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The Golden MazeThe iron gate of the Ashcroft Mill had not opened in three days, nor would it open again before the rain came to swallow the valley whole, but Sergeant Elias Thorne knew the rhythm of its gears better than he knew the rhythm of his own failing heart, and it was this knowledge, this intimate and terrible familiarity with the machine’s hunger, that had finally broken him. He stood in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe morning fog in the capital of Aethelgard did not lift so much as it dissolved, leaving the high court of the Alchemists’ Spire shrouded in a pale, damp grey that clung to the stone and the souls within it. Elias, a scribe of modest rank whose hands were stained permanently with the ink of his failures, stood before the High Alchemist, Lord Vane, in the antechamber where the air smelled of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe vial in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, colder than the iron table on which he rested his elbow, and the liquid inside it swirled with a sluggish, opalescent viscosity that defied the harsh, fluorescent hum of the war room. It was called White Ash, a sanctioned stimulant of the Pale Tower’s internal security division, a substance that granted the user a temporary, terrifying invulnerability...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale Garden14th of October, 189x The debt is due at the hour of three, and the silence in the workshop is so absolute that I can hear the blood rushing in my own ears, a low and rhythmic drumming that seems to come from the walls themselves rather than my head. I have spent the last four hours hunched over the furnace, my arms trembling with a fatigue that has nothing to do with the heat, trying to coax a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale AltarThe morning air in the canteen of the Blackwood Correctional Facility tasted of cold iron and stale coffee, a metallic tang that coated the back of your throat and lingered there like a bad memory. You sat at the long, scarred table, your hands resting flat on the laminate surface, fingers splayed to keep them from trembling. Before you lay the tray, and on the tray lay the object that had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe mirror in the antechamber was not a glass but a sheet of polished obsidian, framed in tarnished silver that had long since lost its luster. Elias stood before it, adjusting the collar of his uniform, a garment of stiff, charcoal wool that smelled of lavender water and old paper. The fabric was heavy, a physical weight against his shoulders that he welcomed. It anchored him. Outside, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale VerdictThe banquet hall of the Ashworth Institute gleamed with a cold, surgical brilliance, the air thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of ozone that seemed to cling to the polished mahogany tables. Twelve-year-old Julian stood at the edge of the room, his small hands trembling as he clutched the hem of his ill-fitting blazer, watching the adults move with the choreographed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe year was 1240, and the air before the Obsidian Gate tasted of iron and old blood. Sir Aldric of the Iron Guard stood alone on the basalt plateau, his forty years of service etched into the grim lines of his face, his armor dented by a decade of border skirmishes that had bled his family’s lands dry. He did not look at the army arrayed behind him, nor at the heavy siege engines groaning...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe ink on your hands has not washed off in three days, a fact that the maids whisper about with a reverence that feels uncomfortably close to fear. You sit in the high-backed chair in the center of the Grand Hall, the room stretching out behind you into a void of mahogany and velvet, and you feel the weight of the silence pressing against your eardrums. The court is not made of stone or gold...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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