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 MirrorThe king’s mirror shattered before dawn. You stand in the debris. The glass is black. It cuts your feet. You do not bleed. You feel the cold seep into your bones. The hall is silent. The courtiers watch. They are afraid. They look at you. They look at the shards. They wait for you to speak. You are the Royal Seer. You are the old man who speaks only when the sky cracks. You have not spoken in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorI woke with the taste of iron and cold stone on my tongue, the residual phantom weight of the longsword I had carried for thirty years pressing against my left hip where the steel had once lived, a ghostly ache that had become indistinguishable from the bone itself. The air in the keep was thick, stagnant with the scent of wet wool and the faint, cloying sweetness of rot that seeps into the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe carriage that carried you from the port of Dover to the sprawling, glass-and-steel citadel of the Ministry of Internal Affairs did not merely drive, so much as it glided through the damp, grey afternoon, a steel bubble insulated from the chaotic, rain-swept reality of the street outside, and within this hermetically sealed pod of polished oak and leather, you sat with the artifact in your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe ice cracked. Not with a sound like thunder. No. It was a wet, sharp snap. A single fracture running through the white surface. I stood on the frozen lake. My boots were heavy. The cold bit my fingers. I held the staff tight. My name is Arthur. I am old. I have studied the stars. I have read the old books. I think I know the world. But the world is not a book. The world is ice. And ice...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DanceThe air in the library smelled of dust, dried lavender, and the slow decay of paper. Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the wooden surface scarred by the pen nibs of generations of scholars who had sat before him. He was a man of few words, his silence a heavy, woven thing, like the thick wool of his own coat. He wore a scarf of deep indigo wool, knitted by his late mother, its threads tight and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinThe banquet hall of the Ministry of Agrarian Continuity smelled of boiled turnips and damp wool, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat and refused to be dislodged by the sharp, metallic tang of the ceremonial wine. It was a room built for eternity, with vaulted ceilings painted in fading frescoes of harvests that had not occurred for three generations, and the air was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe rain does not fall so much as it is exhaled by the grey sky, a persistent, wet sigh that settles into the marrow of the stone walls of the High Court. You stand in the shadows of the gallery, where the air is thick with the scent of damp wool, old paper, and the metallic tang of fear. Your hands, pale and still, rest upon the cold marble railing, and you watch the proceedings below with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe orchids in the case were dying. Not slowly. Not with the dignified fade of autumn leaves. They were rotting from the inside out, a wet, sweet decay that clung to the air like a heavy curtain. Julian Vane stood before the glass, his reflection a ghostly smear against the white blossoms. He did not blink. He had not blinked in an hour. The shop was silent. The rain tapped against the high...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale VerdictThe rain fell on the cobblestones. It was a cold, gray morning in London. I stood in the archway of St. Mary’s. My hand rested on my sword hilt. The leather was wet. My fingers were numb. I waited. Who came next was not what I expected. It was not a bandit. It was not a spy. It was a child. A girl. Perhaps twelve. She wore a tattered blue dress. Her hair was matted with mud. She held a small,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek