## The Clockwork Prophet The rain tasted of coal dust and regret. August in Warsaw clung thick, a humid blanket smothering the city’s limestone facades. I wiped my brow with a grimy glove, the oily residue smearing across skin already…
## The Obsidian Bloom The air hung thick, a humid blanket clinging to Xoltan’s skin. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stared at the glyph-etched stone, its surface slick under the flickering lamplight. Years he’d spent deciphering these intricate…
## The Lunar Bloom The biting wind clawed at Albrecht’s threadbare coat, a stark echo of the fever that gnawed at Prague. He walked with a stoop forged from years hunched over simmering pots and cryptic texts, the cobblestones slick…
## The Beekeeper’s Compass The scent of beeswax and damp stone clung to Adelheid like a second skin. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight piercing the apothecary’s window, illuminating rows of labeled jars. Not remedies for coughs…