When the walls of Alfirk’s silent empire cracked, the first sound to escape was a song — low, mournful, and ancient. It drifted through the violet mists like a pulse, …
Long before Alfirk raised her Spire or Errai gathered her echoes, the world was unshaped — a sea of violet mist that hummed with the first light of creation. And …
They said no such lands ever existed — no record, no ruin, no trace. But that was before I found the map. It was pressed between the pages of an …
The portrait hung in the west hall of the Whittemore Estate, between the cracked marble bust of Lord Alfred and a tapestry depicting a hunt that, by all accounts, had …
The second portrait hung opposite Sir Reginald’s, the pair forming a strange symmetry at the end of the corridor. While the Basset Hound sat in solemn regality, this Labrador radiated …
The third painting wasn’t hung with the others. It rested at the top of the grand staircase, facing the main landing as if greeting anyone bold enough to climb that …
The portrait of the English Bulldog hung in the manor’s smallest room — the smoking parlor. It was an odd choice. The space was narrow and low-ceilinged, filled with the …
The French Bulldog portrait was the smallest of them all — only twelve inches high, its frame gilded in delicate floral motifs, more jewelry than art. It hung beside the …
The German Shepherd hung in the grand foyer — the only painting large enough to rival Sir Reginald’s. Unlike the others, this one had never been removed, not even for …
The house had gone silent. No ticking clocks. No settling beams. Only the faint hiss of candlelight, burning with a patience that felt older than fire. Simon stood before the …