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 RitualThe storm did not howl; it screamed. It tore the roof off Elias Thorne’s outpost like a child ripping the lid from a jar, sending shingles and insulation spiraling into the dark, freezing void. When the wind finally died, leaving a silence so heavy it pressed against his eardrums, Elias lay in the rubble of his life. His radio was a shattered heap of plastic and wire. The generator lay buried...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CircuitMarch 12, 1924 The ink on the official denial letter is still wet, a dark smear that seems to bleed into the cheap bond paper, and I find myself staring at it as if it were a wound I cannot suture. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a man who once cataloged the veins of maple leaves for a living, now reduced to the dusty, suffocating role of a clerk in the provincial archive of Oakhaven....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe ironworks sat in the hollow like a bruised rib, its skeleton of rusted girders stretching against the grey November sky. Elara stood alone in the central bay, the silence pressing against her eardrums, heavier than the loom she had operated for ten years. She was thirty, though her hands looked older, cracked and stained with indigo that no amount of lye soap could lift. She needed the...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe border is not a line on a map. It is a wound in the earth, stitched shut by wire and silence. You have walked it for twenty years, your boots worn thin over the same gravel, your spine curved by the weight of a badge you no longer wish to wear. At forty-two, you are Elias Thorne, and you are tired. Not in the way of a man who has slept poorly, but in the way of a stone that has been ground...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeBlackwood Penitentiary did not smell of decay, as one might expect of a place where men rot in stone, but of iron and wet limestone, a scent that clung to the back of the throat and refused to be washed away. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man who once held the gavel and now holds only his own silence, serving a life sentence for a crime I committed in a court of public opinion...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded SutraThe jade seal is cold against your palm, a weight that feels less like stone and more like a held breath. You are Elias Thorne, Senior Sentinel of the High Court, and you have spent the last three hours polishing this artifact until your knuckles ache and the varnish on the archive table wears thin under your elbow. The Sutra of Silence lies open before you, its pages brittle with age, the ink...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe mill stood at the edge of the black pine forest, a structure of heavy oak and iron that had not moved in three hundred years. It was not a house, but a body. To the villagers of Ashen Vale, it was a machine that consumed grain and exhaled flour, but to Silas Thorne, its master, it was a living thing with a pulse of grinding stone and a breath of steam. Silas was a man of few words and many...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe salt flats stretched out like a sheet of dirty glass, reflecting a sky so pale it seemed to be rotting from the inside out, and Elias Thorne stood at the edge of this white nothingness with the weight of his uniform pressing down on his shoulders, a physical ache that had settled into the marrow of his spine during the long, silent walk from the town. He was forty-two, a sergeant in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe bell tolls. It is the hour of the miller. You stand in the courtyard. The stones are wet. The sky is low. It presses down. You are a shield-bearer. You are a son of the watch. Your father was here. He is gone. You are not him. You are less. The air tastes of iron. It tastes of old blood. You know the taste. It is the taste of the wall. The wall keeps the dark out. The wall keeps the dark...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek