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The Faded ShieldThe basement smelled of dust and decay, a scent that had settled into the pores of your skin over twelve years of service. You are forty-two, the head archivist of the municipal library, and your hands tremble as you open the final box from Elias’s estate. Your desire is simple, if not entirely honest: secure your position by completing the catalog before the board meets on Friday. The opposing...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownThe mud in the trench had turned to a thick, sucking paste that coated Elias Thorne’s boots up to the knee, a cold weight that seemed to anchor him to the earth as much as his fear did. He gripped the hilt of his sword, the leather worn smooth by years of service, and watched the rusted blade catch the faint, grey light of the pre-dawn sky. His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PortraitThe ledger held three hundred and twelve lines of ink, each one a debt, a name, a life erased. Elias Thorne counted them again, his finger tracing the dry, gritty texture of the paper, feeling the weight of the bureaucracy pressing down on his knuckles. He was forty-two, and his hands shook not from age, but from the cold wind that howled through the open window of the Registry office. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostThe signal on your handheld radio crackles with a static that sounds too much like breathing, a low, rhythmic hiss that vibrates in the marrow of your teeth as you stand at the edge of the timberline, the Pacific Northwest fog rolling in thick enough to swallow the world whole. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a border patrol agent with twenty years of service, and you have spent the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterThe rain hammered the slate roof of Blackwood Manor like a fist against a locked door, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into Clara’s bones. She stood in the hallway, her hands trembling around the glass vial, the dark liquid inside swirling with the rhythm of the storm outside. The air smelled of damp wool and the metallic tang of fear. Clara had been at the Manor for...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumElara. The name hit the back of my skull like a stone thrown through a window, sharp and sudden, as the taxi driver in the rain-slicked city of Harrowgate turned his head to check the rearview mirror. I was thirty-two, soaked to the bone, and holding a key that had been cold in my pocket for ten days, the same number of days the bank had given me to settle the mortgage on my late mother’s house...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded MasqueradeThe iron cross of the great gate had splintered under the weight of the battering ram, and the sound of it, a dull, rhythmic thudding that vibrated through the soles of Sir Elias Thorne’s boots, was the only thing that remained of the world outside the Abbey of St. Jude. His left arm hung dead and useless at his side, the muscle torn from the shoulder by the impact of a mace blow that had taken...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe ink on the parchment was still wet, glistening like a bruise in the candlelight, as I pressed my thumb against the seal to ensure it held. It is the fourteenth of November, in the year of our Lord 1348, and I write this from the cellar of the Black Friars, where the damp air tastes of rot and old stone. I am Thomas Ashworth, once a man of some standing in the city of Canterbury, now a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden RitualThe dream was always the same. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of copper in his mouth and the sight of his left hand, which he could not move, turning translucent. In the dream, the skin was not flesh but gold leaf, thin and brittle, flaking away in bright, expensive chips whenever he tried to grip a pen. He lay in his narrow bed in the grey London flat, listening to the traffic on King’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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