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 Faded ChronicleYou are not a scribe anymore, Elias. You are a man with ink on his fingers and a job to do. Thomas said it flatly, as if reciting a weather report, and then he turned back to the shelf where he was pulling down the dried herbs for the infirmary. I looked at my hands. They were stiff, the knuckles swollen, the skin cracked and flaking like old parchment. The ink had dried into the creases of my...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolYou are to hand over the Codex by vespers, or you will be stripped of your habit. The voice in my head is not Malachi’s, though it wears his cadence, that dry, papery rasp that sounds like a leaf skittering across stone. I write this in the dark, the candle guttering, the ink of my own hand still wet and black, but the ink of the *Codex Aureus* is moving. It is October, the fourth day. The moon...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden GreenhouseElias. Say it again. Say his name until the air breaks. The groundskeeper stood before the sealed pane of the greenhouse, his breath a white wedge in the dark. He was forty-two, though the frost had aged him into something brittle and hollow. He wanted the fruit. The last one. It hung low on the vine, a sphere of impossible gold, pulsing with a heat that did not match the temperature of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolThe ink is moving again, and I have stopped trying to stop it. It was a Tuesday in November, 1924, when the silence in our house became so heavy it felt like a physical weight on my chest. I was thirty-two, a junior clerk in the town’s ancient archive, and I had wanted only to correct a single error in the boundary ledgers. The error was small, a fraction of a mile in the northern pasture, but...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded QuadrantThe envelope was damp, the ink on the header smudged into a grey smear where Elias Thorne’s thumb had pressed it against his chest pocket. He stood in the queue outside the Constabulary Office in Oakhaven, the air thick with the sulfurous tang of the Vane Mill’s smokestacks, his hand trembling slightly as he waited for his turn to hand over the ledgers. Inside his coat, nestled against the cold...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SilenceThe invoice lay on the workbench, the ink still wet where Aldous had signed it. It was a standard form, the kind the town clerk kept in a drawer lined with dried lavender to keep the moths away. Elias read the figure at the bottom: four hundred crowns for the final spire. It was a sum that would have bought a house, a horse, and enough grain to last a decade. He did not look up. His eyes were...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MythThe dust tasted of copper and old blood, coating the back of Elias Thorne’s throat with a grit that seemed to settle into his teeth. He was thirty-two years old, a sergeant in the state mine safety division, and he was currently buried under forty feet of collapsed shale in the Kestrel Deep shaft, a private pit that had been operating on the black market for three years before the roof gave...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful CrossroadsThe mist did not roll in; it stood there, thick as wool and cold as iron, pressing against the face of the border stone. Elias wiped the grime from his hands on his tunic, the leather creaking in the damp air. He held the shard, the Wistful Crossroads, and felt the heat of it seep into his palm, a burn that did not blister but hollowed. He was a scribe, a man of ink and parchment, yet here he...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant AffairThe ledger on the desk weighed two pounds, a dense block of paper and ink that smelled of sulfur and old sweat. You counted the hours you had worked since the leak, tallying them against the wage sheet pinned to the wall: twelve hours, fourteen shillings, enough for three loaves of bread and a tin of sardines. You were Elara, thirty-two, and the inspector’s stamp in your pocket felt like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek