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The Distant PromiseThe fog came in at dawn, a thick, grey hand pressing against the window glass of the magistrate’s office. Elias Thorne, you are late. The clerk’s voice was not loud, but it cut through the damp air with the sharpness of a blade. Elias looked down at his hands. They were resting on the ledger, the leather cover worn smooth by years of his own grip. He tried to flex his fingers, but the skin on...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrequencyThe date is the fourteenth of November, in the year of our Lord 1204, and the wind outside the tower window has a voice that sounds like tearing silk, a sound that seems to scrape against the very bones of the stone walls where I sit hunched over the Royal Codex. I am Elias, scribe to the King, and I am forty years old, though I do not remember being thirty, nor do I remember the name of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale DoorThe vial in your hand is cold, colder than the snow that bites your cheeks as you run. You are Elias, a leech from Florence, and you are carrying the pale milk. It is the year of the pestilence, 1347, and the city behind you is a mouth of open graves. You do not look back. To look back is to invite the Inquisitor’s agents, the men in black who smell of iron and rot, to find the scent of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CartographThe stone lion at the North Gate wept. It was a quiet, viscous thing, a slow drip of black oil that pooled in the cracks of the ancient granite. Elias Thorne stood in the rain, his uniform damp and cold, watching the dark substance smear across the lion’s paw. He had been a border patrol officer for twelve years, and in that time he had seen many strange things, but the weeping of the gate was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe dream was always the same, a recurring fracture in the mind’s eye where a great oak, its bark peeling in long, dry strips, split down the center with a sound like a gunshot, leaving two hollow husks that stood separate in the grey mist. Arthur Vane woke with his heart hammering against his ribs, the taste of iron still clinging to the back of his throat, and he sat up in the narrow bed of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe ink on the final page of the Abbey’s ledger did not dry; it swelled, rising from the stone like a dark tide, and it formed the shape of your own trembling hand, a ghostly replica of the fingers you were using to scrape the flaking residue from the surface. You froze, your chisel hovering in the air, the cold metal biting into your palm, while the wet, black smear on the parchment pulsed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe candle in the cellar sputtered, casting long, jagged shadows that danced against the damp stone walls like restless spirits. Elias Thorne stood before the heavy oak desk, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the wood, waiting for the man on the other side to finish his drink. Lord Vane, a heavyset figure in a velvet coat that seemed to absorb the little light available, raised a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe eviction notice is taped to the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a strawberry. It is a bright, cheerful red, and it mocks you with its sweetness. You are Mara, thirty-two, a junior archivist in a municipal building that smells of damp plaster and old paper. You want tenure. You need the permanent contract that will stop the landlord from changing the locks. What stands in your way is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe iron seal burned against my palm, a cold fire that seeped through the leather grip and into the bone of my wrist. I was Elias, thirty-two, a border warden of the Highlands, and my concrete want was simple: deliver the captured heretic, Silas, to the Inquisitor by dawn. If I failed, my pension would be revoked, and my sister, Margaret, would rot in the debtors’ prison for the medical debts I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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