Fantasy
The Lost City of Atlantis
Honestly, if you'd told Emily a decade ago she’d be hanging over the Atlantic, chasing Atlantis on a ship called Elysium, she’d have laughed in your face. But here she was, staring at the glitter-splattered water, thinking less about the sun and more about the ghosts rattling around somewhere underneath. Legends. Whispers. Everyone’s got a theory, but finding actual proof? That’s the dream…and honestly, probably a little bit of a curse.
By Cotheeka Srijonabout a year ago in Fiction
Veil of Vengeance
Chapter 1: Shadows of the Past The thunder rumbled ominously over the sprawling city of Argentum, a metropolis where shadows hid secrets darker than the night itself. Amidst the rain-soaked streets, Elena Mercer moved swiftly, her trench coat pulled tightly around her, eyes alert and calculating. She was a woman with a haunted past, her heart scarred by betrayals and loss.
By MOHAMMED NAZIM HOSSAINabout a year ago in Fiction
"The Healer’s Burden: Faith, Legacy, and the Weight of Divine Gifts"
The Healer understood her gift far better than the Apprentice ever could. To be *Blessed* was not about skill or effort—it was simply *being*, carrying a selfless faith so profound that it shaped the world without intent. Though she healed with her hands, sometimes the Divine intervened, mending what mortal ability could not. "It’s not a choice," the Healer murmured. "What happens through me defies understanding. If I tried to dissect it, I might destroy it." The Apprentice bit back her frustration. "Then what *can* you teach me?" "Everything I know," the Healer replied. "The wisdom from my first master, the lessons of High Valley. You could even go there—I’d give you a letter. But don’t chase a Blessing. That path will poison your joy and corrupt your craft. Some things *are*. Some *aren’t*. And some *never will be*." With a tired sigh, the Healer shifted, rubbing her lower back. The Apprentice immediately kneaded the stiff muscles, wondering what toll the Blessing truly took. She’d never know—but while her master remained, she would learn. To be Blessed seemed miraculous. Yet, watching the Healer’s weariness as she guided the Apprentice’s hands, it was clearly a burden too. The magic came unpredictably. Rarely did the Healer *know* it would work—except with the boy, when green light had flared beneath her fingers. Even then, she couldn’t claim it as her own, couldn’t replicate it, couldn’t pass it on. As she worked the knots from her master’s shoulders, the Apprentice wondered how much time they had left. The Blessed were wanderers at heart; this village might not hold her forever. Then she caught herself—*scheming again*. Trying to manipulate, to *force* understanding. The Healer was right. If the rules were as she said, the Apprentice could never be Blessed. But there’d been a hint in her words: *faith alone moves magic*. Perhaps, if she planted the seeds now, generations later, a new Blessed might rise in this village. Another farm boy might cheat death because of her unseen hand. That future healer would eclipse her own legacy. Her name would fade, remembered only as a woman who’d once mended wounds. She was content with that. Healing was enough. Unseen, a wisp of green light seeped through the Healer’s dress, settling into the Apprentice’s fingers. "Never to be Blessed" didn’t mean the gods would refuse her all grace. As her master said, even mortals could heal—*with their own hands*. --- **The Weight of Blessings** The Healer knew her gift in ways the Apprentice could scarcely fathom. To be *Blessed* was not a matter of study or will—it was a state of being, a surrender to a faith so profound it moved through the world like wind through grass, unseen but undeniable. She healed with her hands, yes, but sometimes—only sometimes—something greater stirred within her, mending what should have been beyond repair. "It isn’t something I *do*," the Healer said, her voice quiet but firm. "It passes through me. If I tried to hold it, to dissect it, I fear I would lose it entirely." The Apprentice clenched her fists, frustration simmering beneath her skin. She had so many questions, so many *whys* and *hows*, but the answers slipped like water through her fingers. Swallowing her impatience, she asked instead, "Then what *can* you teach me?" The Healer’s expression softened. "I can teach you all I know—the remedies passed down from my first master, the secrets whispered in High Valley. If you wish, I will send you there with my blessing. But listen well: Do not seek the Blessing itself. That path leads only to disappointment. Some things cannot be claimed. They can only be *received*—or not." With a weary sigh, the Healer set aside her cloth and shifted, wincing as she pressed a hand to the small of her back. The Apprentice moved without thinking, her fingers finding the familiar tension in her master’s muscles. She had seen this weariness before, the way the Healer’s body bore the cost of her gift. *What does it feel like?* the Apprentice wondered. To be a vessel for something so vast, so beyond comprehension? To never know when—or if—the magic would answer? The Healer had spoken of faith, but faith was a slippery thing. The Apprentice had seen miracles—like the boy and the scythe, the way emerald light had knit his flesh back together as if the wound had never been. Yet the Healer refused to take credit, refused to call it her own. *That* was the hardest part to understand. How could she not want to *own* such power? To wield it with certainty? As she worked the stiffness from her master’s shoulders, the Apprentice’s thoughts wandered. The Blessed were said to be wanderers, never staying long in one place. Would her master leave someday? Would she wake to find her gone, with only memories and half-learned lessons left behind? The thought sent a pang through her chest. There was still so much to learn. Then she caught herself—*scheming again*. Always trying to shape the future, to control what could not be controlled. The Healer was right: If the Blessing demanded surrender, then the Apprentice’s very nature worked against her. She was a creature of plans and puzzles, of *making* things happen. But perhaps… perhaps there was another way. The Healer had spoken of faith moving through generations, of seeds planted long before they bloomed. If the Apprentice could not be Blessed herself, maybe she could prepare the ground for someone who *could*. A descendant, a student yet unborn—someone who might one day stand in this very house and mend wounds with hands that glowed like spring leaves. The thought should have saddened her. To be forgotten, her name lost to time while another’s shone bright… and yet, it didn’t. The work would remain. That was enough. Unnoticed by either of them, a single spark of green light drifted through the fabric of the Healer’s sleeve, settling into the Apprentice’s palm. "Never to be Blessed," the Healer had said. But the gods, it seemed, had their own ideas.
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Remembered Tomorrow
The Girl Who Remembered Tomorrow Aarya had never feared the future—until it started happening exactly as she dreamed it. It began subtly. A spilled cup of coffee her mom didn’t remember making. A conversation at school she swore she’d already heard. She dismissed them as déjà vu, ordinary flickers of a restless mind. But then came the dreams. Vivid, visceral, and painfully accurate.
By FAIZAN AFRIDIabout a year ago in Fiction
Waited for him
In the land of Elarindor, where the skies sang at dawn and the moon whispered lullabies to the mountains, there stood a quiet village called Lirien's Hollow. It was a place brushed with magic—subtle, not loud. The trees seemed to listen. Dream voices were often carried by the wind. And in a small cottage by the river lived a girl named Alira.
By Lajuk anjumabout a year ago in Fiction
