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 Pale EchoThe dream was a long corridor of wet wool and rust, a scent that clung to the back of Warden Silas Thorne’s throat like a physical weight. He woke not with a gasp, but with a silence so profound it felt violent, the air in his cell still and heavy with the dust of centuries. The window, a sliver of iron-barred glass set high in the stone wall, let in a pale, gray light that did not illuminate...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BonsaiThe cell was square. Ten feet by ten. Concrete. Cold. It smelled of wet stone and old fear. Marcus sat. He did not look up. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. A tremor in the bones. The walls hummed. A low frequency. It vibrated in his teeth. He was a prisoner. Or so the file said. The file was thick. Black cover. White pages. Redacted bars. It sat on the metal table. It stared at him....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful LetterThe rain did not fall; it hung, a grey curtain of wet wool against the high windows of the Blackwood estate. Thomas Ashworth stood in the mud, his uniform soaked through to the skin, the cold biting into his bones with a teeth-gritting insistence. He was a man of few words, built of stone and silence, but the night had stripped that silence away. In his hand, he held a lantern that sputtered,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarYou hold the iron. It is cold. It is heavy. It does not rust. You are walking. The road is long. The sky is low. You have no name. Or rather, you have a name, but it is a thing that belongs to a dead woman. You are the carrier. You are the vessel. The iron is the anchor. "Put it down," the voice says. It comes from the mist. It is a child’s voice. But the mist has no children. Only the wind....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PhotographThe wind howled through the cracks of the stone, a sound like a dying beast scraping its claws against the rough walls of the keep, and I sat in the corner of my cell, the dampness seeping into the wool of my tunic until it felt less like fabric and more like a second, colder skin pressed against my bones. It was the third day since the siege had begun, or perhaps the fourth, for time had...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe vault door was heavy. Heaviest in the building. Marcus stood alone in the corridor. The air tasted of copper and old dust. He was a man of maintenance. Pipes. Leaks. Broken hinges. He was not a man of secrets. But he knew the door. He touched the cold steel. It did not open. Of course it did not. It was sealed. "Marcus." The voice came from the shadows. Director Elias Thorne. "Good morning,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant JourneyThe jar broke. It hit the floor of the apothecary. Shards of blue glass scattered like ice. The smell hit me before the sound faded. Sweet. Cloying. Wrong. I am Thomas. I sell tinctures. I sell hope in bottles. Today, I sold nothing. Old Silas stood by the counter. His hands shook. He held the empty wrapper. You broke it, Thomas, he said. I looked at the mess. The liquid pooled. It turned...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ExileThe rain tasted of iron. I could taste it on my lips. A metallic tang. It coated the tongue. It lingered. I stood in the corridor. The stone was cold. The air was thick. It smelled of wet wool and old sweat. We were waiting. All of us. The silence was loud. It pressed against my eardrums. I felt it in my teeth. Captain Harrow stood by the window. He did not look at me. He looked at the glass....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe sky above the Ashen Steppe did not break; it tore. A jagged rift of violet light split the firmament, bleeding a silence so profound it felt like a physical weight crushing your eardrums. You stood in the center of the grid, your hands trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, terrifying magnitude of what you had done. You were Eleanor, the Archivist, the keeper of the Ledger, the one...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek