## The Weaver’s Bloom The dust tasted like regret. It coated everything in Veridium – the crumbling facades of jade-carved buildings, the cracked paving stones under Elara’s boots, even the inside of her throat. Veridium was dying. Everyone knew it.…
## The Star-Echo Weaver The rain tasted like rust. Elara spat, the metallic tang coating her tongue a familiar discomfort amidst the perpetual gloom of Atheria. Grey rain always felt like rust, clinging to everything – skin, clothes, memories. Atheria…
## The Bloom Wardens The rain tasted of iron. Elara wiped her face, a smear of red-brown across her cheekbone, and squinted at the moss-slicked stones lining the Elderwood border. Thirteen summers she’s lingered here, a silent sentinel. Not by…
## The Static Between Frames Dust motes danced in the slant of afternoon light. Leo Maxwell, proprietor of “Second Look Restorations,” traced a finger across the chipped Formica countertop. The scent of chemicals – fixer, developer, toner – clung to…
## The Cartographer’s Echo Dust motes danced in the violet shafts slicing through Old Man Tiber’s workshop. The light, fractured seven ways over Aestinwy’s sun prisms, tasted like ozone and regret. I ran a thumb across the vellum stretched taut…
The rain tasted like rust. It hammered against the corrugated iron roof of G Catedral da Lua Negra, a constant, insistent rhythm that mirrored the frantic beat of my pulse. Lisbon clung to me, slick and fragrant with wet stone…