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The Wistful WitnessThe parchment is rough under my thumb, the ink still wet and black as a bruise. I am writing this in the sealed scriptorium of the Bishop’s palace, in the year of our Lord 1348, and my hand trembles not from the cold, but from the weight of the words I must set down. I am an inquisitor, forty years old, and I have come here to prove that my brother, Thomas, is innocent of heresy, yet every...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborElara. The word hangs in the damp air of the scullery, sharp as a knife slipped between ribs. You turn from the sink, where the water runs brown with rust and old grime. Your hands are raw, the skin split and weeping. You are thirty years old, and your knees ache with the weight of the years spent scrubbing the Blackwood floors. You want your pension. It is a small, concrete thing: a monthly...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe autumn air on the moor was not merely cold; it was a physical weight, a suffocating blanket of dampness that settled into the marrow of Arthur Penhaligon’s bones as he stood at the precipice of the heather, his hands trembling so violently that the forged ledger in his grip felt less like paper and more like a living thing struggling to escape. At forty years of age, a clerk of the Royal...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographThe ledger lay open on the oak table, its pages yellowed and brittle, the ink shifting from a dull brown to a sickly green as I leaned closer. I am Elias, a page of twelve years in the crumbling court of Duke Vane, and I wanted only to survive, to secure my position by mastering the secrets hidden in this alchemical record. The air in the scriptorium smelled of dried lavender and old dust, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe parchment lay on the table, its edges curled and brittle, the ink faded to a rusty brown. It was a bill, or perhaps a bond, the kind of document that held a life together by its throat. Elias stood before it, his twelve-year-old hands trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of the words scrawled in his father’s shaky hand. The debt was due, and the Lord’s men were already in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SuspectThe hammer strikes the gold, and the sound is not a clang but a sigh, a dry exhalation of dust that settles on your knuckles before you even open your eyes. You are forty years old, and you have spent the last four years chasing a shard of metal that does not exist, or perhaps exists only in the space between your eyelids and the morning light. The dream is the same as it has been for one...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe chisel stopped. It hung in Elias Thorne’s grip, a sliver of white stone dust settling on the dark wool of his sleeve. The chapel wall was supposed to be finished by winter, a simple thing, a line of granite holding back the dark. But the line was failing. The fog rolled in from the north, thick and grey, and where it touched the mortar, the stone turned to powder. It was not a storm. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorThe blade hung in the air, trembling with the effort of the last swing. Sir Kaelen’s arm burned, a dull ache radiating from the shoulder to the fingertips, where the leather grip had worn thin against his calluses. In the center of the hall, the great oak mirror stood untouched, its surface rippling like the surface of a stagnant pond. It did not shatter. It did not crack. It simply reflected...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant SummerThe glass vial trembled in Elara’s hand, a tiny, fragile thing filled with a liquid that seemed to hold the moonlight of a night thirty years dead, and she watched the Queen’s fingers, those instruments of royal decree, twitch and spasm against the velvet armrest as the old woman tried to lift a teacup that had long since gone cold. The air in the private chamber smelled of lavender water...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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