## The Weaver’s Dust The wind tasted of iron and regret. Elara pressed a hand to her throat, the gritty film clinging stubbornly. Another day bleeding through the village of Briarwood. Thirty-two days since the miasma first rolled in, a…
## The Cartographer’s Bloom Rain lashed against the corrugated metal roof of Elias Thorne’s workshop, a relentless drumming that echoed the frantic beat in his chest. The scent of ozone and damp earth clung to everything, a familiar comfort layered…
## The Static Bloom The salt spray stung Wren’s face, tasting like regret and old pennies. She tightened the hood of her oilskin jacket, scanning the gray churn of the Pacific. Not for ships. Never for ships. She watched for…