The Hands of Rudolph
In the heart of a quiet Southern town, where cicadas sang every evening and magnolia trees stretched their arms to the sky, there lived a man named Rudolph. Read more.
The Seeds of the Maker
The sound of sirens was faint, like a ghost brushing past the curtains of a quiet room. But Rudolph heard them.
The Blood and the Bond
Autumn came in like a whisper. Leaves rustled secrets into the wind, and the trees bowed under the weight of knowing things too old for speech.
The Fallen Hands
Every gift has a shadow.
The Broken Star
A crimson light streaked across the night sky, trailing smoke and fire. It struck just beyond the old quarry and shook the ground for miles.
The Memory Sea
The Veil wasn’t a sky or a place. It was presence—a weight of everything forgotten and unspoken, swirling like ink in water.
Elana of the Spark
Minerva and Rudolph stood in a dead forest of blackened trees.
The Roots of Becoming
By sixteen, Rudolph could make things no one else could even imagine. His hands were stained with sawdust and the scent of cedar, and his heart well, which belonged to Sunny.
The Guardian of Bellamy Street
The first sign was the clocks.
The Ancestral Forge
It began with a tremor.
The Veilship
The signal came in whispers.
Secrets of the First Makers
Minerva and Rudolph stood before a massive door carved from obsidian and bones of creatures long extinct. The sigil etched on it pulsed faintly: a spiral turning inward, encased in flames.
The Dream of Mount Nyomi
Minerva and Rudolph stood before a massive door carved from obsidian and bones of creatures long extinct. The sigil etched on it pulsed faintly: a spiral turning inward, encased in flames.
“I think people who have faults are a lot more interesting than people who are perfect.” – Spike Lee
Brufay 