Fantasy
The Gravedancer’s Waltz Part - 1
The forest grew too still. Even the wind held its breath as the trio stepped beyond the last line of trees and beheld the forgotten ruin of Valemire Estate. Moonlight glazed the crumbling spires, and the ivy-strangled balconies jutted like bones from a rotted corpse. The manor stood silent on a hill of frost-hardened grass, its many windows aglow with flickering gold light that could not, should not, exist.
By Richard Baileyabout a year ago in Chapters
The Secret Drawer
Growing up, there was one rule in our house I never dared to break: Don’t touch the drawer in Dad’s study. It was an ordinary drawer in an old wooden desk — scratched, dusty, the handle barely hanging on. But to me, it might as well have been a vault. Dad’s tone made it clear — that drawer was off-limits. So, I didn’t ask. I didn’t sneak. I obeyed. For years. Until curiosity outweighed fear. It was a Saturday. Dad was fixing the car, Mom was out shopping, and I was cleaning the study as part of my chores. The drawer seemed to hum with quiet temptation. My hands shook as I reached for it, expecting alarms to go off, expecting my dad to burst in, furious. But nothing happened. The drawer wasn’t locked. It slid open with a tired creak — revealing a stack of letters, old photographs, and a small, faded box. At first, it looked harmless. But then I saw the photo on top — a woman smiling, holding a baby. My breath caught. The woman wasn’t my mom. The baby wasn’t me. I sat down, sifting through letters written in Dad’s handwriting, dated years before I was born. Letters full of apologies, promises, regrets — addressed to someone named Evelyn. My heart raced as puzzle pieces fell into place. I dug deeper, finding birth certificates, hospital bills, legal documents. Dad had another family. A son. A woman he loved before my mom. My chest tightened. My head spun with questions. Why didn’t I know? Who were they? What happened? The sound of Dad’s footsteps snapped me back to reality. I shoved the drawer shut, heart pounding, mind reeling. That evening, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t speak. My world felt… different. Shattered. Days passed before I confronted him. I found him in the study, staring at the same drawer like it held ghosts. “I opened it,” I admitted, voice barely steady. His shoulders sagged. His eyes, usually sharp and controlled, softened with sadness. “I always wondered when you would,” he whispered. He explained everything. How he fell in love young. How they had a son — my half-brother. How tragedy struck — an accident, a bitter separation, a lifetime of buried pain. “I kept it all hidden, thinking I could erase the past,” he confessed. “But I’ve learned… the past doesn’t stay buried.” We talked for hours. About mistakes. Regrets. Secrets that fester in silence. I cried — for the brother I never met, for the father I thought I knew, for the child version of me who lived in a house of hidden truths. It took time, but I forgave him. And I reached out. Months later, I met my half-brother. We shared awkward smiles, cautious words, the weight of years between us. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. That drawer isn’t forbidden anymore. It’s a reminder — that the truth, no matter how heavy, is better than living behind locked doors.
By Straylightabout a year ago in Chapters
The Ember and the Crown - Part 5
The false Queen's body hadn’t yet cooled when the first birdsong of dawn touched the cracked windows of the throne hall. The scent of sorcery, ozone, blood, scorched vellum, still clung to the air like a storm that refused to pass. Light broke through fractured glass high above, casting shards of gold and red across the ruined marble floor, where Elira knelt with her fingers brushing the ashes of the broken glamour sigil.
By Richard Baileyabout a year ago in Chapters
The Ember and the Crown - Part 4
Rain traced silver rivers down the glasswork spires of Drevril’s upper court, the storm cloaking the palace in a veil of soft thunder and distant lightning. Below, within the East Gildhall, laughter spilled through stained crystal like wine from an overfilled goblet—fragrant, rich, and sharp with something spoiled beneath.
By Richard Baileyabout a year ago in Chapters
The Day I Stopped Apologizing for Existing
The Day I Stopped Apologizing for Existing I’ve always been the type of person who apologizes to chairs. You know, the ones you bump into and go, “Oh sorry,” as if the chair might file a complaint for emotional damage.
By shittu adeolaabout a year ago in Chapters
How I Failed Miserably at Being a Morning Person
I once believed that becoming a morning person would magically fix my life. Instagram told me so. There were thousands of beautiful people sipping green smoothies at 5:00 a.m., journaling about gratitude, and greeting the sun like they’d just won the lottery of life. I wanted that. I wanted to be that person.
By shittu adeolaabout a year ago in Chapters
The Ember and the Crown - Part 3
The wind howled through Arlavorn’s spire district like a beast in mourning, clawing at the bone-white towers and rattling the glasswork domes that crowned the palace rooftops. Dust lifted in swirling eddies across the marbled streets as if the city itself were trying to breathe out the corruption settling in its lungs.
By Richard Baileyabout a year ago in Chapters
RAVEN'S GAMBIT. Content Warning.
The air was heavy with silence as the survivors of the splintered expedition emerged from the mountain. Every step they took back to camp was a quiet tribute to the fallen—Sir Cedric Lightbringer, Zel Dorne, Fox-Eyes, Jorek, Evelyn… and the others. Some were carried. Others were only bags of belongings and broken gear, cradled in solemn arms.
By W.S. Klassabout a year ago in Chapters
