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The Wistful ThroneChapter One Zoran Markovic, the horse doctor of the caravan, had spent forty-two years at NineElm Crossing fixing broken bones and bad temperaments, but on this Tuesday in the dry season of 1347, he stood before a crumbling throne in a red desert of iron and spinifex, holding the shattered left hand of his wife, Elara, who had died three days prior. The air smelled of rust and dried blood, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant JourneyForty-two of Corvid Lane smelled of wet wool and old paper. The rain had finally come, filling the dried wells of the Great Plains, turning the cracked earth into a slurry that sucked at the boots of those who walked it. Frank Muncy stood in the queue at the temp agency, his hands clasped behind his back, feeling the dampness seep into his cuffs. He was thirty years old, a tow-truck dispatcher...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden HarborChapter One "Final Notice: Account in Default. Roll-over Fee Applied. Due Date: Immediate." The paper was wet, the ink bleeding into the fiber, but I could still read the numbers. I kept the slip in my apron pocket, next to the razor, a small, dry weight against my thigh. I was thirty-two, a dyer in the salt-rotted port of Vael, though here in the bayou, the port was just a flooded cellar where...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful PetalChapter One NOTICE: Oxygen ration reduced to 40% effective immediately. The mill operates at half capacity due to frost. Do not report to the relay shed after dusk. Carmela Rizzo wiped the silt from her boots, the mud thick and cold against the leather, and checked the weight of the object in her pocket. It was a spoon. Not the iron kind, but the ceramic replica, hollow and light, which the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AshesChapter One The ink is dying, and we all know it, though we do not speak of it in the High Court, only in the low murmur of men who have learned that silence is the only currency left. I am Suresh Mukherjee, a scribe of thirty-two years, and I sit at the third desk from the window in the Great Hall, where the light comes in thin and grey through the dust-laden glass, illuminating the grey...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe mist does not roll in from the sea; it rises from the cobblestones, a pale, viscous breath that smells of brine and old iron. You stand at the foot of your mother’s bed in the coastal clinic, watching the vapor curl around her hospital gown, and you feel the familiar, nauseating pull in your chest. It is a hunger that has grown sharp since the accident, a gnawing void that only seems to...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant GhostAct I Marlene Krueger stood in the doorway of the workshop on sixty-three of the Bellfounders' Walk, her hands raw from the cold, watching the fog eat the sound of the noon siren. She had wanted to sell the place, to pay the debts that clung to Elias like wet wool, but the town’s prejudice against a woman artisan had turned every offer into a mockery. The draft that moved the gears without wind...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ProtocolThe pen is dry, Elias, but the ink is still wet. "Who said that?" Elias Thorne asked, his voice cracking in the silence of the basement archive, where the air tasted of copper and old dust. He looked toward the shadows where the stacks of ledgers rose like dark cliffs, but there was no one there, only the faint, rhythmic tick of the radiator and the smell of ozone that seemed to cling to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded GuestChapter One "You’re late, Ilena Eland." The voice came from the head of the long oak table, low and rough, like stones grinding together in a dry riverbed. The banquet hall smelled of roasting mutton and wet wool, the air thick with the smoke of tallow lamps that flickered against the high, vaulted ceiling. Dr. Aris sat at the far end, his face a mask of polite indifference, though his eyes...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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