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The Wistful LetterThe cellar smelled of wet stone and the sweet, cloying rot of forgotten things, a scent that clung to Elias’s throat like a second skin as he crouched beside the wooden crate that had once held the family’s medicinal herbs. Lord Vane’s men had taken the foxglove and the feverfew only an hour ago, their boots crunching loudly on the gravel outside, leaving behind nothing but this single, bruised...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe ink did not smell of rot, but of old paper and dried blood, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he marched into the Blackwood. He was forty years old, a sergeant in the Border Wardens, a man whose life had been measured in miles of fence and days of watch, but now the ground beneath his boots felt soft, as if the earth itself were dissolving. The Rot, that creeping,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BannerThe rain on the glass was a blur of gray. I wiped it away with my sleeve, leaving a smudge. The watchtower was cold. I checked my watch. It was midnight. I needed to sleep. I couldn't. My name is Elias Thorne. I am thirty-four. I am a sergeant. I want my name cleared. My brother Julian died here. They say he fell. I say he was pushed. The Bureau says nothing. The Bureau is the wall. I am the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale BridgeThe noise was not in the air. It was in the teeth. Elias pressed his forehead against the cold iron railing of the Pale Bridge. The fog rolled in thick from the river, erasing the city skyline, leaving only the gray span stretching before him. He closed his eyes. The hum rose. Low. Dissonant. A chord that felt like a bruise being pressed. "You hear it?" he asked. Director Vane stood three feet...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe sealed cellar door in the basement of the Thorne house had not been opened in twelve years, and Elias Thorne stood before it with a crowbar in one hand and a trembling check in the other. The paper was stained with the coffee he’d spilled an hour ago, the ink bleeding into a brown smear that obscured the final four digits of the amount he owed to St. Jude’s Medical Center for his mother’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe first thing Brother Thomas noted was the weight of the vial, a precise four ounces of consecrated water that felt heavier than stone in his sweating palm. He counted the hours since the last coughing fit, measuring time not by the bell but by the rhythmic, wet hacking that tore through his chest, a sound that echoed in the damp, stone-walled infirmary of the Abbey of St. Jude with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumThe form was a sheet of heavy, cream-colored bond paper, stiff with the damp of the cellar air, and Elias Thorne held it up to the single, sputtering gaslight that hung from a rusted hook in the corner of the room. The ink was black, but the letters had bled into one another, forming a dark, viscous mass that looked less like writing and more like a wound that had not healed. He turned the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SkylineThe chisel stopped halfway through the granite, the steel vibrating with a high, thin hum that Elias felt in his teeth. He did not look up, keeping his eyes fixed on the white dust that coated the grey of his forearms, but he heard the boots crunching on the gravel, the heavy, deliberate rhythm of Vane approaching the edge of the cut. The air in the quarry smelled of wet iron and old sweat, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden Quest14th of October, 1893. I woke with the taste of copper in my mouth and the terrible, heavy sensation of lead in my left arm. For thirty-two years, I have been Elias Thorne, junior clerk in the Imperial Archive, a man defined by the slow, creeping transmutation of my left hand into gold. The Court calls it The Gilded Curse, a sign of divine favor that brings with it a dull, constant ache in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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