0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Faded QuadrantThe mist clung to the stone walls of the Keep like a shroud, damp and cold against the skin. I stood at the edge of the courtyard, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, though the blade was not drawn. The air smelled of wet moss and old iron. It was the third day of the siege. The men of the King waited beyond the palisade, their faces hidden by the fog. I waited for the order. I waited for...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GardenThe rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the sky, a thick, grey breath that settled into the cobblestones of the old city square where Elias Thorne stood with his back against the damp stone of the fountain, holding the brass compass not as a tool of navigation but as a talisman against the dissolution of his own mind, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the cold metal that the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumThe road was old. It wound through the heather like a scar. Elias walked. His boots were heavy. They were made for marching, not for this. The mud sucked at his heels. He did not pull away. He let the earth take its weight. He was a soldier. Or he had been. The uniform was gone. Only the habit remained. His back was straight. His eyes were forward. He looked for the fox. The order was clear....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded BouquetThe fire started at the root. It did not start with a spark, nor with a match, but with a slow, chemical burn deep within the foundations of the house, a thermal anomaly that the sensors missed because the sensors were designed for surface heat, not for the cold, wet rot of ideology. You remember the smell. It was not smoke. It was the smell of ozone and crushed mint, a scent that clung to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe iron key sat in the palm of Elias Thorne’s hand, heavy and cold as a river stone, its teeth worn smooth by generations of hands that had turned it in the same slow, deliberate arc, and he watched the way the candlelight caught the scratches on the metal, a map of failures and small, quiet victories etched into the surface, while outside the window the rain fell in sheets against the stone...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe tent was not made of canvas, but of a pale, shifting mist that smelled of ozone and old copper. It stood in the middle of a field of dry, yellowed grass, trembling slightly as if the wind were trying to blow it away, though the air was perfectly still. Thomas Bradshaw sat on a crate of salted pork, his boots muddy to the ankle, and watched the entrance flap billow without any breeze. He was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseThe bell tolled. It did not ring. It choked. A wet, heavy sound, like a stone dropped into a deep, dark well. Ellis stood by the window. His hands were fists. His knuckles were white. The glass was cold. He pressed his forehead against it. "Are you ready?" The voice came from the door. Old man Silas. He held a lantern. The flame shook. The shadows danced on the stone walls. They were long. They...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe iron ring of the gauntlet bit into the soft flesh of my wrist as I swung, the air thick with the scent of ozone and burnt hair, and I thought, with a clarity that felt like a blade between the ribs, that I was already dead. The creature before me was not a beast but a shadow given weight, a tangle of black smoke that wore the face of my husband, Thomas, whose eyes were hollows of absolute...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe road was a vein of red clay, pulsing with the heat of a sun that refused to set. Elara walked. Her hands were stained with indigo, the dye of the sky trapped in the fibers of the cloth she carried. It was a heavy burden, a roll of tapestry that smelled of crushed violets and iron. She had woven it for her daughter, Livia. The pattern was complex, a labyrinth of thorns and roses, a map of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek