The chipped ceramic of the teacup warmed Lyric’s palms, but did little for the chill burrowing into her bones. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light slicing through the shuttered window. Valor hadn’t walked in months. Not since…
The October chill bit through Thomas’s patched coat, each gust off the Thames a slap in the face. Cobblestones slicked with drizzle reflected the gaslights in distorted halos. He tasted soot, even with the damp air. It clung to everything…
The chipped stone bit into my palms as I scaled the tenement wall. Dublin throbbed below, a raw nerve stretched tight. Not from the fighting, not yet. It was the *other* thing. The shadow slipping between alleys, faster than a…
Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light slicing the gloom of the archive. Old Man Tiber, hunched like a question mark over a brittle scroll, traced a finger across faded ink. The parchment felt like dried skin under…
The maces, bound with tarnished silver, swung in practiced arcs. Each impact on the training dummies echoed the weight of generations. Old grievances. The Elkhire. They hadn’t stood shoulder-to-shoulder in centuries, not since the Split. Now, a shadow army massed…
The chipped ceramic of the mug warmed Hauden’s palms, a pale contrast to the fiery sunset bleeding across the skyline. Every window in the tower district blazed with reflected gold—the Sun-Kissed, they called themselves, their skin practically luminous, personalities to…
The fever rattled Janek’s bones. Not the heat, though that clung like wet wool, but the *seeing*. It began with soot. The way it swirled from the flues, settling not as darkness, but as… shapes. Patterns. Like the butcher’s tally…
The chipped rune pulsed beneath Elara’s palm, a throb against the cold stone of the watchtower. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sunlight slicing through the gloom. It hadn’t sparked in centuries, not since the last Runeweaver… vanished.…
The dust tasted like old pennies. Old pennies and regret. Kaelen traced a fingertip across the basalt face of a crumbling sentinel. It wasn’t stone, not exactly. More like…compressed night. The air hummed, a low thrum against his teeth. He’d…
Elka traced the brittle edge of the parchment. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light slicing the gloom of the archive. Each fragment felt less like paper, more like sun-warmed bone. She wasn’t *searching* for anything specific, not…
The scent of cut grass and diesel hung thick in the late afternoon air. Astralen guided the mower along the edge of Lord Elmsworth’s prize-winning clover, the engine a steady drone against the rising wind. Not exactly the life he…
The chipped gargoyle warmed beneath Zeush’s feet, the stone radiating the day’s faint heat. Below, the city of Veridium pulsed—a network of shadowed alleys and glittering towers, all choking on ambition. He adjusted his grip, talons scoring the weathered stone.…
The salt spray tasted of regret. Old Man Tiber, they called the lighthouse, though no one remembered a man ever tending it. Just the mechanism, grinding gears and a lens the size of a carriage wheel. It sat on Widow’s…
The dust motes danced in the single shaft of light piercing the ruined temple. It smelled of wet stone and something else…something like burnt honey and regret. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though he wasn’t *that* old—more weathered, like…
The scent of beeswax and rosewater clung to Antoine like a second skin. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight slicing through the gloom of his workshop, illuminating a half-finished glove—ivory silk, almost translucent. He didn’t sell warmth,…