Literary Fiction

The Glass loomed above the city like a ribcage of bone and light, its vast, translucent lattice humming with the deep, resonant vibration of a billion calculations per second. Below, the city of Othrys sprawled in a labyrinth of rusted metal and perpetual shadow, a gray scar upon the face

The clock on the mantelpiece, a brass artifact that had survived three generations of Thorne men, struck twelve. The sound was heavy, a dull thud that vibrated through the floorboards and settled in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones. He lay still in the narrow bed, listening to the