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The Pale ProtocolThe date is the fourteenth of November, and the ink in my hand is black and thick, mixing with the blood that will not stop seeping from the fissures in my palm. I write this by the light of a single tallow candle, the flame guttering in the draft that whistles through the cracks of the stone walls, while Major Halloway stands over me, his silhouette a rigid block of authority against the dark....0 Comments 0 Shares 22 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe summons lay on the wet cobblestones, a slip of parchment stained with mud and the red rust of the city’s iron gates. Thomas Ashworth picked it up, his fingers numb from the damp. The ink was smudged, but the words were clear enough: *Report to the Guild Hall. Immediate. Concerning the Ghost.* He tucked the paper into his tunic, near his heart where the cold could not reach it, and began the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe cold in the Vane manor did not sit upon the skin but burrowed into the marrow, a damp, persistent ache that Silas had long since mistaken for his own heartbeat, now faltering and irregular against the ribs of his aging body. In his trembling hands, he held the mask, a thing of white porcelain fractured down the center, its surface etched with a smile so thin and cruel it seemed to cut the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe ledger on Mr. Vane’s desk weighed three pounds, a heavy, leather-bound thing that smelled of old tobacco and damp wool, and Elias Thorne counted the entries in his head before he spoke, trying to steady the tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with the cold. He needed the final deed to Blackwood Manor, the crumbling ancestral estate in the Irish countryside, sold to the highest bidder...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AtlasThe champagne flutes clinked, a sharp, brittle sound against the low hum of the orchestra. Elias touched the emerald brooch pinned to his lapel, the cold stone biting into his thumb. He was twenty years old, a junior archivist at the Whitmore Museum, and he wanted the permanent position. He wanted it to prove he could hold the weight of Clara’s memory without breaking. Mr. Thorne, the senior...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestThe ink weighs four ounces. You know this because you have weighed it three times this morning, the brass scale trembling on the oak desk, the counterweights clicking into place with a sound like small bones breaking. The Royal Ledger lies before you, its vellum pages stiff and dry, smelling of old dust and something sharper, like ozone before a storm. You are Elias, thirty-two, a junior...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden QuestThe dream is always the same: a cascade of prisms, shattering in slow motion, the light turning from amber to blood before it hits your face. You wake with your hands clenched, the sheets twisted tight, the air in the dormitory thick with the scent of damp wool and old stone. It is the autumn of 1892, and the Abbey of St. Jude stands on the edge of ruin, its stones grey and pitted like the skin...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful VoyageThe frost had begun again, creeping up the glass of the supply room window in a pattern so precise it looked drawn by a steady hand, a fern-like fractal that Elias Thorne traced with a fingernail while he checked the fuel gauges. It was November fourteenth, and the air in the post was thick with the smell of stale diesel and the metallic tang of his own blood, a taste he had grown accustomed to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale EchoThe dampness of the cell has seeped into your bones, a cold that no amount of shivering can banish, and you clutch the stolen silver chalice to your chest as if it were a living thing, its cold metal biting into your skin with a pain that feels almost like comfort. You are Elias Thorne, forty years of service etched into the lines of your face, a constable of the City Watch whose only crime in...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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