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The Distant BladeI, II, III I The notice on the door of the municipal archive was simple, typed in the crisp, sans-serif font of the new administration: Position Review Pending. Do Not Enter Without Authorization. It had been there for three days, a white square of paper on the peeling blue paint, and I had looked at it from the street every morning, standing on the corner where the tram lines crossed,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JokeThe counter on the desk ticked, a dry, mechanical click that marked the seconds of my isolation. Fourteen days. That is how long it has been since the last time I spoke to anyone who did not speak in the flat, sterile tones of procedure. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, and I have spent the last two weeks sitting in this apartment, watching the dust motes dance in the single beam of afternoon sun...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesYou are lying, Elias, and I can smell the rot of it on your breath, the way a dog smells a rabbit in the tall grass, a sweet, sickening stench that makes the very air of this chamber feel thin and cold. The Inquisitor, Magistrate Thorne, did not raise his voice; he rarely did, for volume was a vulgar instrument for a man who held the keys to the Kingdom’s soul, and instead he simply leaned...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant TempleThe nib of the quill was cold, a shard of obsidian that bit into the fleshy pad of your thumb, and the ink was not black but a rusted, arterial red that smelled of iron and old pennies. You held your hand over the parchment, the skin of your wrist translucent and mapped with veins that had turned the color of bruised plums, and you thought of the debt. Three hundred silver marks. That was what...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful LetterChapter One In the grey that starts in October and stays, the air in the archive always tastes of rust and old dust. Mirsada Karamyan stood before the empty shelf, her fingers stained black with iron-gall ink, a scent that clung to her skin like a second, heavier coat. She had written to her brother, Tigran, demanding the return of the family ledger before the winter solstice, for the debt to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful DinnerThe watch was heavy in my palm, cold as river stone, its face frozen at three-fifteen. I turned it over, feeling the weight of the brass against my skin, a dead thing that should not have been warm. It was my brother’s, taken from his body after the accident, and for three weeks it had ticked forward only when I lied. Now, in the sterile white light of the debriefing room, it sat in my pocket,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant AffairThe cry came from the mud, wet and tearing, before the light did. "Elara!" It was not a summons of welcome, but a shriek of alarm, pitched high enough to scatter the roosters from their perches and send the heavy, rain-slicked silence of the farmyard into a sudden, violent flutter. Elara woke not to the sound of her own name, but to the crushing weight of her own left arm, which had fused...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded RoadAct I What was it, really, that bled from the crack in the white porcelain? Sven Odden held the plate up to the sputtering gaslight in the basement, his fingers slick with the cold sweat that had begun to gather on his upper lip. The year was 1904, and the damp of the northern cape seeped through the floorboards of the tenement at sixty-three of Candlewick Row, a place where the winter dark...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant BladeAct I The ink had begun to seep under my fingernails before I noticed the pain, a cool, wet intrusion that felt less like a wound and more like a correction being made to the map I held in my hands. I woke in the care-home day room, the television low and staticky in the corner, showing a weather map of Moravia that bore no resemblance to the landscape outside, where the salt was already eating...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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