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The Pale BonsaiThe air in the dining room of the Whitmore estate was thick with the scent of roasted lamb and the heavy, cloying perfume of lilies that Margaret had arranged herself. It was a banquet of silence, a celebration of nothing in particular, perhaps the passing of another year, or perhaps merely the fact that they were still breathing. The guests, a constellation of distant cousins and old friends,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe smell of wet wool and old blood hung heavy in the air of the Undercroft. It was a damp, cellar-like space beneath the manor house, the kind of place where secrets went to rot and stay quiet. I sat on a crate, my back against the cold stone, and watched my brother, Elias, sharpen his knife. The steel scraped against the whetstone with a rhythmic, grating sound. It was the only noise in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe air in the valley was thick with the smell of wet wool and burning pine. Elias stood at the head of the table. His hands were steady. They had always been steady. That was the thing about the job. It required a stillness that bordered on the numbing. Around him, the men of his unit sat in a circle. The firelight danced in their eyes. It made them look like something else. Something wilder....0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe scaffold collapsed before the bells had even finished ringing the hour. Elara watched from the street as the timber groaned and snapped, sending a cascade of splinters and dust into the grey November sky. Two men screamed, a sound that was cut short by the wet thud of bodies hitting the cobblestones. The Cathedral of Saint Jude loomed above, its western face a jagged scar of empty stone...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldThe rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the brickwork of the orphanage and seeped into the marrow of every stone, creating a dampness that no amount of coal in the stoves could ever fully banish. Margaret Holloway sat in the corner of the small, windowless room on the third floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, listening to the rhythmic dripping of a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe harbour at Land's End did not so much end as fade — the granite pier dissolving into the grey Atlantic, the harbour wall becoming something older than stone, something that belonged to the sea's own grammar. Thomas Ashworth-Cross stood at the end of it on a November afternoon, his hands in the pockets of a coat his father had worn, and watched the water pull itself back from the shingle...0 Comments 0 Shares 6 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe morning the magistrates voted to close the archives, Elias Thorne did not look up from the ledger he was balancing, his quill scratching a rhythm against the vellum that sounded less like writing and more like the slow, grinding fracture of an old bone. Outside the high, narrow windows of the Chancery, the autumn wind stripped the last stubborn leaves from the oaks lining the High Street,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe dream began not with the waking of a man, but with the slow, suffocating expansion of a single, iridescent beetle wing, which unfolded across the sky of the city of Aethelgard until it eclipsed the moon, its veins pulsing with a bioluminescent rhythm that seemed to sync with the fading heartbeat of old Silas Thorne, who stood at the precipice of his own mortality, his hands trembling not...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadThe feast in the great hall of the Abbey of St. Jude was a riot of tallow smoke and roasted pork, the air thick enough to chew, heavy with the scent of stale ale and the damp wool of forty men who had marched for three days to celebrate the subjugation of the valley below. Brother Thomas stood near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the iron pot that sat on the...0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews
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