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The Pale Mist"You found it, then." Margaret stood in the doorway, though the room had no door, only the memory of one, long bricked over, and the faintest outline in the wallpaper where it used to be, a ghost of a threshold that refused to be erased by time or renovation or the determined ignorance of the living. Margaret turned slowly. The person on the other side of the threshold was someone Margaret had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe order was three lines long. It sat on the cold metal desk in front of me, the paper thin and yellowed at the edges. It stated that my salary was suspended pending an audit of the grain shipment lost in the north sector. It stated that I was to remain at the border post. It stated that any attempt to leave the grounds would be met with force. I signed it. The ink smeared slightly under my...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale GardenThe ledger showed eleven days remaining until the frost, and you had only half the north wall raised. You counted the chisels on your workbench, four of them, their steel dull from use, their handles worn smooth by hands that were no longer steady. Your name was Elias Thorne, and you were a stonemason, though the title felt like a coat that had grown too large for your frame. The limestone...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it hung, a cold, persistent mist that soaked into the wool of Elias Thorne’s coat and settled in the joints of his knees, a forty-two-year-old man who had once been the scribe of record for the County Council before he was stripped of his title, his home, and his name. He stood alone in the center of the square, the wet cobblestones slick under his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden MazeThe weight of the chain was forty-two pounds, a figure the clerk had etched into the ledger with a stylus that dug too deep into the parchment. Sir Kaelen felt the number in his bones before the metal touched his skin, a cold arithmetic of his own captivity. He stood in the High Court, the air thick with the smell of tallow and old sweat, while King Alaric spoke words that sounded like the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful ThroneThe dream always began with the smell of wet rot and the creak of living wood, a sound that seemed to come from inside my own skull before it ever reached my ears. I am Arthur Vane, thirty years old, a coal miner in the industrial sprawl of Pennsylvania in the year 1893, and for the past month I have woken each morning with the distinct, heavy sensation of roots threading through my veins. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful IncenseThe air in the administrative wing of Blackwood Correctional Facility did not smell of decay, as Elias Thorne had expected it to, but of antiseptic and stale coffee, a sterile scent that seemed to scrub the very humanity out of the room. He sat across from Warden Halloway, a man whose face was as unmarked and unyielding as the concrete walls surrounding them, and watched the warden’s eyes slide...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridI am twisting the bolt on the south gate, the metal cold and gritty under my gloves, when the hum starts again, a low vibration that I feel in my molars before I hear it with my ears. It is a Tuesday, the air is dry and cracking against the fence line, and I am forty-two years old, which means I have exactly six months of service left before my pension vests, provided I do not fail the next...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ClueOctober 14, 1893. The harvest festival at Millhaven was a cacophony of fiddle music and the smell of roasting pork, a sensory assault that did little to mask the cold knot of dread tightening in my stomach. I stood at the edge of the square, my hand resting on the hilt of my service revolver, watching Mayor Whitmore laugh too loudly with the councilmen, his eyes darting to the crowd with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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