0 Comentários
0 Compartilhamentos
15 Visualizações
0 Anterior
Diretório
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Faça o login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
-
The Wistful IncenseThe roof of the Abbey of St. Jude came down at noon. It was not a violent collapse, but a slow, sighing exhalation of dust and shattered slate that buried the nave in a grey twilight. Margaret Holloway stood in the center of the ruin, her hands pressed against her ears, watching the sunlight die behind the cloud of debris. She had spent thirty years restoring this place. She had mixed mortar by...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden CompassThe rain fell on the cobblestones like a heavy, gray curtain. It had been falling for three days. The smell of wet wool and stale bread hung in the air. Silas stood in the doorway of his shop. He held a compass in his hand. It was a brass instrument. Old. Dented. The needle trembled. It did not point north. It pointed toward the town square. Toward the market. Toward the debt. Silas was a...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Distant TempleThe ceramic vessel sat on the desk. It was small. Porcelain. White. It held water. It held nothing else. Dr. Arthur Vane looked at it. His eyes were dry. The room was quiet. The clock ticked. One second. Two seconds. Three. The water was still. The surface was a mirror. Arthur saw his own face. He did not recognize it. The lines were deep. The skin was pale. He was a man of facts. He was a man...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Pale ExileYou are asleep, or perhaps you are waking, for the line between the two has grown thin as spider silk in this place where the air tastes of copper and stale honey. You find yourself standing in a corridor that stretches longer than any hallway in your modest office on the fourth floor, a place where the carpet is thick and red, swallowing the sound of your footsteps, and the portraits on the...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Golden SuspectThe bees are dead. You see them on the windowsill, small and grey, clustered like dust that has given up on the wind. You do not sweep them away. You look at them until your eyes ache. The glass is cold against your forehead. It is morning in the house, but the light is thick, heavy with the smell of damp wool and old wood. You are a man who works with his hands. You make bells. Not the kind...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Pale Door"Cut it," the Master said. His voice was dry, like leaves scraping stone. "Cut the left side. You hesitate. The iron remembers hesitation." I looked at the blade. It was a longsword, unpolished, dark as a bruise. My hands shook. I could feel the tremor in my fingertips, a tiny, frantic bird beating against the bone. I looked up at him. Sir Alaric stood in the center of the hall, his armor...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Distant CrownThe rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that washed the rust off the old iron fences and turned the dirt roads of the Appalachian foothills into thick, sucking mud that trapped the boots of the men who walked them, and Sergeant Elias Thorne, who had served twenty years in the county sheriff’s office, felt the weight of the deluge not just on his shoulders but inside...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 2 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Pale ProtocolThe ink had not yet dried when the bell began to ring. It was a low, mournful toll that seemed to rise from the very stones of the cellar where I sat, counting the day’s earnings. I am a man of few words, and I find that silence is often a better ledger than speech. But the sound broke the quiet of the workshop, and I knew, with a certainty that felt like a physical weight, that it was time for...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior
-
The Wistful AsylumThe air in the valley of Oakhaven did not smell of rain or earth, as it should have, but of stale incense and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the back of my throat like a second tongue, thick and unyielding, forcing me to swallow dry and raspy as I walked the narrow, flagstone paths that wound through the mist-choked woods. I was Thomas Ashworth, a man who had spent thirty...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Greek