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 Golden RitualThe feast of the High Watch was a thing of gold and ash, where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted boar and the sweet, cloying perfume of night-blooming jasmine that climbed the stone walls of the citadel, a fragrant strangler vine that whispered secrets to anyone who paused long enough to listen, for the walls themselves were not merely stone but the calcified bones of ancient kings...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe iron gates of the Citadel were always closed at dusk. This was the law. The law was written in stone, etched deep into the limestone foundations that held the weight of centuries. Silas Vane stood before them. He was a man made of angles and shadow. His uniform was grey. The fabric was rough. It smelled of damp wool and old sweat. In his hand, he held a key. It was gold. It was cold. It was...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe train arrived at the station of the Bureau at dawn. It was a grey morning. The air tasted of iron and wet wool. Elias stepped onto the platform. He carried no bag. He carried only his silence. He was small. He was pale. He moved like a shadow that had lost its object. The Bureau was a building of glass and steel. It rose against the sky like a broken tooth. Inside, the light was white. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe fern died in the plastic bin before I even finished my coffee. I watched the fronds curl. Blackening. Dry. They looked like old lace. I held the pot. My hands were steady. They are always steady. That is the job. To be steady. To observe. To record. I work for the Bureau of Internal Affairs. We are the watchdogs. We watch the dogs. We check the leashes. We look for the bite marks. Today,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridThe letter lay on the mahogany desk, a rectangular island of cream-colored paper surrounded by the dark, polished sea of varnish, and Arthur Penhaligon stared at it with the detached, clinical precision of a man observing a specimen under a microscope, his eyes dry and his hands steady as he traced the perimeter of the envelope in his mind, for he was a detective of the old school, a man who...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe wind cuts through the wool of your coat. It is a cold that does not stop at the skin. It goes deeper. It finds the gaps in your armor. You are walking. You have been walking for three days. The road is a ribbon of grey mud. It stretches into the fog. You are alone. Or so you think. You are a scholar. You carry books. They are heavy. The leather creaks. You are going to the monastery. You...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe first strike did not come from a hand, but from the air itself, a tearing of the sky that left a jagged, violet scar above the obsidian towers of the Citadel. Elias Thorne did not flinch, for his body had long since ceased to belong to the man who had once fled the rain-slicked cobblestones of London with nothing but a suitcase and a heart full of ash. He stood now in the center of the High...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful VoyageYou are looking at the river. Good. Keep looking. Do not blink. The water is not water. It is memory. It is the thing we are trying to erase. Look at the surface. It is still. Too still. It has been still for three years. Since the day the towers fell into it and did not sink. Since the day I told you that I loved the river more than I loved you. That was my first mistake. Or perhaps my second....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale Tower"You have to leave them in the walls, Margaret, that is the only way to keep the house standing, isn't it, you know this, you have always known this, but you are pretending you do not know it because the alternative is too terrible to look at, too heavy to carry, so you just stand there in the kitchen with your hands shaking and you listen to the scratching, that fine, dry sound of nails on...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek