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 Master"Put the quill down, Elias." I did not put the quill down. I looked up, my fingers slick with the black, viscous fluid that had seeped from the reed tip, and stared at Guild Master Aldous standing in the doorway of the scriptorium. The room smelled of oak shavings and old varnish, a dry, dusty scent that usually calmed me, but today it felt thick, like wool stuffed in my throat. Aldous’s gaze...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded AtticVance. The name hung in the air of the archive, sharp and cold, before the heavy oak door of the director’s office swung shut. I stood in the hallway, my fingers still white-knuckled around the grant proposal, the paper crinkled into a ruin. The light in the corridor was failing, that late October gray that turned the dust motes into suspended ash. I was thirty-four years old, and I had been...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe crystal chandeliers of the Guild Hall did not sparkle so much as they wept, casting a fractured, amber light over the banquet table where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted pheasant and the cloying, medicinal sweetness of the town’s sacred tincture. I stood at the periphery of the feast, my wine untouched, watching the High Steward, Lord Ashworth, raise his goblet to the assembled...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineThe ink was cold, a thick black sludge that smelled of iron and rot, and Elias pressed his quill against the parchment with a force that felt less like writing and more like a prayer for his own hands to stop shaking. It was the year of our Lord 1342, and the autumn deadline for the Royal Chronicle loomed over the tower room like a storm front, a darkening of the sky that promised only rain and...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineThe silver watch on your chest does not tick with the steady, reliable pulse of the city’s clock tower, but with a jagged, arrhythmic stutter that quickens whenever your breath catches in your throat, a mechanical heartbeat that has replaced the organic one since Silas hung from the gallows in the winter of eighteen ninety-two. You are Elias Thorne, a constable of the City Watch, and the fabric...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RiverThe black stone sat in my palm, heavier than it looked, a slab of obsidian so dark it seemed to drink the lamplight from the command tent. I was forty years old, the garrison commander of Fort Ashworth, and I had exactly three days to secure the annual grain quota before the winter freeze locked the roads and the men began to starve. The system, that vast and indifferent machine of the High...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerThe gate explodes inward. Splinters of oak fly like shrapnel, tearing through the air and embedding themselves in the soft flesh of the men around you. You are Thomas, thirty-two, a captain in the King’s Guard, and you do not think. You move. The noise is a physical weight, a roaring wall of sound that pushes you forward into the chaos of the breached courtyard. Your sword is in your hand,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MistThe dream was always the same, a cold and wet recursion that Thomas Bradshaw could not shake even after waking in the damp straw of his bed in the highland keep. In the vision, his dead brother, Elise, was not a ghost but a pattern, his face stitched into the lining of the tunic Thomas wore, the thread pulling tight against the skin, the eyes of the deceased staring out from the fabric with a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful WitnessThe ink is cold. You know it is cold because it smells of iron, of the copper taste of a bitten tongue. You are Thomas, twelve years old, and your hand trembles as you dip the quill. The Duke’s court is a machine of velvet and silence, and you are a gear that must not squeak. The Master, Lord Ashworth, watches from the shadow of the high desk. He does not blink. You want his approval. You want...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek