0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Golden ScarThe train to the Northern Reach was a coffin of steel and steam, rattling through a landscape stripped of color. I sat with my hands folded in my lap, the leather of my gloves creaking with every jolt of the tracks. I was thirty-four years old, and I had not slept in two days. My brother, Julian, had been executed for speaking a word that was not on the list. The Regime had called it a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded GuestThe white stag stood in the snow, its flank torn open, blood mixing with the frost until the ground turned black. Elias Thorne woke with ice on his pillow, a thin sheet of rime that had formed overnight, defying the warm air of his bunk. He was forty years old, a border patrol agent with twelve years of service, and for three years he had dreamed of that bleeding beast. The dream was a rule,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeThe quill in your hand is cold, the nib wet with ink that smells of iron and old blood. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, a wandering scribe whose fingers are stained permanently black at the tips, sitting in the suffocating heat of the Oakhaven archive. You want to transcribe the final, forbidden verse of the Masquerade Codex to cure your sister’s wasting lungs, a desire that has driven you...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrontierThorne. The name was called from the other end of the long, low room, a sharp bark that cut through the hum of the ventilation system. Elias looked up from the desk, his fingers hovering over the edge of the parchment, and saw Mr. Vance standing in the doorway, his tie loosened, his face a mask of bureaucratic impatience. The document before Elias was not merely old; it was alive, or at least...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ShadowsThe rain fell in sheets that turned the courtyard of Thorne Hall into a slick, dark mirror, reflecting the grey, bruised sky above. Elias Thorne stood at the center of this wet expanse, his boots sinking slightly into the mud that had swallowed the cobblestones decades ago, gripping a rusted sword with a hand that trembled so violently it seemed to belong to a stranger. He was fifty-two years...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe ink is wet, Mr. Thorne, but the signature is what holds the line. You remember the sound of the quill scratching against the parchment, a dry, arthritic rasp that seemed to echo in the empty corridor of the St. Jude’s Asylum archive, a room where the air was always too thick and the light too thin. It is 1893, and you are thirty-two years old, a senior archivist with a salary of two pounds...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe mirror stood on the workbench, a slab of polished obsidian that caught the candlelight and threw it back in a cold, blue glare, and in that glare Elias Thorne saw not his own thirty-two-year-old face, but a man of forty, hollow-eyed and weeping, a version of himself that was screaming silently from the depths of the glass. It was a hairline fracture, no wider than a thread of spider silk,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeThe letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges softened by the damp air of the mill town, bearing the stern, ink-stamped seal of the Whitmore Textile Company. Elara Vane did not open it immediately. She stood by the window, watching the gray slush of November accumulate on the cobblestones, her fingers tracing the smooth, cold glass until the condensation blurred the view of the factory...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MetropolisIt was the cage that gave him away. Sergeant Elias Thorne sat on the edge of his cot in the narrow barracks of the Fourth Precinct, the brass mesh of the small cage resting in his palms. It was a light thing, a delicate lattice of gold-colored wire, yet it held a weight that seemed to pull at his wrists. Inside, the nightingale ruffled its feathers, a small, dark eye watching him with an...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek