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The Wistful WitnessThe greenhouse is cold. You know the temperature by the ache in your knuckles, a dull throb that matches the pulse of the single orchid in the center pot. It is a *Wistful Orchid*, or at least that is what the town calls it, though the botanical name is *Orchis melancholia*. You have tended it for thirty years, since the day you found the root system tangled in the clay of the old millrace....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe crystal chandeliers of the Ironworks’ grand hall swung gently, casting fractured light over the sea of black tie and white gloves, a spectacle of wealth that Arthur Vane watched with the weary, appraising eye of a man who had spent forty years measuring the distance between ambition and reality. He stood near the service entrance, a glass of untouched brandy sweating in his palm, his heart...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe brass lever is stuck. You force it with your thumb, the skin peeling back in a thin, white ribbon, and the mechanism shudders. It is three in the morning in Oren, and the light from the oil lamp is a sickly yellow pool on the workbench, illuminating the dust motes that hang suspended in the air, refusing to fall. You are Elias, thirty-two, and your hands are steady even as your heart...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe iron bars of the window let in a slice of grey light that fell directly across the open page of the Codex, illuminating the ink so it seemed to bleed into the parchment. Brother Elias did not look up from his work; his quill moved in a steady, mechanical rhythm, scratching against the vellum with a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. He had been writing for three days without...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe dream was always the same, a heavy, suffocating heat that smelled of old copper and burnt sugar. Elias Thorne woke with a gasp, his skin prickling as if it had been brushed by a wire, and there, resting on the white pillowcase like a shed scale, was a single thread of gold. It did not glint; it simply sat there, inert and heavy, absorbing the grey light of the morning. He was forty-two...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe mud on the wheel tracks of the provincial road was thick enough to swallow the iron rims of Elias Thorne’s carriage, slowing his progress to a crawl. He was thirty years old, a captain with ten years of service and a promotion that should have been his by right, but the rigid bureaucracy of the old regime loomed ahead like an immovable wall of gray stone. He needed the rank. He needed the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe intercom crackled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across concrete. Sergeant Elias Thorne did not flinch. He stood in the center of the primary chamber, the air thick with the metallic tang of ozone and something sweeter, like burnt sugar. The walls were not stone. They were a shifting, viscous gold, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic heat that pressed against his skin like a fever. "Thorne,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe silk was coming apart in Elias Thorne’s fingers, not rotting, but dissolving into a fine, grey powder that slipped through the gaps in his knuckles with the slow, inevitable patience of sand through an hourglass. He held the glove up to the single bare bulb hanging above his workbench, the light catching the fraying threads as they detached from the leather palm, drifting down to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe envelope is thick, cream-colored, and smells faintly of the lavender sachets kept in the top drawer of the desk. You break the seal with a thumbnail that is cracked and yellowed at the edge. The paper inside is a list. It is a list of debts. Your name is at the top, followed by a sum that exceeds the value of your house, your car, and the remaining years of your life’s labor. Below your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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