturing of brass against a bedrock that refused to yield, and Elias Thorne woke with the taste of copper in his mouth, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist against a locked door. He was forty-two years old, a man whose face had been worn smooth by the same winds that stripped the bark from the pines along the border, and for the last three...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe air in the Ministry of Static was thick with the smell of ozone and old paper. Thomas Bradshaw sat at his desk. The light from the ceiling fixtures was a pale, sterile white. It did not flicker. It never flickered. It was the same light that had watched him for forty years. It was the same light that had watched his wife, Eleanor, before she was taken into the Quiet. Thomas rubbed his eyes....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe iron fog of the city did not hang in the air; it lived in the lungs. It was a thick, metallic taste that coated the back of the throat, a constant reminder of the Great Smelting, the industrial heartbeat that had swallowed the valley and, in turn, the people who dared to inhabit it. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the precipice, his boots sinking into the soft, black soil that smelled of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe rain in the Appenines doesn’t wash things clean; it just makes the dirt slicker, harder to grip. You know this because you’ve been walking for three days, your boots heavy with the clay of the road, and the air smells of wet wool and diesel. You are looking for a house. Not a specific house, not yet, but the idea of a house that stands at the edge of the map, where the paved roads give way...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadI woke with the taste of iron and old honey in my mouth, the distinct, cloying sweetness of the blood that had been boiling in the cauldron for three days without ceasing, a scent that had permeated the very stones of the keep until I could feel it settling into the pores of my skin, a heavy, aromatic shroud that wrapped around my lungs with every breath I took in the damp, twilight chamber...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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