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The Wistful MountainThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey curtain that blurred the boundary between the stone walls of the Meridian Institute and the wet pavement of the street outside. Elias Thorne stood before the open window of his office, the cold air biting at his cheeks, watching the water race down the glass in chaotic, silver threads. He was fifty-two, a man whose life had been...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant WoundThe ash falls like snow that has forgotten how to melt. It coats the slate roofs of Oakhaven, turning the village into a ghost of itself, a place where the air tastes of burnt iron and old regrets. I am twelve years old, and my lungs burn with a fever that is not entirely my own. I write this by the light of a tallow candle, the wax pooling in a black lake on the table. Outside, the wind howls...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe pencil tip wore down to a nub, shaving off another fraction of a millimeter from the graphite core, and Elias Thorne counted the strokes, one, two, three, as he traced the jagged western edge of the fictional Isle of Aethelgard, a landmass that existed only in the ink-stained ledgers of the Royal Geographical Society and in the fading, trembling memory of his late mentor, Silas. The air in...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographThe low-frequency hum had begun three days prior, a vibration so subtle that Elias Thorne had first mistaken it for the settling of the old brickwork in the windowless workshop, but now it rattled the tweezers in their tray and made his teeth ache with a dull, persistent resonance that seemed to originate from the very air around him. He sat hunched over the bench, the magnifying loupe screwed...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe ink in the fountain pen has begun to dry, a brown crust forming at the nib, much like the soot that coats the walls of this mill, and I find myself staring at the empty page rather than the words I know I must write, for the banquet last night was a spectacle of such grotesque normalcy that it has left me with a taste of copper and dust in my mouth, a physical residue of the celebration...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborThe rain hammered against the shingles of the attic, a rhythmic, wet percussion that seemed to sync with the throbbing in my temples. I stood before the cedar chest, its wood dark with age and the accumulated dust of decades, and I knew that if I did not open it, I would never be able to leave. The house was not for sale; it was a prison, and the key was buried inside the lining of my mother’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe fog in Oakhaven did not lift; it merely thinned, revealing the jagged teeth of the manor house that had stood empty for a decade. Elian, a squire-in-training of twelve years, cut through the mist with a sword that was too heavy for his hand and a pride that was too heavy for his soul. He was not there to fight, he told himself, but to retrieve the Pemberton crest, stolen by a thief who had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RuinThe fluorescent lights in the basement of the Municipal Records Bureau hummed with a frequency that Elias Thorne felt in his teeth, a low, persistent vibration that seemed to resonate with the hollow space inside his chest where his life used to be. He sat alone in the dim alcove of Sub-Level 4, the air conditioned to a sterile sixty-eight degrees, and his hands trembled as he gazed at the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CrossingThe paper was thin, cheap, and smelled faintly of vinegar. Elias Thorne held it up to the grey light filtering through the asylum’s high, barred windows. It was a requisition form, signed in the jagged, erratic script of his superior, Colonel Halloway. The form authorized Thorne, a Sergeant in the military police detachment assigned to the facility, to retrieve a specific ledger from the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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