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 ChronicleThe train hissed into the station at Ashworth, a low, mournful exhale that seemed to pull the steam from the air, and I stepped down onto the platform with the heavy, metallic taste of defeat already coating my tongue. It was November, 1912, and the Midlands lay wrapped in a grey, industrial haze that clung to the wool of my overcoat like a second skin. I was thirty-four years old, a constable...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale DoorThe ledger lay open on the workbench, its spine cracked from years of heavy use, the ink of the final entry still wet and glistening in the low, amber light of the forge. Silas Vane, Master Artificer of the Aethelgard Court, did not look at the numbers; he looked at the blank space where the cost of the Pale Door should have been written, a void that mirrored the hollow ache in his own chest....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant Threshold"You have three days, or I burn the ledger." Zainab Ansah did not look up from the silk sash, her fingers moving with the mechanical precision of a woman who had long ago ceased to view her hands as her own, for the threads were bleeding a thick, viscous ink that stained her cuticles black, and the light in the workshop was failing, leaving only the ghost of the afternoon sun on the dust motes...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale ProtocolMori Yamato stood at the edge of the mist, his hand resting on the cold iron of the gate, knowing that by morning he would be no one, only a name in a ledger that the fog had already begun to eat. The air in Kyoto’s machiya rows was heavy with the scent of salt and wet brick, a physical weight that pressed against the chest, erasing the footprints of those who walked the streets before dawn. It...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale FractureThe valley of Oaxaca lay open under a sky bruised with the threat of hail, the paddy fields stretching to the ridgeline in a sea of monsoon green, a landscape that seemed to hold its breath in the heavy, greenish light before the storm broke. In the market square, where the air hung heavy with wet earth and roasting coffee, Isandro Talamantes stood before the Ministry of Continuity, a building...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AtlasThe ink dried with a slow, viscous resistance, a dark stain spreading across the ledger’s spine like a bruise forming under the skin. I counted the stitches of the binding, forty-two in total, each one a small, tight knot holding the history of the Ashworth Mill together against the rot. The air in the office was thick with the smell of machine oil and the metallic tang of my own cough, a sound...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineChapter One Did you think I would beg? The smell of the room was stale tobacco and wet wool, a thick, suffocating layer that coated the back of Iain Sutherland’s throat. He sat on the edge of the barrack bed, the linen stiff with sweat, and held the letter he had just drafted. It was short. It was sharp. Outside, the offloading of the season’s coal hit the harbor stones, a rhythmic, heavy thud...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful SkylineThe wind in Patagonia does not blow; it erodes. It scoured the faces of the unfinished houses along the border industrial park, stripping the paint until the wood looked like bone, a constant reminder of the work that would never be finished. Ernestina Hinojosa, the last sexton of the church that was slated for demolition, stood in the schoolroom of ink and damp, listening to the small, hollow...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale BannerAct I Can a man weigh his own soul on a brass scale? I ask you, Pyotr Zaytsev, because the Guild Master, old Ivan, is standing in my doorway with his hands behind his back, and the air in my laboratory smells of rot and the dry wind that cracks the clay pots on my shelves. I am thirty-two, and my hands, stained permanently yellow from the indigo vats, tremble as I hold the vial of the Pale...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek