The Last Light of Emberfall
The air in Emberfall reeked of burnt iron and ash, a scent as familiar to Elira as the pulse of her own heartbeat. She stood at the edge of the marketplace, her calloused fingers tightening around the hilt of her…
ritual
Read MoreThe Last Light of Emberfall
The Last Light of Emberfall
The air reeked of burnt oak and iron as Kael stumbled through the village square, his boots crunching over shattered pottery. Smoke coiled in jagged tendrils from the charred remains of the central lantern, its oil-fed flame guttering like a…
The Hollowing
The first time Lila saw the symbol, it was etched into the bark of an oak behind her grandmother’s house, half-buried in moss and rot. She traced the jagged lines with her thumb, feeling the grooves sink into her skin…
The Loom of Echoes
## The Loom of Echoes Rain lashed against the corrugated iron roof, a frantic drumbeat mimicking Elara’s pulse. The workshop smelled of damp wool and ozone—a familiar scent, a comfort in the relentless grayness of Dustbowl, Nebraska. She adjusted her…
The Bone Weaver
## The Bone Weaver The rain tasted of charcoal. Amelia ran a gloved hand across the damp clay, the chill seeping through her layers of merino wool. The dig site near Pompeii sprawled beneath a bruised sky, an excavation pit…
The Bloom Wardens
## 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 Echo Garden
## The Echo Garden The salt spray tasted like grief on Dr. Aris Thorne’s tongue. She traced the pitted bone of a clavicle, cool beneath her latex glove. Not just any clavicle. This one pulsed with a faint, internal emerald…
The Shifting Shell
## The Shifting Shell The dust tasted like burnt cinnamon, clinging to the back of Elara’s throat. She pulled her cowl tighter, shielding her face from the perpetual grit swirling around the Crawler’s legs. Not real legs, not anymore. They…
The Weaver’s Knot
The rain in Bristol clung to everything – the cobblestones slick with a pewter sheen, the damp brick of Ashton Mead Gardens leaning into the perpetual gloom. It smelled of wet earth and something older, a decaying sweetness that clung…