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 Wistful IncenseThorne, you are late. The voice did not come from the air but from the heavy, sealed parchment in Elias Thorne’s hand, the ink still wet and glistening like a bruise. He stood in the antechamber of the Palace of Whispers, a structure of gray stone that swallowed sound so completely that a shout felt like a physical weight pressing against the eardrums. Elias was thirty-two, a man whose hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThorne. The name hung in the damp air of the cell, spoken by the guard with the flat, bored tone of a man reciting a grocery list. Elias did not look up. He was staring at the rusted fence line, a jagged scar of iron that separated the mill from the river in his mind’s eye. The metal was cold, he remembered, slick with the morning mist that always rolled off the water before the shift whistle...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MasterThe mortar is cold. Your hands are colder. You are Elias, forty-two, and the stone is weeping. The boundary wall of the Holloway estate stands in ruins, a jagged scar across the winter field. It must be whole by moonrise. Lord Ashworth’s steward, a man named Kell, stands in the shadows, his breath pluming in the frost. He does not want a wall. He wants your debt paid in sweat. Your sister,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe glass vial sat on the desk, catching the fluorescent hum of the office. It was small, amber-colored, and filled with a liquid so dark it looked like dried blood. Elias Thorne held it between his thumb and forefinger, turning it over until the light refracted through the cork stopper. The scent was faint, medicinal, a sharp bite of pine and bitter root that cut through the stale air of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineThe left knee had been screaming since the suspect’s elbow struck the table, a high, thin whine that cut through the low hum of the ventilation system, but Elias Thorne kept his weight on it, his boots planted on the cold linoleum, his hands locked around the wrists of the man who had been screaming for twenty minutes. The room was a box of gray concrete and bad air, the only light a single...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MirrorThe brass key in Elias Thorne’s hand was warm from the friction of his palm, its teeth worn smooth by forty years of turning locks in the Imperial Railways archives, a small, cold object that held the weight of his entire professional existence. He stood before the heavy oak door of the Signal Control Room, the air thick with the scent of ozone and burnt copper that permeated the sub-basement,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe housing voucher, a slip of grey card stock no thicker than a fingernail, lay in Mara Vane’s palm, its edges soft from the friction of her thumb against the paper. It was the only thing in the Sector 4 Archive that did not smell of ozone and dry rot, carrying instead the faint, stale scent of the laundry room where her brother Leo had pressed it himself. She held it up to the flickering...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe name was not Kaelen. It was a sound, a low thrumming vibration that seemed to rise from the wet earth itself, calling out to him as he trudged through the mud of the King’s outer courtyard. Sir Kaelen, forty years old and stiff with the ache of a decade’s service, ignored it. He kept his eyes on his younger brother, Elian, who walked a pace behind him, his face pale and drawn, his hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseThe glass of the greenhouse is cracked, a spiderweb of fractures that catches the winter light and shatters it into a hundred cold, useless pieces. You stand in the center of the room, your hands trembling not from the cold, which is a biting, damp thing that seeps through the wool of your coat, but from the sheer weight of the silence pressing against the walls. Your mother, Margaret, lies in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek