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The Distant TempleThe glass in Elias Thorne’s hand trembled, not from the cold, but from the weight of the crystal itself, a heavy, cut-water thing that caught the gaslight and threw fractured rainbows across the banquet table. He was thirty-two years old, a sergeant with a limp that had never quite healed, standing in the center of the Oakhaven Victory Hall where the air smelled of stale beer, roasting mutton,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TaleThe heating unit in the hallway had been rattling for three days, a dry, metallic cough that seemed to sync with the thumping of Elara’s own pulse. She stood in the doorway of Room 4, the air thick with the smell of antiseptic and the faint, sweet decay of dying tissue, and watched the monitor’s line flatline into a jagged, erratic spike. The stone in her left pocket burned against her hip, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ShowThe hall was thick with the smell of roasting boar and unwashed bodies, a heat that sat heavy on Elias’s chest as he stood by the trestle table. He was forty-two, and his knees ached with the damp cold that crept up from the stone floor despite the roaring fires. Across the room, Duke Aethelgard raised a goblet of wine, the liquid catching the torchlight like blood. "Elias!" the Duke called...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale TowerThe glass vial was cold against Elias Thorne’s palm, the distilled lavender oil inside a pale, viscous amber that caught the grey light of the platform. He checked his watch, a brass instrument that had stopped working three winters ago, and then checked it again, the habit of verification a reflex born of displacement. The train to Edinburgh was late, as it always was, a fact that sat in his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded GuestThe page was soft, the kind of cotton rag that had been handled so many times the fibers felt like wet dust under my thumb. It was tucked into the false bottom of a mahogany desk in the East Wing, a compartment I had pried open with a letter opener because the High Minister had looked at me over his spectacles and said, "Find it, Elias, or you are nothing." I am thirty-two. I have worked in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe wine was red, thick as arterial blood, and it stained the rim of Elias Thorne’s goblet. He stood at the center of the oak table in the Great Hall of Oakhaven, his hands trembling not from the chill of the stone floor but from a desperate, instinctual hunger to be seen. Around him, the Guild of Scribes feasted, their laughter a low, rhythmic drumming that vibrated in his chest. Elias felt a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeThe rain in Oakhaven had a specific weight, a cold, persistent damp that seeped into the marrow and refused to leave. Elias Thorne, forty-two years old and stiff with the kind of fatigue that sleep could not fix, stood in the center of the workshop. He was packing. The canvas bags were half-full, the leather straps already frayed from years of use. He lifted the heavy iron anvil, the one his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe letter lay on the oak desk, its seal broken, the ink still wet enough to smear if one breathed too heavily upon it. Elara read the three lines twice, her fingers tracing the indentations of the scribe’s quill, before she tucked it into the fold of her woolen robe. It was a notice from the prior, Brother Thomas, informing her that her tenure as assistant archivist at the Abbey of St. Jude...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe dust did not settle; it hung in the air like a suspended judgment, a thick, grey particulate that coated the tongue and filled the lungs with the taste of ancient stone and iron. I was on my knees in the muck of the collapsed shaft, my fingers bleeding into the cold earth, reaching for the small, warm body of my son, Thomas, who lay trapped beneath the splintered ribs of the timber support....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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