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The Distant BladeThe feast was a lie, a hollow echo of the grandeur Elias had spent a decade trying to resurrect. He stood in the center of the main hall of the Distant Blade, his ancestral keep, watching the dust motes dance in the shafts of late afternoon light that pierced the high, narrow windows. The stone floor was cold under his shoes, a chill that seemed to seep up through the soles and into his bones....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden EchoesThe champagne is cold. It has been cold for an hour, pooling in the crystal flutes of the gala, a liquid mirror reflecting the chandeliers above. You hold your own glass, but you do not drink. You are here for the award. The Medal for Civic Integrity. Your name is on the plaque. Your face is on the screen. You are the model citizen. The savior of the district. You wear the necklace. It is a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe mud of the trench did not merely cling to Elias Thorne’s boots; it seemed to possess a sentient, hungry gravity that sought to pull him into the earth’s cold belly. He stood rigid, the weight of his rifle a dull ache in his shoulders, his hands trembling not with the cold that had settled into his marrow, but with the crushing, secret weight of a betrayal he had woven into the very fabric...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it hung, a persistent gray mist that clung to the wet pavement and the stone facades of the old district, creating a dampness that Elias Thorne felt in his joints long before he reached the Deputy Mayor’s office. He was forty-two, a man whose face had been weathered not by the elements but by the specific, grinding pressure of twenty years of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant MetropolisThe rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it hovered, a persistent, gray mist that settled into the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and the silver of his hands. He stood in the center of the square, the wet cobblestones slick beneath his boots, clutching the small, cold weight of his sister Clara’s locket against his chest. It was a Tuesday, the kind of day that felt stretched thin, devoid of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe ink in my pen has dried into a rust-colored crust, much like the pages I am trying to save. I have been at this desk for fourteen hours, the gaslight hissing its thin, metallic breath above me, illuminating the water-damaged ledger of 1894 that Director Halloway has ordered me to discard. He calls it sentimental clutter, a relic of a bygone era that clogs the new industrial efficiency...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe stone screamed. It did not howl or wail, but shrieked, a high, thin sound that cut through the mortar dust and the cold air of the chapel nave. I held my trowel frozen in the air, my knuckles white, listening to the foundation stone thrash under the weight of my silence. It was the winter solstice, three days hence, and the spire was still bare against the grey sky. The Guild Master stood...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe ledger showed four hundred and twelve hours. I counted them twice, the ink still wet on the page, each stroke a small, dark cut in the white paper. My father’s name was at the top, struck through in red, the error corrected by a hand that did not tremble. I was twelve, but my joints felt stiff, the cartilage grinding like sand in a hinge. The Ministry of Silence smelled of damp wool and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe banquet hall of the Vane estate was a tomb of dust and dead flowers, the air thick with the scent of mildew and old wax. Arthur Vane stood before the grand mirror, his reflection staring back with the hollow eyes of a man who had forgotten how to breathe, the glass cracked down the center in a jagged line that split his face into two distinct halves. He was forty years old, though he looked...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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