The opulent palace halls filled with the roar of celebration as the young Emperor revelled in his newfound power.

Music resonated through corridors, the laughter was loud and raucous, and the clinking of golden goblets and spilling of rich wine could be observed.

The scene was fun, and yet there the young Emperor’s mother sat in the shadows. Porcia. Observing the festivities with a stoic gaze.

...

The world around was blurry and altogether far too bright.

His gut churned and his mouth felt watery and metallic.

When he looked around his breath caught in astonishment, or at least he hoped it was astonishment. There was always the chance whatever magic macguffin had occurred was not terribly safe and he was in actuality dying. He hoped not.

His surroundings, once ruined, dusty and lifeless ...

In the local sheriffs office, where dust was fixing on every surface, the quiet telegraph machine clattered to life.

The loud, rhythmic noise woke Jebidiah Dawson from his peaceful nap.

It caught him terribly surprised. The thing never made a sound, and was all together a useless investment.

It’s best quality was that Jeb never had to think about it, until now.

So Jeb gave a loud groan and moved...

It was a quiet little town, where birds giggled and the waves whispered, if you were willing to listen.

There was an old, sandy cricket pitch, and an old wharf where the local fishermen met, and a few sparse trees.

And Lily knew that sea monsters hid under the old dock at the beach, and that witches peaked out at her from the woods, and sometimes the cricket pitch was a battlefield. The sand wer...

Her nose is pink, her blonde hair frizzy and wild in the cold morning air, and her green eyes stare into the path before her.

Each step reveals more cool stone, perhaps the rock rises from the earth to guide her journey, or maybe it is the wind and the mist that draws her to her destination.

She is thankful either way.

The journey to her grandmothers’ village is long and tiring, but it is peace...

Eighty two days into the celebrations and Marcus Gaius had mostly lost his fear of a bloody death.

To die in battle was a noble death, but Marcus was a simple farmer, and to die in the games felt more akin to an ox being sent for slaughter.

They may feed the people, but little honour is given to their blood upon the ground.

Though if one is to die in mock battle, heralding in the wonder of the E...

The house is cluttered and dust coats every available surface.

The curtains are drawn, the polished wood floor is covered in scratches and scuff marks; well used and well loved.

There’s a faint smell of burning ozone that the man guesses originates from the lights that hum a sad symphony above him.

The house is cluttered and crowded and terribly empty.

Like a black hole that cannot, will not be ...

Íkaros is five when he hears the whispers of his fathers deeds.

Of the cousin he never got to know. Of his fathers corrupting hubris.

But he is the son of a slave girl, and his father is the greatest inventor in all of the Mediterranean.

So the whispers he ignores.

It’s the next year when his father comes home, confused and tired. He won’t speak of what troubles him, but Íkaros hears him speak to...

Her body ached.

Her muscles grew stiff.

Her blood burned her with its frozen heat.

Agnes was dying, and that almost didn’t scare her.

If she didn’t think about it, if she only thought about the here and now, the blinding pain; she almost welcomed death.

But then she would close her eyes and see. She would see pearl white teeth and sweet doe eyes staring up at her. The pale blonde tufts on her...