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The Wistful AshesThe parchment was thick, heavy as a door slab, and the ink had dried to a black crust. Elias Thorne held it by the corner, his thumbs pressing into the rough fiber. The light in the Hall of Measures was thin, cutting through the high windows at a low angle, turning the dust motes into slow, drifting ash. He read the seal again. It was the Warden’s mark, a circle bisected by a vertical line....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant NightmareThe feast hall of King Edward III rang with the clatter of silver and the roar of a hundred noble voices, a cacophony that pressed against the walls like a living thing. Elias, a scribe of thirty years, stood in the shadows near the service entrance, his fingers white-knuckled around the hilt of a dagger he did not dare draw. On his chest, pinned to his threadbare tunic, was a glass brooch,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendDecember 1st. The house is bleeding again. I found it at the base of the cellar wall, a thin, dark line seeping through the mortar. I wiped it with a rag, but the stain returned, black and viscous. I told Clara it was old plumbing, a pipe that had corroded over the decades. She looked at me with that tired, hollow expression and said, "The house is tired, Elias. It is tired of holding you." I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe parchment lies flat on the oak table, the ink still wet, smelling of iron and old blood. You read the refusal. The Chancellor’s script is sharp, angular, cutting through the fog that clings to the walls of the court. It cites your "unstable temperament" and the "heavy, literal cost" of your jokes. In Aethelgard, words have weight. A joke told poorly adds a pound to the speaker’s throat. A...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe letter lay on the desk, its edges curling like dry leaves in the draft. It was from the Diocese Board, dated the first of November, and it demanded the final verification of the West Wing restoration grant. I stared at the ink, but the letters swam, blurring into a grey smear that mocked my forty-two years of service to the Abbey of St. Jude. My spectacles, cracked down the left lens, sat...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden ScarThe coat was gone. That was the first thing I knew, a cold fact settling in my stomach as I stood before the grey door of the Ministry of Memory. I am Elias, thirty-two, an archivist of the lowest rank, and I had come to retrieve the only thing that still smelled like Clara. The air in the corridor was stale, thick with the scent of ozone and old paper, a smell that had begun to taste like iron...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SagaThe quill dipped into the inkwell, the black liquid rising to the brim as it absorbed the weight of the nib. Thomas Bradshaw watched the tip darken, a small, wet point of potential ruin hovering over the vellum. The candle on the desk sputtered, throwing a long, trembling shadow against the damp stone wall of the cellar. He was forty years old, and his hands, which had spent two decades...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe feast of All Souls is a riot of wax and wine, a suffocating warmth that presses against the cold stone of the Abbey of St. Jude’s. You stand at the edge of the refectory, your tunic stained with the grey dust of the archives, watching the Abbot lift his goblet to the congregation. The air is thick with the smell of roasted pork and beeswax, a heavy, cloying sweetness that makes your head...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MasterThe coffee in the mug was cold, a dark and stagnant pool that had begun to taste of the metallic grit of the office’s plumbing. Elias counted the hours remaining until his shift ended, four, three and a half, his fingers tracing the rim of the ceramic as if it were a coin, weighing its negligible value against the weight of the spreadsheet glowing on the dual monitors before him. He was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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