Wren

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The Static Bloom

## The Static Bloom The air tasted like burnt sugar and static. Not the crackle from a faulty receiver, but something deeper, coating the tongue like ash. Wren coughed, pulling the salvaged respirator tighter across her face. The filter did…

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The Husk Cities

## The Husk Cities The air tasted like wet iron and blooming rot. Old Man Tiber, they called him, though he couldn’t be more than sixty, the marsh leeched years. He adjusted the oilskin cowl tighter around his face as…

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