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 Pale ProtocolAct I Miral Orris held a post at the border crossing that paid in silver but cost him his son’s breath. He stood in the ledger room, a space that smelled of damp wool and old blood, watching the ink bleed from the page. It was not a spill. The black liquid moved with intent, pooling into the curve of a jaw, the hollow of a cheek. Miral wiped his hands on his tunic, a gesture he had performed a...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded ChronicleRain in the Florida swamplands does not fall; it hangs, a wet curtain that blurs the line between the earth and the sky. Teodoro Solórzano stood in the square, his uniform dark and heavy, the water soaking through the wool until it clung to his ribs like a second skin. He wanted Elena out of the magistrate’s cell. He believed her arrest for hoarding grain was a clerical error, a simple mistake...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful AsylumWho was I, really, if not the keeper of their lies? I sat in the scriptorium, the air thick with the dust of dried reeds and old ink, my quill hovering over the ledger of grain taxes. The silence of the room was not empty; it was heavy, a physical weight pressing against my temples, the same silence that had greeted my petition for Karim for three years. I was Zaynab Rustom, a scribe of the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Golden CrossingThe mud on the highland road was not merely wet; it was a living thing, sucking at the heels of my boots with a persistence that felt personal, as if the earth itself resented my passage toward the magistrate’s seat. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a border warden who has spent two decades marking lines in the fog that no one else can see, and I carry the stolen gold chalice of Lord...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Faded RoadOctober 14, 1893 Julian, I am writing this because my hands will not stop shaking, and because if I speak aloud, I fear I will scream. I have lost the thread. For three weeks, the Faded Road has appeared in my dreams, a spectral ribbon of grey stone that shifts and erodes before I can trace its edges. It is not a metaphor. It is a cartographic error that has bled into the fabric of my mind. I...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant WoundChapter One Mercedes Figueroa had not slept in three days, a fact that made the weight of her service pistol feel less like duty and more like a leaden anchor dragging her toward the mud. The fog in the badlands of Andalusia was not merely weather; it was a physical substance, a grey sludge that coated the olive groves and seeped into the joints of the old stone walls that defined the border of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Wistful IncenseThe parchment was thick, cream-colored, and smelled faintly of the tallow used to seal the wax. Sir Aldric held it in his gloved hands, the texture rough against his skin, feeling the weight of the lie he had spent three days crafting. It was a royal pardon, forged in the script of the Chancellor, bearing the seal of the King himself. He needed it to buy his wife Elara out of the debtors’...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant PromiseMildred Tillman’s fingers were deep in the mud of the cellar floor, pulling at the roots of a plant that should not have been there, when the plaster gave way. The ceiling of the apothecary, a structure that had stood on the Great Plains for three generations, did not crack; it simply exhaled, a long, dusty sigh that swallowed the light from the single window above. Dust filled her throat,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
-
The Distant LegendThe stone floor of the Inquisitor’s tribunal was cold enough to bite through the leather of Sir Aldric’s boots, a chill that traveled up his shins and settled in the marrow of his knees, a physical reminder of the weight he carried not just in his armor but in the silence of the man who sat upon the high seat, the High Inquisitor, whose face was a mask of pale, unblemished authority that seemed...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
Arabic
French
Spanish
Portuguese
Deutsch
Turkish
Dutch
Italiano
Russian
Romaian
Portuguese (Brazil)
Greek