0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Golden VisitThe air in the Hall of Mirrors did not smell of lavender or old paper, as the court historians would later claim in their sanitized accounts, but of ozone, wet wool, and the metallic tang of blood that had not yet dried, a scent that clung to the back of Sergeant Elias Thorne’s throat like a physical weight, choking him even as he stood pinned against the cold, polished marble floor, his left...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitYou walk. The road is long. It is grey. It is wet. You have walked for days. Your boots are heavy. They are soaked. You do not stop. You cannot stop. If you stop, you will remember. Remembering is a chain. Chains are heavy. You carry a chain. The castle stands ahead. It is old. Stone is black. Rain hits the stone. It hisses. You approach the gate. The gate is iron. It is rusted. You knock. No...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe soup was thick. It sat in the iron pot, black and oily, smelling of burnt bone and something sweet that had gone wrong. I stared at it. The heat from the fire licked at my hands. I was the cook for the Ninth Battalion, a role that suited me better than the uniform. I knew the weight of a ration. I knew how to stretch a pound of beef into two. I knew how to make a man eat when he had lost...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe mud on the road was thick as blood, sucking at my boots with a wet, final sound. I walked until my legs burned, not because the distance was long, but because the weight in my chest had become a physical thing, a stone lodged in the throat. I was walking toward the castle, toward the King, and I was walking toward my own execution. Or so I told myself. Or so the villagers had told me, when...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the cobblestones of the old citadel into a slick, reflective mirror that distorted the towering spires above. I walked with the heavy, deliberate pace of a man who knows that his legs are the only instruments he has left to play, the sound of my boots a dull, rhythmic thud against the wet stone that seemed to echo in the hollows of my own chest....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe cellar was not a place of darkness, but of a pale, suspended light that seemed to emanate from the dust motes themselves. I remember the smell first: damp earth, old paper, and the metallic tang of blood that had long since dried into the cracks of the floorboards. My name is Arthur, and I was twelve when the fever took my voice and gave me this room. It had been three weeks since the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe air in the sub-basement of the St. Jude’s Infirmary was not merely cold; it was a physical weight, a dense, gelatinous substance that pressed against Margot Vane’s sternum with the persistence of a debt that could never be repaid. She sat alone in the narrow alcove, her back against the damp concrete, her hands resting in her lap, fingers intertwined with a precision that suggested...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe air in the Grand Hall tasted of yeast and old money. It was a thick, suffocating scent that clung to the velvet drapes and settled in the lungs of every guest. Elias Thorne stood by the window, his back to the room, watching the fog roll in from the harbor. He was a man carved from wood, his hands rough and stained with the permanent ink of his trade. Beside him stood Julian, his apprentice...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world and turned the cobblestones of Millhaven into a slick, dark mirror. You sat in the back room of the shop, the one that smelled of varnish, dried lavender, and the metallic tang of old blood, though you could not remember the last time you had actually handled a blade. The clock on the mantel...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek