0 Comments
0 Shares
2 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Golden MythThe ink was already bleeding when Elias Thorne opened the folder. It spread in slow, viscous tendrils across the vellum, a dark stain that defied the dry, sterile air of the reading room. He watched it with the clinical detachment of a man observing a tumor, his breath held tight in his chest. The scent of decay was thick here, a cloying sweetness that seemed to rise from the floorboards...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MazeThe fever broke at three in the morning, leaving Dr. Elias Thorne gasping for air that tasted of stale paper and copper, the heat of his skin finally cooling against the damp stone floor of the University of St. Gallen’s sub-basement archive. He sat up, his joints protesting with a stiffness that felt older than his forty years, and turned his head to look into the adjacent office where the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant GhostThe ledger in the Duke’s hand weighed as much as the debt on Elias’s conscience, a heavy, leather-bound thing that smelled of old wax and expensive lies. Three hundred gold marks, the sum required to clear the name of the Whitmore family, and in exchange, Elias was to spend the winter in the subterranean scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude, transcribing the *Codex Aeternum*. It was a task that...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale CircusThe fog did not roll in so much as it exhaled, a thick, grey breath that pressed against the windows of Thorne Manor until the glass groaned under the weight of the dampness. Elias sat in the high-backed chair by the cold hearth, his hands resting on his knees, fingers long and steady, the hands of a man who had once opened chests with a surgeon’s precision and a god’s arrogance, now stripped...0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ShowThe gaslight in the corridor of the Imperial Sanatorium hissed with a low, insectile hum, casting long, trembling shadows against the tiled walls where Dr. Elias Thorne stood alone, clutching a small, stoppered vial of experimental tincture in his sweating palm. It was November, 1893, and the air smelled of carbolic acid and old dust, a sterile scent that clung to the back of his throat like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe tremor in my left hand had become a rhythm, a metronome counting out the seconds of my remaining utility, and I watched the fingers curl and uncurl in the dim light of my room, a mechanical defect I intended to conquer with the sheer will of the spirit. I was forty years old, and the medium’s trade had begun to exact its toll, not in the vague metaphysical sense the public preferred to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe ink bled into the ledger like a bruise. I watched the black stain spread, eating the column of figures for the October wool shipment, and my hand shook so violently the pen skittered across the paper, leaving a jagged scratch that tore the page. I am forty-two years old, and I am failing. The mill town of Harrowgate smells of coal dust and wet wool, a scent that has settled into my clothes...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectThe rain is not falling; it is being thrown. It hits the slate roof of the watchtower with a sound like gravel, a relentless, horizontal sheet of ice that turns the highland air into a solid, gray wall. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and your hands are locked around the iron pickaxe, the metal biting into your calluses as you drive it into the wet stone of the gate’s foundation. You want to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded PortraitThe count of the coins was a ritual of arithmetic that I performed with the precision of a man measuring the depth of a well, six gold florins resting in the palm of my left hand, their weight a cold, familiar anchor against the heat of the afternoon. I stood in the yard of the manor house, the autumn air biting at my exposed neck, watching the geese huddle in the mud, their honking a low,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek