0 Commentarii
0 Distribuiri
0 Views
0 previzualizare
Director
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Vă rugăm să vă autentificați pentru a vă dori, partaja și comenta!
-
The Distant MachineThe quill was cold in my hand, its nib split like a dry twig, and the smell of iron and old dust hung heavy in the scriptorium. I am Thomas Bradshaw, thirty-two years old, a scribe of the Abbey of St. Jude, and I have come to this place to pay a debt that was not mine to inherit but was fastened to my soul by the law of the stone. The Abbot, a man whose voice sounded like gravel shifting in a...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 0 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Pale Letter14th November, 1916 The Somme, France "You have no right to this, Penhaligon. The fire was total. The records are ash." I stared at the Major’s desk, a slab of varnished oak that seemed to repel the dust of the trench, and felt the weight of his silence pressing against my sternum. He did not look at me; he looked at the window, where the November rain was streaking the glass in long, gray...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 0 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Distant JokeThe ink on the charter bled like a slow, dark weeping, seeping into the grain of the parchment until the letters of your name, Elias Thorne, seemed to writhe under the surface of the paper. You held it up to the slanted light of the Imperial Registry’s reading room, your fingers trembling not from age, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that surrounded you. For forty-two years,...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 0 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded ChronicleThe banqueting hall of the Imperial Railways Ministry smelled of burnt sugar and stale tobacco, a cloying sweetness that clung to the wool of Thomas Vane’s cheap coat. He stood at the edge of the room, twelve years old and stiff with hunger, watching the senior clerks toast to the completion of the Northern Line. His want was simple and immediate: to secure his permanent commission before the...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 0 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Wistful VoyageThe ledger was open to page four hundred and twelve, the ink still wet on the column for premiums. Elias Thorne counted the entries with a dry thumb, moving from the top of the page to the bottom, a rhythmic friction that soothed the ache in his lower back. He had been at this desk for nine years, calculating the odds of death in a city of eight million people, and he knew the weight of a...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 0 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Wistful AshesThe pen hovered over the paper, the nib trembling not from cold but from the weight of the words I was about to force into existence. I was writing to the Ministry of Purity, Sector Four, regarding the detention of my brother, Julian. The ink was black, thick, and hot to the touch, a sludge that promised pain if I lied about my loyalty. My hand was steady. The warden, a man named Halloway with...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 0 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Pale DoorThe petition was denied." The High Warden’s voice was dry, like leaves scraping across pavement. I stood in the center of the Iron Court, my feet numb in the stone floor. He did not look at me. He looked at the cracks in the glass wall behind me, where my brother, Kael, had been bound for seven years. "He is not a prisoner," the Warden said. He was a man made of cold angles and grey wool, his...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 0 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Faded ChronicleThorne. The name was shouted by a private two feet away, a ragged, wet sound that cut through the rhythmic thumping of the distant guns. Elias Thorne did not look up. He was staring at the mud, specifically at the way it had begun to rise around his boots, not with the slow creep of a flood, but with the deliberate, sucking pull of a trap. He was thirty-two years old, a sergeant in the Second...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 0 Views 0 previzualizare
-
The Distant NightmareThe chisel bit into the wood of the nightstand, shaving off a curl of pine that smelled of resin and old sweat. Elias Thorne held his breath, his knuckles white around the handle, watching the splinter detach with a slow, agonizing snap. He was forty-five years old, and his hands shook with a tremor that had nothing to do with the cold seeping through the floorboards of his small, drafty house...0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 0 Views 0 previzualizare
English
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek