0 Comments
0 Shares
1 Views
0 Reviews
Directory
Discover new ideas, create new connections and make new friends
-
Please log in to like, share and comment!
-
The Golden QuestThe letter was on my desk when I arrived, sitting atop a stack of unpaid invoices for the restoration of the Vane estate. It was postmarked for a date three months in the future. The paper was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of sulfur and old dust. I turned it over in my hands, the weight of it strange against the dry, brittle reality of the bills beneath it. I am Elias, twenty-four,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful MountainChapter One Fraser Buchanan, thirty-two, a junior clerk in the Imperial Court, stood before the ledger room with the weight of his own silence pressing against his ribs. The fog outside the port had turned the water into a grey, opaque wall that made the docks useless, a physical fact that meant no boats could leave, no cargo could arrive, and the air remained thick with the drone of the power...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale GardenConcetta Bellini’s fingers were stained black from the oak gall ink as she scraped the flaking pigment from the margin of the Liber Vitae, the bristle of the brush against the vellum creating a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. The scriptorium of the San Marco Convent smelled of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of the sirocco that had blown in from the sea for three days,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden SuspectIn the habitat, silence is a subscription service, and Lan Sun had let it lapse. The light in the scriptorium was the pale, sickly blue of the emergency strips, buzzing like a trapped fly. Lan Sun stood before the desk, his hands shaking so badly he could barely hold the stylus. The Golden Seal sat in the center of the table, a square of tarnished gold no larger than a playing card. It hummed....0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden OathThe ink is wet again, and it smells of copper and old blood. You are Elias, forty-two, the last scribe of Oakhaven, and your hands are trembling so violently that the nib scratches a jagged line across the vellum, a wound in the paper that refuses to heal. You have been copying the Golden Oath for thirty years, a text that is supposed to bind the mountain spirit to the valley, keeping the snows...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant ThresholdChapter One "You’re wasting the good paper, Guadalupe." The voice belonged to Donato, the photographer, who stood in the doorway of the cramped apothecary on one hundred and nine of Stonecutter Alley, his camera bag slung low over his hip like a sack of wet sand. Guadalupe did not look up. His hands, stained yellow from turmeric and old iodine, hovered over the cracked vial of Truth-Salt, a...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant MachineOctober 12, 1904 The ink on the ledger page is still wet. I can smell the iron gall, sharp and acidic, cutting through the stale tobacco smoke of the clerk’s office. It is a smell that means trouble, or at least, the paper trail of it. I hold the book out, my knuckles white, but the clerk, a man named Fisk with a face like a boiled potato, does not take it. He looks at the date, then at me, and...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant Machine1342, November 14. The stone weeps. It is a black, viscous fluid that pools in the mortar joints, smelling of old copper and rot. I am Thomas Bradshaw, a mason of forty years, and I have failed. The bell tower of St. Jude’s is three days from completion, yet the arch refuses to set. The mortar crumbles like dry bread. The village below is silent, waiting for the sound that will mark their...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Pale MeridianThe ink was still wet on the parchment when I heard the footsteps in the corridor, heavy and deliberate, striking the flagstones with the rhythm of a man who had long since ceased to fear the dark. I looked up from my desk, my quill trembling in my grip, and saw Brother Thomas standing in the doorway, his face a mask of greyish exhaustion, his eyes fixed on the manuscript before me. He did not...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek