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The Wistful SilenceThe snow fell in thick, wet clumps against the window of the patrol station, blurring the line between the border and the void beyond. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the wood scarred by twenty years of coffee rings and cigarette burns, staring at the object in his palm. It was a small iron key, hand-carved and rusted to a deep, arterial brown, found in the pocket of a smuggler who had died of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe rain had not stopped for three days, and the mud outside the tavern door was thick enough to swallow a boot whole. You stood in the corner, your back against the damp stone wall, feeling the cold seep through your coat and settle into your bones. In your left pocket, the beetle hummed. It was a low, persistent vibration, like a tuning fork struck against the edge of a table, and it had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalThe knife slices the apple with a wet, fibrous tear, the juice running dark and heavy over the steel of the blade, pooling in the bowl of your hand. You are Elias Thorne, fifty-two, and the skin of your palm is mapped with a scar that has no business existing, a jagged line of white tissue that throbs in time with a pulse you cannot feel in your chest. It is your final shift on the border, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DanceThe transfer order is on the desk, stamped in red ink, waiting for your signature. "Friday, Elias. That’s the day. The board meets at nine." You look at Mara Vane. She is standing in the doorway of the administrative wing, her uniform pressed tight against a frame that has lost some of its softness in the last month. The light from the hallway is harsh, fluorescent, buzzing at a frequency that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe pen hovered over the actuarial table, its nib dry, scratching a faint, useless line against the heavy cream paper that smelled of old dust and industrial toner. Elias Thorne sat in the center of his glass-walled office, the air conditioning humming a low, sterile note that seemed to vibrate directly in his molars, and he stared at the column of figures that represented the entirety of his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant Journey14 October 1924. The train pulled out of Harrow Station just as the rain began to spit against the glass, a cold and persistent drizzle that seemed to seep into the bones of the carriage. I am writing this by the light of a tallow candle, my hands still trembling from the cold, though I tell myself it is merely the vibration of the wheels on the tracks. Julian sent me to St. Jude’s Chapel with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded QuadrantThe cold bit into the knuckles of Elias Thorne, a glazier of forty-two years, as he pressed the diamond tip against the sheet of cobalt glass. The winter solstice was three days away, and the window for Lord Vane’s chapel was still half-empty. Elias wanted to finish it. He wanted the lead cames to sit flush, the colors to sing in the dim light of the nave, and he wanted the final payment that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MythThe ink was frozen before Elias could form the letter ‘g’ in ‘gone.’ He stared at the tip of the fountain pen, the black liquid hardened into a sharp, dark spike against the white page, a small monument to his own futility. The rotunda of the Thorne estate, a vast concrete bowl that had cost his father four years of his life and three mortgages to build, was silent save for the hum of the HVAC...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe ink in the sky churns like a bruise, thick and black, pressing down on the floating city of Aethelgard. You are Elias Thorne, a cartographer whose job is to chart the edges of the world, but today your hands are shaking. You are not shaking from the cold, though the air in the archive is thin and sharp. You are shaking because you are holding a map that should not exist, and because your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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