Thomas Holloway

Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 18:32:05 -

The Distant Legend
You dream of the river. It is not the water you see from the bridge. It is the water in your lungs. You are not swimming. You are sinking. The current is cold and indifferent. It does not care about your rank. It does not care about your name. It only pulls. You try to tread water. Your arms are heavy. The lead vest is too tight. It presses against your ribs. It is a familiar weight. You have...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 18:23:52 -

The Golden Circuit
The letter arrives on a Tuesday, the ink still wet, smelling of ozone and crushed violets, and you know before you even read the first line that the world you have built, brick by painstaking brick in this gray, rain-slicked city, is about to dissolve. You are holding the envelope in your left hand, the paper thin as a membrane, while your right hand rests on the cold iron railing of the...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 18:23:25 -

The Distant Whispers
The banquet hall of the Iron Citadel smelled of roasted boar, stale ale, and the metallic tang of old blood that never quite washed out of the flagstones. Sir Aldric Vane stood at the edge of the tapestry, his armor polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the flickering torchlight in fractured, dancing shards. He was a man carved from the same cold stone as the walls, his posture rigid, his...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 18:22:24 -

The Faded Portrait
The fire had burned down to a bed of white ash by the time the last of the guests had stumbled into the cold night air. We sat in the silence of the great hall, just the three of us, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat and the damp, woolen scent of the coats hanging by the door. Elias was at the head of the table, his hands wrapped around a cup of cold tea, his knuckles white. He...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 18:22:08 -

The Pale Meridian
The rain fell on the roof of the Blackwood Manor like a warning that had been ignored for too long. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the great hall, his back straight, his hands clasped behind his back. He was a tall man, lean as a reed, with the kind of stillness that usually preceded a storm. He had come from the north, traveling through the mist that clung to the lowlands like a shroud....

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 18:16:41 -

The Wistful Witness
The air in the scriptorium smelled of iron gall ink and the slow, sweet rot of damp parchment, a scent that had long ago become the very texture of my thoughts, so that I could no longer distinguish the smell of the library from the smell of my own skin. I stood before the desk of Master Aldric, the Head Archivist, my hands trembling not from the chill of the vault but from the sheer, crushing...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 18:12:50 -

The Wistful Mountain
The dream is not a place but a state of being, a suspended animation where the air tastes of iron filings and the light is the pale, sickly yellow of old gas lamps, and you find yourself standing in the middle of a vast, empty hall that stretches out into a fog so thick it has weight, pressing against your shoulders with a physical insistence that feels like a hand, a cold, damp palm, and you...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 18:02:45 -

The Golden Crossing
The bridge was made of bone. It stretched across the black water. The water did not move. It was thick like oil. It smelled of rust. Elias held the lantern. The glass was cracked. A single flame burned inside. It was small. It was warm. It was the only thing that was real. He walked. His boots were heavy. The soles were worn thin. He could feel the cold of the bone under his feet. It seeped...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 17:58:09 -

The Pale Shadows
The cellar smelled of damp earth and rotting apples, a scent that had long since seeped into the fibers of my wool coat. I stood before the stone wall, my hands trembling not from the cold, but from the vibration of the air itself. The party upstairs was in full swing. I could hear the clatter of silverware, the sharp bursts of laughter from Eleanor Fairchild’s circle of donors, and the muffled...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 17:07:00 -

The Faded Bouquet
The cart rattled over the cobblestones. Dust rose. It settled in the creases of Elias’s coat. He held the satchel tight. The leather was worn. The brass clasp was dull. Inside lay the inventory. Not gold. Not silver. Threads. Elias was a tailor. A weaver of fates, the town called him. A joke. He smiled. The smile did not reach his eyes. His eyes were gray. The color of old rain. He had come to...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 17:01:23 -

The Faded Ruin
The rain in the lowlands did not fall so much as it settled, a grey, sullen blanket that smothered the cracked pavement of Sector Four and the rusted iron gates of the Reclamation Center. Margaret Holloway stood on the threshold, her boots caked in the distinctive red clay of the outer wastes, the mud caking the laces, the soles, the very skin of her shins, a testament to the long, arduous trek...

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Thomas Holloway ha aggiunto una foto Literature
2026-08-17 15:14:29 -

The Golden Compass
I dreamed of the rope. It hung from the rafters. It was thick. It was old. The fibers were matted. They looked like hair. They looked like skin. I touched it in the dream. It burned. It bit. I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth. The cellar smelled of damp stone. It smelled of rot. I am Thomas Bradshaw. I am the King’s Hound. I hunt lies. I hunt treason. I do not hunt ghosts. Or so I...

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