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 Golden DowntownThe brass is warm. That is the first thing you notice when you open the casing of the Great Chime, a heat that should not be there, generated by no friction, sustained by no current. You are fifty years old, Elias Thorne, and your hands are stiff, the knuckles swollen like old oak roots, but you need to finish this. You need to restore the mechanism before the arthritis takes the last of your...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe letter lies on the table, the ink still wet, a dark bruise against the cream paper. You remember the walk to the post office, the cobblestones slick with rain, the way the city of Oakhaven smelled of wet stone and old iron. You were carrying the box. It was not a large thing, no bigger than a shoebox, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Inside was the mirror. Or rather, the shard of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful GridOctober 14, 1893. The rain has not stopped for three days. It drums against the tin roof of the supply tent, a relentless, metallic rhythm that drives the sound into my bones. I am sitting by the small stove, polishing my boots, though they are already clean. The leather is soft now, worn in by months of marching through the red dust of the frontier. My hands move in a slow circle, a mechanical...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisThe fog rolled in off the moors like a grey tide, swallowing the world until only the immediate ground beneath my boots remained real. I stood before the office of General Halloway, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword, the leather worn smooth by years of border skirmishes and the weight of a secret I carried in my chest. I was thirty-two, a veteran of the last three campaigns, and I had...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden FarceThe hall smelled of wet wool and stale beer, a thick, cloying fog that clung to the back of the throat. It was the winter solstice feast at the Ashworth mill, a raucous affair that shook the floorboards and rattled the iron stoves. I sat at the far end of the long table, my hands wrapped around a mug of ale that had gone cold an hour ago. My name is Elias, and I was the mill’s foreman, though...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe ink moved before I touched the quill. I watched it bleed into the vellum, a pale, silvery line that defied the pigment in my pot, tracing a path that looked less like text and more like a vein of lightning frozen in time. It was the third night the Pale Path had appeared, and the third night I had scrubbed it away with vinegar and salt, my hands raw and trembling as I tried to erase the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe air in Lab 4 tastes of copper and old pennies, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat before you even open your eyes. You are Mara, thirty-two, a senior chemist at the Meridian Institute, and your hands are steady as you calibrate the centrifuge, though the walls around you seem to bleed a faint, rhythmic pulse. Your father is in the ward adjacent to the laboratory, his body...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe candlelight in the undercroft of the City Hall flickered with the erratic rhythm of Elias Thorne’s breathing, a sound that had long since ceased to be merely human and had become a mechanical grinding, like rusted gears forcing themselves into alignment against the resistance of time. He stood before the stocks where Julian, a boy of no more than nineteen, sat bound by his ankles, his face...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe tower stood alone in the square. It was old. Older than the city. The stone was gray. It was worn smooth by wind. By rain. By time. Elara sat on the highest step. Her hands were in her lap. She watched the door. It was iron. It was black. It did not move. She was not a queen. She was not a warrior. She was a clerk. She kept the records of the dead. She kept the records of the lost. Today,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek