0 Comments
0 Shares
0 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Pale LetterThe rain fell upon the cobblestones of the Old Quarter like a fine, grey dust, erasing the distinction between the street and the sky. Elias Thorne walked with his collar turned up, the dampness of the city seeping into the wool of his coat. He was a man of the Registry, a scribe of minor accounts, a creature of routine who had spent thirty years measuring the world in ink and parchment. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarThe sky split open. Not with thunder. With light. A white, humming light that peeled the skin off the world. It happened on the road. Just a stretch of tarmac, gray and cracked, cutting through the hills. Silas stood in the middle. He wore the coat. The long, heavy thing made of wool and old grief. It hung from his shoulders like a shroud. He had worn it for thirty years. Since the war. Since...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe ink was black. It was wet. It smelled of iron and rot. I wiped my hands on my apron. The stains did not lift. They sank into the skin. They became part of me. "Show me," said Master Aldric. I held up the scroll. It was a ledger. A record of debts. The numbers were neat. The handwriting was precise. "Is it correct?" he asked. "I do not know," I said. "I am not a scribe." "You are a student....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PhotographThe gate of the Ironwood Forest did not have a handle, for it was not built for hands but for the wind, which had carved the oak into a face of terrible, silent patience. I stood before it, my armor damp with the morning mist that clung to the ancient pines like a shroud. Behind me, the battalion was already fading, their boots sinking into the loam, their voices a distant rumble of thunder...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectThe train does not stop for you. It does not stop for the rain, which is heavy and cold, nor for the men in grey coats who stand on the platforms with their hands shoved deep into their pockets, nor for the station masters who blow their whistles with a shrill, mechanical indifference. You are sitting in the last car, the one where the seats are worn thin and the leather has cracked into a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MirrorYou stand before the gate of the Obsidian Keep, your hand resting on the pommel of a sword that feels less like a weapon and more like a burden, heavy with the weight of laws written in ink that has long since dried and faded into the stone. The air here is thick, tasting of ozone and old blood, a taste that clings to the back of your throat and refuses to be washed away by the bitter wind that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendThe rain had been falling on the village of Oakhaven for three days, a persistent, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones into slick mirrors reflecting the dim, gaslight glow of the windows. Elias Thorne sat in the corner of his workshop, his hands resting on his knees, waiting for the knock that never came. He was a man built of silence and stubbornness, his face a map of lines carved by...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceThe rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent and cold sheet that turned the cobblestones of the market square into a mirror reflecting the bruised and swollen belly of the sky, and it was in this grey, dripping silence that Elara Vane found the object resting in the gutter, half-submerged in the filth of the street, a small, heavy sphere of polished obsidian that seemed to drink the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherThe banquet hall was a cavern of heat and salt, the air thick enough to chew, smelling of roasted pheasant, stale beer, and the wet, metallic tang of fear that clung to the skin of every man and woman who had been invited to the estate of Arthur Penhaligon. There were forty of them, seated on long trestle tables that groaned under the weight of silver plates and clay jugs, their faces...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek