The rain has not stopped for three days, a cold, persistent mist that clings to the stone walls of the Hall of Whispers like a shroud. You stand in the center of the rotunda, your back against the cold marble pillar, watching the figures move in the distance. They are the Council, the architects of this age, draped in silks that shimmer with an iridescence that seems less like fabric and more...
The morning the river took the bridge, Elara did not weep, though the water rose high enough to lick the bottom step of her porch and the air smelled of wet silt and dying fish. She stood in the doorway of her workshop, a woman whose hands were stained not with ink or oil, but with the deep, bruised purple of the ink she mixed for the town’s scribes, watching the current tear at the wooden...
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