Short Stories

The Wellant Road followed the orchard that lined nearly its entire southern edge. It intersected but once, at Northbridge – the name given both to the old stone crossing and the inn at its northern end. Merchants lined either side, maneuvering carts and horses between baskets of apples, cheap jewelry, and yesterday's bread. On the southern wall sat a slight, straw-haired girl in a brown wool dress, bare heels swinging above the water. A pair of ivories danced across her palms

This story began as something else entirely. It emerged during an early draft of the second Valorium novel - one I ultimately chose not to keep. That version of the book was expansive, ambitious, and fun to write, but it leaned too far into excess. It relied on unnecessary leaps, too much spectacle, and ideas that felt ungrounded. In the end, it didn’t ring true, so I let it go. Almost all of it. What remained was a single idea - one that fit thematically, but not contextuall