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 VisitArthur, stop it. The voice came from the head of the table, low and steady, cutting through the clatter of silverware. Arthur Vane froze, his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, the tines catching the light of the chandelier. He was forty years old, a retired captain with a back that ached when the barometer dropped, and he had spent the last three hours ensuring that every plate was centered,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SagaThe fog in the courtyard does not lift. It settles, thick and grey, against the stone walls of the Duke’s estate, a permanent shroud that smells of damp wool and old iron. You are Elias, twelve years old, a page in the silent service of Lord Ashworth, and your hands are perpetually stained with soil. You want to keep the wisteria alive. It is a vast, ancient thing, its vines strangling the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe ink is dry, Elias, but the paper is not. You wake with the taste of copper on your tongue and the distinct, chilling sensation that the air in the archive has changed its density. It is a cold that does not come from the heating vents, which are long since broken, but from the space between the shelves, a draft that moves only when your eyes are closed or turned away. You open your eyes....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdThe ink did not come from the pen. It seeped from my pores, black and hot, a tide rising against the dry skin of my hand. I am Elias, forty years old, a scribe in the ancient city of Oram, and I have come here to transcribe the final page of the Royal Ledger. My daughter, Mara, is in debtors’ prison. Her release hinges on a single line, a verification of my signature, a bureaucratic seal that...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainThe ink in the pot was thick and black, staining the rim of the glass vessel where it had dried. I dipped the pen, the nib scratching against the paper as I wrote the date, November 14, 1912. My hand did not shake, though the cold in the room was sharp enough to bite through the wool of my sleeve. I was thirty-four years old, and I had served the border for twelve years. I wanted my pension. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadThe dream is always the same, a cold silver shroud draped over Mara’s shoulders, the thread biting into your skin even in sleep. You wake with the chill still clinging to your knuckles, the scent of lanolin and old wool heavy in the air of the Guild workshop. It is the week before the autumn solstice, and the air in the city is thick with the promise of change you are not ready to make. You are...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe ledger for the third quarter of the reign lists forty-two sacks of grain, nineteen bolts of undyed wool, and one bronze bell of unknown origin, weighing precisely four hundred and twelve pounds, which is a figure I have verified three times with the iron scale in the cellar, the weight of the metal settling into my wrists with a dull, aching throb that matches the rhythm of my pulse. I am...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden HarborThe rain in Oakhaven does not wash things clean; it only makes the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones of the Debtors’ Quarter into a mirror that reflects the rot of the city back at you, a wet, black eye staring up from the earth. You are Elias, thirty-two years old, and you have been a warden for six years, a duration that feels both like a lifetime and a mere breath, serving under...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BridgeElara. The name was called out by the static, a low, grinding hum that seemed to vibrate up through the concrete floor of the bunker. It was not a voice, exactly, but a frequency that settled in the teeth, a warning that the air had grown thick with the scent of ozone and old paper. I wrote the date, October 14, 1944, in the margin of my logbook, the ink smearing slightly under the pressure of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek