0 Comentários
0 Compartilhamentos
1 Visualizações
0 Anterior
Diretório
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Faça Login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
-
The Distant ThresholdYou are tired. Not the sleepless kind. The deep, marrow kind. The kind that settles into the joints of the knee and the hinge of the jaw. You are a scholar of history. You have spent thirty years tracing the bloodlines of the Ashworths. You know their feuds. You know their truces. You know the weight of the iron rings on their doors. You stand in the library of the North Tower. The air is cold....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Faded RiverThe banquet hall smelled of roasted boar and old stone, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat and refused to release. I sat at the far end of the long oak table, my hands folded in my lap, watching the candlelight tremble in the draft from the high, arched windows. The air was heavy with the smoke of tallow and the perfume of expensive oils, yet I felt a coldness that had...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Wistful GridThe feast was held in the Great Hall of the Athenaeum, a room that smelled of beeswax, old paper, and the specific, metallic tang of anxiety that settles into the carpet when too many minds are crammed into a space designed for silence, and I sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, watching the candlelight tremble against the high windows, thinking about how it is a peculiar kind of...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Distant MetropolisYou are standing in the center of the room, and the air tastes of copper and burnt sugar, a thick, cloying sweetness that coats the back of your throat as you watch the chandeliers shatter around you, not with the crash of breaking glass, but with a silent, expanding implosion that pulls the light into a singular, blinding point before it dissolves into the dust of the floorboards. It is a...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Wistful IncenseThe air in the basement tasted of dust and old paper. I held the brass key in my palm. It was warm. Too warm. The metal had been sitting in the dark for decades, yet it burned against my skin like a coal pulled from a dying fire. I looked at the door. It was heavy oak. The wood was black with age. The grain was tight. It looked like skin stretched over bone. I am twelve. My name is Julian. I am...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden MirrorThe dream is always the same, though you have tried to forget it. You stand in a field of tall, dry grass that whistles in a wind that does not blow. In the center of the field is a house. It is not a house of wood or stone, but of polished bronze, its walls reflecting the sky so perfectly that you cannot tell where the architecture ends and the heavens begin. This is the Mirror House. It has...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Wistful ThroneThe train coughed. It kicked up dust. The smell of coal. It hung in the air. It was thick. It was grey. It coated the tongue. Elias sat. He held his bag. It was leather. It was worn. He watched the platform. It was empty. The wind blew. It tore at his coat. The coat was old. The buttons were loose. He looked at the clock. The hands moved. They ticked. They tocked. Time passed. Time did not...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden CircuitThe letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with black wax that had cracked in the mail. Eleanor sat at her desk in the high tower of the palace, the wind rattling the leaded glass outside. She did not open it immediately. She held it in her lap, feeling the weight of the paper against her thighs. It was a summons. Or perhaps a confession. The ink on the envelope was dry and dark, like old blood....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden DowntownThe rain hit the cobblestones of the courtyard with a rhythmic, hollow thud, like a drum counting down to a silence that had already begun. Thomas stood at the edge of the marble terrace, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in ten years. The steel was cold, familiar as the inside of his own skull. He was leaving. Not because the King had commanded it, though the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek