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 FrequencyOctober 14, 1912. The coal cellar of the Blackwood Mill smells of wet ash and ozone, a metallic tang that coats the back of my throat. I am twelve years old, and my hands are black with soot, trembling not from cold but from the vibration rising through the floorboards. My father, the foreman, has sent me down here to keep the furnace burning. If the heat dips, the steam pressure drops, and if...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded MasqueradeKaelen. The name was spat out by the High Inquisitor, a dry, papery sound that cut through the damp silence of the Iron Citadel’s outer court. Kaelen did not flinch, though his hand tightened on the hilt of his sword until the leather creaked. He was a man of iron discipline, thirty years old with the kind of face that had forgotten how to soften, a face that belonged to the law and not to the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RuinElias, the boy’s name was called out from the top of the tower, a voice like dry leaves scraping across stone, and he looked up from the mortar, his hands caked in grey dust, to see the High Warden standing in the archway, his shadow stretching long and thin over the crumbling bricks. I am twelve years old, bound to the estate by a contract written in ink that smells of iron, and my want is...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant NightmareThe frost bit at the hinges of the back door as Elias Thorne zipped his rucksack, the sound sharp against the silence of the kitchen. Mara stood in the doorway, her hand trembling on the frame, her eyes fixed on the packed gear rather than her husband’s face. "Before the solstice," she whispered, her voice thin as the morning light. Elias nodded, his jaw tight, unaware that the orders in his...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MazeThe rain in Oakhaven did not fall; it hung, a grey curtain that smelled of wet stone and old iron. Elias, twelve years old and lean as a whippet, stood at the mouth of the labyrinth, his knuckles white against the slick granite. He was not there to play. He was there because the war had come to the edges of the town, a slow bleed of shelling and conscription that turned the air into something...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe vial in Elias’s hand was cold, the glass slick with condensation that felt like sweat. He stood in the center of the throne room, a place that smelled of burnt sage and old dust, while the King stripped his daughter of her name. Clara stood on the dais, her face pale, her hands bound by the silence of the court. The King’s voice was a dry rasp, a sound like sandpaper over wood, as he...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale AltarThe iron stylus is cold in my hand, its tip worn to a blunt, dull point from years of scratching into parchment. I hold it up to the light, checking the edge, knowing that in three months I will be sixty years old and this tool will be the only thing I take with me when I leave the Royal Archives. My pension is due, but the ledger must be balanced, and Lord Vane has assigned me the task of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe year was 1348, and the snow fell not as white flakes but as gray ash, settling on the thatched roofs of Oakhaven like a shroud. Elias Thorne stood at the village gate, the weight of his wool cloak pressing against his shoulders, a burden he had carried for twenty years until the fabric was thin as parchment and fragile as old skin. He was a scribe, a man of ink and silence, and he held in...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale PathThe loom clicked in the rhythmic, mechanical monotony that Elias had come to dread, the sound of a clock counting down to a deadline he was no longer certain he could meet. He was forty-two, a textile restorer in the coastal town of Harrow Bay, and his task was to finish the final panel of a tapestry commissioned by the local museum, a piece his sister Mara had begun three months before her...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek