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The Distant BladeThe fluorescent tube above Director Halloway’s desk hummed with a low, electric drone that seemed to vibrate in the fillings of your teeth as he leaned back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching you with a smile that was entirely too light for the gravity of the room. He did not look like a man who held the keys to the city’s soul; he looked like a man who had just finished a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful WitnessThe air in the basement archive of the Ashworth Textile Mill tasted of iron filings and stale tobacco, a thick, particulate haze that coated the back of Elara Vance’s throat as she bent over the ledger, her pencil scratching with the frantic, jagged energy of a trapped animal. She was thirty-four, a woman who had long since traded the softness of her youth for the sharp, calloused precision of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe fog in Oakhaven did not roll in so much as it seeped up from the earth, a cold, wet exhalation that smelled of rot and damp stone. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the town square, his breath pluming in the grey air, watching the ferns in the central planter. They were tall, prehistoric things, their fronds unfurling in slow, deliberate spirals. To the townspeople, they were omens,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale FractureThe kiln hissed, a sound like a dying man clearing his throat. Elias Vane wiped his brow with a rag stained by soot and sweat. The glass was cool now, a pale, fractured shard of obsidian sitting on the iron table. It was not a flaw. It was a signature. Or so he told himself. Julian stood in the doorway, arms crossed. He was young, sharp-featured, with the kind of stillness that made Elias...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerMy hands were black with mud, the clay packed into the whorls of my palms, when I found the watch. It lay in the sump, half-buried in the slurry that smelled of iron and rot. I fished it out with a stick, then pulled it free with my fingers. The silver case was dented, the glass cracked, but the mechanism still ticked against the cold metal of my trench coat. I put it in my pocket. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe knife is cold, heavier than it looks, its edge dull from years of cutting parchment rather than flesh. You hold it in your right hand, the one that has written ten thousand lines of the King’s history, and the left hand is raised, palm open, waiting for the pain. The air in the Obsidian Citadel is thick, smelling of dried ink and the metallic tang of old blood. You are Elara, thirty-two,...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded ShieldEamon. The name was spat by the High King’s herald, a sound sharp as a snapped twig in the silent hall, and it struck the knight with the force of a physical blow, pinning him to the cold stone floor of the throne room. The air in the chamber smelled of wet wool, old blood, and the metallic tang of fear that seemed to seep from the pores of the assembled courtiers, a scent that clung to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe loom clattered like the jaw of a dead man, a rhythmic, wooden violence that shook the dust from the high rafters of the weaving chamber. I was Elara, thirty-two years old, and my fingers were numb from the cold that seeped up through the stone floor, a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air and everything to do with the War-Mist that pressed against the palace windows like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BonsaiThe snow in the pass did not fall; it hung in the air like suspended ash, a grey static that coated the windshield of my cruiser and the bare branches of the larches until the world looked like a photograph left out in the rain. I was forty-two years old, a border patrol agent with twelve years of service and a debt of forty thousand dollars to St. Jude’s Clinic, and I was holding the last...0 Comments 0 Shares 4 Views 0 Reviews
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