Stories set in specific historical periods, blending fact and fiction
The air reeked of iron and burnt hair as Clara stumbled through the dense pine woods, her boots sinking into the damp earth. The moon hung low, a pale crescent slicing through the canopy, casting jagged shadows that twisted like…
The air reeked of salt and smoke as Elara Whitcombe crouched behind a stack of empty wine barrels, her fingers trembling around the cold iron handle of a bayonet. The British soldiers’ boots thudded against the cobblestones, their voices a…
The air reeked of pine and iron, a sharp tang that clung to Elara’s throat as she crouched behind the moss-slick log. The forest around her was a cathedral of shadows, branches clawing at the bruised sky. Somewhere beyond the…
The air reeked of iron and burnt leather as Clara tightened the straps of her uniform, her fingers brushing against the cold steel of her bayonet. The campfires flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the muddy field. She…
Clara Whitaker stepped off the creaking schooner onto the dock, her boots sinking into the damp planks as the briny air stung her lungs. The port of San Francisco reeked of salt and smoke, a cacophony of shouts and clinking…
Clara stepped off the stagecoach as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the dusty town of Red Creek. The air smelled of pine and burnt wood, a sharp contrast to the saltwater tang she’d known all her life.…
## The Stone Tongue The tremor hit like a gut punch. Not violent, not catastrophic. Just… unsettling. Like the earth clearing its throat. Dr. Elias Thorne, formerly of Cambridge’s Department of Historical Linguistics, felt it through the thin soles of…
## Crimson Threads The air tasted of salt and dust, a perpetual film on Anya’s tongue. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she wrestled the loom, its wooden frame groaning under the strain of vibrant silk threads. Around her, the…
## The Weaver’s Dust The wind tasted of iron and regret. Elara pressed a hand to her throat, the gritty film clinging stubbornly. Another day bleeding through the village of Briarwood. Thirty-two days since the miasma first rolled in, a…
## Salt & Sky The courier’s hands trembled as he presented the package. Wax-sealed, thick parchment bound with crimson string – a weighty declaration from Venice. Cardinal Bellini accepted it with an almost theatrical sigh, beckoning Signor Rossi closer. The…
## The Basin Weavers The wind tasted of pine needles and dust, a familiar bite against Lin’s raw throat. He squinted at the churning grey sky, pulling his threadbare tunic tighter against the chill. Behind him, a ragged line of…
## Alternansight The dust tasted of rust and forgotten things. Marcus coughed, the sound a dry rattle in the cavernous hall. He ran a calloused thumb across the fresco depicting the Battle of Cannae, the terracotta clay rough beneath his…
## The Ledger’s Shadow The rain tasted like ash. Alexandre Lamousse ran a hand across the grimy window of his inherited apartment, watching Parisian streets slick with grey. November clung to the city like a damp shroud. His grandfather, Jean-Luc,…
## Ember Maps The coal dust clung to Elara’s throat, a gritty film that no amount of scrubbing quite removed. She coughed, the sound swallowed by the cavern’s dampness. Around her, a dozen others hunched over polished slate tablets, their…
## Crimson Threads The salt spray stung Marco’s cheeks as he leaned against the railing of *La Volpe*, his small trading galley slicing through the Adriatic. Dusk bled across the water, painting the sky a bruised purple above the Venetian…