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 GuestThe ink in my pot was cold, but the ledger in my hands burned. I am Elias, a scribe of this village, and for three years I have worked to erase the stain of theft that clung to my father’s name. The debt was a ghost, but the prejudice of Elder Thomas was a stone I carried daily. It was the autumn of 1348, and the air tasted of iron and rot. I wanted only to prove that my father had not stolen...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ApartmentThe lease for Vane House was signed in ink that smelled of iron and wet rot. I stood before Mr. Sterling, a man whose suit seemed tailored from the same gray mist that perpetually clung to the eaves of the building, and watched him seal the document. He did not look at me. He looked at the walls. I had come to secure this decaying manor to save Clara, my younger sister, from the sterile,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe snow on the ridge was not white, but a bruised violet, thick with the weight of an unspoken warning. Elias stood at the edge of the precipice, his fingers numb, the air so cold it felt like swallowing glass. He was twelve years old, small for his age, with eyes that had learned to see in the dark before they learned to trust the light. Below him, in the village of Kestrel’s Hollow, the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendThe rain had stopped, leaving the air thick with the scent of wet slate and decaying wood, and I stood before the solicitor, Mr. Halloway, with a letter in my hand that I had not yet sent, a document that would seal the fate of Blackwood Hall and, by extension, my own. "I am tired, Mr. Halloway," I said, my voice sounding hollow in the high-ceilinged office, a sound that seemed to bounce off...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CellarThe rain in Ashford did not wash the city clean; it merely made the soot stick to the skin. Clara Vane stood on the corner of Mill Street, her hands raw and bleeding from the needle, watching the steam rise from the sewers in thick, grey plumes that smelled of coal and old blood. She had left Arthur that morning, or rather, she had walked out before he could find her, leaving behind the only...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarThe rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, grey sheet that turned the gravel drive into a slurry of mud and broken leaves, and Elias Thorne stood at the threshold of the house, his coat heavy with water, watching his brother Julian arrange the shards of the Pale Altar on the long oak table in the study with the meticulous care of a jeweler setting stones. The object, once a massive...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale TowerThe rain in Seattle did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended gray curtain that blurred the edges of the world and softened the sharp, brutalist geometry of the Kessler Monolith, which Elias Thorne had spent the last six months analyzing with the obsessive, feverish precision of a man trying to solve a equation that refused to balance. He stood on the wet asphalt of the service alley, his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe rain against the window of the archive room was a steady, gray percussion that Elias Thorne had come to prefer over the silence of the university. He adjusted his spectacles, the lenses fogging slightly in the damp chill of November, and turned the page of Dr. Aris’s final journal. The ink was not black, nor brown, but a shifting, viscous violet that seemed to pulse beneath the paper’s...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe key is warm. It pulses against the palm of your hand, a rhythm distinct from your own heartbeat, faster, more insistent. You are Elias Thorne, a border warden of forty-two years, and you are alone in the damp stone watchtower. The rain hammers the single pane of glass, blurring the grey expanse of the moor below into a smear of mud and mist. You want the letter. You need the final words of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek