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The Wistful MirrorThe glass did not reflect Elias Thorne. It reflected a man with hollow cheeks and eyes that burned with a cold, acquisitive hunger. Elias stood in the center of his workshop in London, the year 1348, the air thick with the smell of sulfur and rotting meat. He was thirty-two, a master glazier whose hands were stained permanently with lead and pigment, but his soul, as the uncanny pane suggested,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsElias. The name hung in the air, thin and sharp, like a wire stretched too tight. He blinked, the image of the moth dissolving into the gray light of the bedroom. It was six in the morning. The house was silent, save for the tick of the hallway clock and the distant hum of the traffic on the highway. He sat up, his sheets cold and damp against his legs. In the mirror above the dresser, his face...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MountainThe ledger was not a book, Elias thought, though it looked exactly like one, bound in cracked leather that smelled of damp earth and old pennies. It sat on the oak desk of Mr. Vance, the senior archivist, its pages rustling with a sound like dry leaves skittering across a grave. Elias, thirty-two and junior enough to still believe that competence was a currency he could mint in his own image,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe damp in the High Palace archives did not smell of rot, but of time, a thick, mineral scent that coated the tongue and settled in the lungs. Elias Thorne sat alone in the lower vault, the only light a single tallow candle sputtering against the gloom. He was forty-five, a court scribe of twenty years, and his hands, usually steady enough to trace the finest serifs, now trembled with a palsy...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsElias, you’re bleeding on the carpet, Mara said, her voice flat and thin as the paper towel she pressed against my mouth. I was fifty-four years old, and the taste of my own blood was copper and old pennies, a flavor I had known for twenty years in the warden’s office, but this was different, this was the end of the line. I wanted to leave, I wanted to prove to Halloway that the Blackwood...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden FarceThe dream is always the same: a room made of glass, and in the center of that room, a figure standing with his back to you, his silhouette cut from the negative space of the world. You wake with the taste of iron on your tongue, the metallic tang of old blood and rust, and you know, with a certainty that feels like a physical blow to the sternum, that you are no longer the man who came to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe chisel slipped, spinning off the bone-white surface with a sound like a knuckle cracking. Marianne Vane wiped her forehead with the back of a hand that was stiff with arthritis, the pain radiating up her wrist and into the elbow where the joint had begun to lock three days ago. She stood in the center of the span, the mist thick around her ankles, and looked down at the fracture line that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded FrontierThe parchment was brittle, the ink faded to a brownish gray, but the words were clear enough to cut the eye. Elias Thorne held the Guild Master’s order in his left hand, the grip white-knuckled, while his right hand hovered over the anvil. The paper listed the specifications for the Iron Key: length, width, the precise angle of the teeth. It ended with a single, underlined clause: Failure is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe mist did not roll in; it seeped, a cold and viscous thing that smelled of rotting apples and old iron. It pressed against the windowpanes of my farmhouse in the Pacific Northwest, a localized fog that had no business existing in the clear, dry air of late October, yet there it was, clinging to the glass like a ghost trying to remember its shape. I am Elias Thorne, fifty-eight years old, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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