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 CrossingThe file slipped from my fingers before the final bend, a thin strip of twenty-four-karat gold hitting the velvet mat with a sound like a bone breaking. I stared at the spot where it had landed, the metal curled into a useless hook, and felt the heat rise in my neck, a physical pressure that had nothing to do with the forge. Clara stood by the door, her arms crossed over her chest, watching the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful PetalThe first crack appeared on the morning of November 14, 1952, a translucent flake no larger than a lentil, resting against the base of my left thumb like a shard of broken ice. I was sitting at the heavy oak desk in my office, the one that smelled of varnish and stale tobacco, trying to type the final argument of my thesis on the semantic decay of modern speech. The paper was nearly done, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WhispersElara. The name was spat out by Clerk Halloway, sharp and brittle as a snapping twig, cutting through the damp chill of the scribe’s office. I looked up from the ledger, my fingers stained with iron-gall ink, and felt the familiar, low thrum of the Whisper vibrating in the stone floor beneath my feet. It was a Tuesday, the kind of grey, leaden afternoon where the light failed to penetrate the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden DowntownThe count was simple enough, though the weight of the paper made the wrists ache by the third hour. Four hundred and twelve ledgers, bound in cracked leather, smelled of damp wool and old iron, sat on the steel table in the corner of the municipal records office. Elias Thorne, forty-two, had spent the last six years sorting the pre-war textile archives, a job that required a steady hand and a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe sealed letter in Eamon’s hand was heavy, the wax seal cracked by the cold air of the carriage. He held it against his chest, feeling the weight of the parchment as if it were a stone. The carriage wheels ground against the cobblestones of the road leading to Blackthorn Keep, a sound like dry bones breaking. Outside, the fog was thick, carrying the scent of rotting straw and wet earth. Eamon...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe parchment was heavy, its edges worn soft by the thumb of the man who had just signed it. Sir Aldric stared at the seal, a red wax stamp of the King’s lion, pressed into the center of the document that promised the title of Marshal to the man who had held the northern pass against the winter raiders. It was a document of weight, both in the literal sense of the vellum and in the crushing...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded FrequencyThe ink was still wet on the page when I looked up, the smell of iron-gall and old vellum thick enough to taste on my tongue. "Abbot," I said, keeping my voice low, as if the stones might hear. "The binding is not rotting. It is shedding." Brother Thomas stood in the doorway of the basement archive, his shadow stretching long across the flagstones. He did not step inside. He never did. The air...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant BladeThe silver blade did not cut the flesh; it cut the air, a thin, bright line that hummed with the frequency of a mainspring under tension. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of ozone on his tongue, sharp and metallic, filling the small workshop where the smell of machine oil usually dominated. He sat up, his joints popping in the cold November air, and saw Silas standing by the workbench, staring...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe parchment lay flat on the oak desk, its surface a pale, stretched skin that seemed to breathe in the candlelight, and Thomas Bradshaw stared at the single, illegible smear of ink that marred the center of the page, a wound that had opened not from a drop of pigment but from the sweat of his own failing hand. He was forty years old, a scribe of the Abbey of St. Jude, and for three days his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek