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 FrequencyThe ink on the page was not black, but a deep, arterial red that pulsed faintly in the candlelight. I pressed my thumb against the fragment of vellum, feeling the warmth seep into my skin, a heat that had nothing to do with the winter chill creeping through the Archive’s stone walls. Mara is dying. I can hear her breathing from the infirmary down the hall, a wet, rattling sound that syncs with...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful ThroneThe deed is in my hand, but the ink is wet, and it smells of iron. "You cannot keep it, Elara," Thomas said. His voice was thin, stripped of its usual roughness. He stood by the window, where the afternoon light cut a sharp, dusty wedge across the floorboards. "The bank has the mortgage. Vance has the equity. You have nothing left to hold." I looked at the paper. It was my signature, scrawled...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale EchoThe dream was always the same. Water, black and cold, rising past the floorboards of a library that did not exist. Elias Thorne woke with the taste of rust on his tongue and the sound of a low, vibrating hum in his molars. He was forty-two, and his back ached from years of hunching over ledgers in the city archive, a job that paid barely enough to keep the lights on, let alone the medical bills...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded DustChapter One "You're bleeding on the linoleum, Sergeant," the Magistrate said, not looking up from his plate of roasted pheasant. Fang Sun stood in the center of the banquet hall, his left knee locked in a stone-hard stillness while the other guests writhed on their velvet chairs, clutching their own throbbing joints. The heatwave outside had no night, pressing against the windows like a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenChapter One Clifford Yancey’s hands shook as he ground the ink, the pestle scraping against the stone with a sound like dry bones cracking. He was thirty years old, a coffin maker by trade, but here in the cold snap that had burst the pipes of the parish, he served as a scribe for the mission, his only cargo a seized box of contraband hymnals. The Liber Mortis lay open on the desk, its vellum...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden HarborThe stopper of the vial was wet with my thumb, the golden liquid inside swirling like trapped sunlight as I uncorked it for the third time. The smell hit the cold stone air of the entry hall, sweet and cloying, masking the scent of damp wool and old blood that lingered on the walls of Ashgrove Hall. Lord Alistair Finch stood behind his desk, a man carved from the same grey granite as the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful DinnerThe silver locket sat on the table, a cold, fraying thing against the wood. Elias Thorne stared at it, his fingers trembling as he traced the tarnish that had eaten away the clasp. It was midnight, or close enough to make the shadows in the room feel like solid walls. The rent was due. Mr. Vane was coming. The locket was his sister’s, the only thing she had left him after the fever took her,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant CrownThe ledger had forty-two lines left to balance before the ink dried. You counted them with your finger, tracing the graphite smudges on the paper. Each line was a debt, a sack of cotton, a hour of labor that belonged to someone else. You were Elias Thorne, forty-two, and the only thing that kept your hands from shaking was the cold weight of the fountain pen in your grip. The mill outside was...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale LetterThe fog in Oakhaven did not merely obscure the river; it consumed it, a thick, grey slurry that rolled up the banks and settled into the floorboards of the post office like a living thing. Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and a clerk of twelve years’ service, sat at his desk on the first of November, 1893, staring at the ledger before him. The numbers were clear, but the air was not; it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek