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 Distant ThresholdThe letter lay on the cold iron desk, the ink still wet where Dr. Aris had signed it, the signature a sharp, jagged tear across the bottom line. Elias Thorne read it twice, the words blurring not from the fog pressing against the high windows of the Blackwood Asylum, but from the weight of the paper itself. It was a suspension notice, effective immediately, citing "conduct unbecoming of a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe gears did not tick; they screamed. I stood before the Grand Atrium’s central mechanism, my hands trembling as I tightened the final coupling, the brass cold and slick under my gloves. "It is done, Thorne," I said, my voice sounding thin in the vast, echoing space. "The tolerance is within a thousandth of a millimeter." Chief Architect Halloway stood behind me, his back to the window where...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DanceThe ink in the well was black, but the light in the High Court of St. Jude was always a pale, sickly yellow. Elias Thorne, twenty-four and junior clerk, watched the dust motes dance in the beam that cut across his desk. He had six months to secure his permanent tenure. If he failed, he would return to the debt-ridden farm in the valley, where his father’s cough shook the rafters and the land...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful Mountain"Stay back," Thomas said, his voice thin against the howling wind, though he did not move from the edge of the ridge. "The ice is thin, and the void is hungry today." I adjusted the leather straps of my pack, feeling the weight of the surveyor’s instruments press into my shoulders, a familiar ache that had become the only constant in my life since the autumn of 1893. I was thirty-two years old,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe ink is black, but it tastes of iron when you mix it with your own blood. You are Elias, a scribe of the third rank in the city of Oram, and your hands are shaking so violently that the quill scratches a deep, ragged furrow into the parchment. The High Inquisitor, a man named Aldous who wears his authority like a heavy wool cloak, has forbidden the transcription of the Book of Breath. He...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden MazeChapter One "You are chasing ghosts, Dalia Najjar," the ferryman spat, his voice cutting through the damp air of the quay. The rain in Tunis was not like the rain in other places. It was a physical weight, a grey curtain that turned the white town into a sketch of itself. Dalia stood on the cobblestones, her boots slick, clutching the bronze mirror to her chest. The metal was cold, colder than...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe banquet hall of the Blackwood Institute smelled of wet wool and old silver, a scent that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat like a phantom taste of copper. He sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands resting flat on the tablecloth, trembling slightly as Director Vane slid a heavy, leather-bound contract across the polished wood. The air in the room was thick, sealed off from...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant TempleThe wind that stripped the shallow roofs of the shitamachi district did not care for the dignity of men, only for the weight of their possessions, and so it was with a kind of grim amusement that Sota Hayashi remembered the moment he had first seen his own face warped in the polished obsidian floor of the ancestral hall. He had been thirty-four then, a magistrate with a promotion to High...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustThe logbook says forty-eight hours. You count the entries. Twelve per shift, four shifts a week. That is the math of your survival. Your brother’s dialysis costs are pinned to this ledger like a specimen in a jar. You are Elias. You are thirty-two. You work the night shift at Sterling Logistics, a concrete beast that sleeps but never dies. The air smells of ozone and wet concrete. It is cold....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek