0 Comentários
0 Compartilhamentos
3 Visualizações
0 Anterior
Diretório
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Faça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe train moved through the dark. It was a long ride. The wheels clicked. The sound was constant. It was a rhythm. It was a heartbeat. Clara sat by the window. Her hands were still. They rested in her lap. She held a loaf of bread. It was wrapped in wax paper. The paper was yellowed. The crust was hard. She did not eat it. She looked at it. She felt its weight. It was heavy. It was real. The...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Distant JokeThe fog did not merely settle upon the ironworks; it inhabited the very lattice of the girders, a thick, grey miasma that tasted of sulfur and old blood, wrapping the sprawling industrial complex in a shroud that felt less like weather and more like a living, breathing entity that had grown tired of the sun. I stood at the edge of the catwalk, my hand resting on the cold, riveted steel, feeling...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Wistful SkylineThe rain lashed against the single-pane window of my office, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seemed to synchronize with the throbbing in my temples. I stared at the blueprint spread across the oak desk, the ink lines blurring as the condensation fogged the glass. It was a map of the new textile mill in Blackwood, a sprawling complex of brick and iron that would anchor the town’s future, or...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Wistful AsylumThe ink was wet. It bled into the fibers of the paper, spreading like a bruise under skin. Thomas stared at the letter. The words were legible. They were cruel. He folded the paper. He put it in his pocket. He did not cry. He had not cried in ten years. The room was small. The walls were white. The light was harsh. It came from a skylight high above. Dust motes danced in the beams. They were...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden QuestI woke from a dream so heavy with the scent of wet ash and old blood that it lingered in my throat like a physical stone, a rough, grey pebble of memory that I could not spit out. The dream was of a city that did not exist, a place where the streets were paved with the bones of the dead and the air was so thick with magic that it felt less like an element and more like a living, breathing...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Distant BladeThe hall was thick with the smell of roasted boar and damp wool. Torches flickered against the stone walls, casting long, trembling shadows that danced like restless spirits. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the high table, his hands resting on the polished oak. They were steady hands. They had been steady for thirty years. The King’s justice had flowed through his veins like a cold, clear water. He...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Distant ClueThe rain fell not as water but as a fine, gray dust that settled on your shoulders and turned to stone upon your skin. You stood alone in the center of the Grey Hall, a vast chamber of obsidian columns that rose into a darkness so deep it seemed to have weight. You were a soldier, or had been, before the world dissolved into this mist. Your armor, once polished steel, was now fused with the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden EchoesThe kitchen was a cathedral of stone and shadow, where the only light came from the hearth, a dying ember of orange in the vast, cold dark. Elias Thorne stood before the great oak table, his hands resting on the grain, feeling the chill seep through the skin of his palms. He was a man built for the field, a commander of men, yet here he was, reduced to a prisoner of his own heritage, a sentinel...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Pale LetterThe ivy in the courtyard had turned a bruised purple, clinging to the stone with a tenacity that felt less like life and more like a slow, green suffocation. I stood at the window, my hand resting on the cold glass, watching the leaves tremble in the wind. It was a stillness that hurt. A silence with teeth. My name is Elias Thorne, and I am the last of the Ashworth line, though I have long...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 3 Visualizações 0 Anterior
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek