The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a grey curtain suspended between the sky and the muddy track. Elias Thorne sat in the back of the horse-drawn wagon, his knees pressed against the splintered wood. He was not looking at the road ahead. He was looking at the book in his hands. It was not a book. It was a slate, a thick slab of black stone etched with lines so fine they seemed to...
The iron door of the vault was not merely closed; it was fused, a slab of oxidized steel that smelled of rust and old blood, sealing you within the belly of the world. You are sitting on the floor, your knees drawn up to your chest, the cold seeping through the wool of your trousers, a sensation so sharp it feels like a physical weight pressing against your bones. The air here is stagnant,...
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