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 FractureThe ink on the surveying rod was still wet when Mara coughed, a wet, rattling sound that seemed to tear from the very center of her chest. I wiped my hands on my trousers, trying to ignore the crimson smear on the floorboards, and turned back to the map spread across the kitchen table. It was the Year of the Iron Wall, and the state had decided that the boundary between our district and the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe ink on my left hand is no longer ink, but a grey, chalky powder that flakes away when I rub it against my sleeve. It has been three weeks since the stone began to creep up from my fingertips, a slow calcification that turns my skin to marble and my nerves to dead wire. I am Elias Thorne, Detective of the Mill District, and I am writing this to my father, who lies in his bed in the town’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CompassThe reed quill scratched against the vellum, a sound like a mouse gnawing through a dry twig. I was copying the tithe records for the third year of King Edward’s reign, my fingers stained black to the second knuckle, the ink gritty with the ash of burnt oak. My sister, Margaret, stood by the window in the scriptorium’s shadow, her arms crossed tight against the chill that seeped through the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful Saga"Pour another, Arthur. The man’s earned it." I did not pour. I stood by the sideboard, my hand resting on the crystal decanter, feeling the cold glass bite into my palm. The room smelled of roasted duck and stale tobacco, the air thick with the humidity of forty bodies sweating in their best suits. It was November, 1912, and the town of Oakhaven was celebrating the expansion of Vane Mill. I was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CipherElias Thorne’s fingers were stained with the iron-gall ink of a dispatch that had arrived wet from the rain, the paper softening under his thumb like a bruised leaf. He sat in the back of the Imperial Postal Intelligence Hub, a room that smelled of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. The war had turned the post office into a front-line nerve center, and the air was thick with the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectThorne. The name was spat into the wet air by a junior orderly, a boy with mud on his boots and panic in his eyes, standing in the doorway of the administrative block. Sergeant Elias Thorne did not look up immediately. He was adjusting the strap of his service belt, the leather stiff and cold against his hip, a relic of a discipline he no longer fully commanded. The rain at Blackwood Asylum did...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant AffairThe letter lay on the table, the ink still wet, smelling of iron and damp earth. "Tell me, Elias, what is the price of a man’s silence?" The question hung in the air of the cellar, heavy as the stone above them, pressing down on the lungs of the two men who stood in the gloom. Sergeant Miller did not look up from the jar he held; he merely turned it slowly, the black paste inside catching the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceThe mist in the valley of Aethelgard did not drift so much as it pressed, a heavy, damp weight that settled into the joints and the lungs, making the air taste of iron and old rain. Margaret Holloway sat alone in the loom-house, the only light source the thin, grey dawn filtering through the high, dust-caked windows, her hands moving with a mechanical precision that belied the terror tightening...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe rifle was stripped from Elias Thorne’s hands with a sound like a bone snapping. Captain Halloway did not shout. He simply took the weapon, examined the barrel with a critical eye, and set it on the table with a thud that silenced the barracks. The air in the room was thick, damp, and tasted of copper and old sweat. Halloway’s face was a mask of bureaucratic indifference, the kind that cost...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek