Tired of prize-winning turnips and the crushing predictability of village life, Kaelan ("Kael" to his non-existent road companions) grabs a mysterious old map and walks out the door, armed with little more than sarcasm, an alarming amount of parchment, and a vague sense of "what now?"

Wayfarer's Inkis Kael's own raw, witty, and brutally honest account of his infinite journey through a world far stranger and more dangerous than he ever imagined. Presented as his personal journal entries, each chapter chronicles his stumbling encounters with bizarre creatures, baffling cultures, inexplicable ancient technologies, and the constant, nagging question of where to find decent R&R (that's 'Rest & Rations', obviously).

Forget chosen ones and epic prophecies; Kael's just trying to survive the next weird Tuesday, figure out why trees are humming, and maybe, just maybe, find something worth writing home about... if he ever figures out where "home" is anymore. With accessible language, sharp humour, and cliffhangers that will leave you desperate for the next ink-stained page, join Kael as he unravels the secrets of an ever-expanding world, one bewildered step at a time. How far can one wayfarer go? Let's find out together.

"Supreme bone dug out? Then I shall devour all the spiritual bones under heaven, and let the flames of the Holy Land's wrath burn away this false heavenly law!"

[Intellectual Property Legal Notice — Joint Protection]

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Upon confirmation of infringement, the following legal actions will be taken immediately:

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This statement is a formal legal notice. From the moment of publication, any unauthorized use shall be deemed a deliberate infringement. Legal action will be pursued without negotiation. All consequences will be borne by the infringer.

Authorized Legal Representatives (International):

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Contact: [email protected]

This is story about 2 lovers  who met in  fashion designing company and the story turns in to a roller coaster it's small intro How they met ? What happened between them and  how the story get ending ?

The Tragedy in the Bakery

It was the night of negotiations when I saw my guest off. With a weariness in my body, I sat on the cushion on the floor and gazed at the candles flickering softly in the corners of the house. The snacks on the plate still sparkled, my head was heavy and my heart full. I started crying, as if every time a guest comes or goes, I wait for a (different) someone to open the door for them or close it for their sake. The sound of the news came from my phone, and every few minutes, the word (negotiation) was repeated. I pick up my phone and write to him:

“Mr. so-and-so, indirect negotiations between Iran and the US took place, but there was no message from you for negotiations, communication, sending smoke, whistles, shots, sounds, bells, bangs, or any kind of news. If you think you're clever, you're not. I'm still on the cold wooden stairs, watching with my head tilted right toward you. You in the hut, and I in the narrow house. I am sweet, you are the good Khosrow. I cried a lot... I mean really a lot. If I'm alive, it's just because I want you to be less and for your fears to fade into the ground. Otherwise, I've been pulled back into the Adenosine injection again! I was in the hospital. See, I'm going to die! Don't feel bad, okay? If my letter reached you, how could you be so cruel not to write a single line in reply? Since (so-and-so date), I've been missing you like lightning struck me. Why, man? Why did you hurt me? Why did you break my heart?

‘We’ve washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer!’

I am the stone of the kick,

Your production."

I sent it, thinking how I wish I could ride on the wings of technology and send it into his phone or into his ears at that speed! I remember Saadi’s poem: "There is peace between infidelity and Islam, yet you still fight with us."

My head is dizzy, I pick a piece of cheese with my fork and eat it. I light my cigarette, go to the window, and as I puff on the cigarette, I think to myself: why did I send this message? Didn't the doctor tell me: 'You, my sweet, perfect lady, a fragile glass, a pearl of mine, why are you even thinking of him? This man has no existence outside, no life, no soul. You're imagining him. He doesn't even have a heart. He is not alive! His lack of response means nothing to you.' I hear the doctor's voice in my head, and I remember telling him, 'You, who have no existence, something has settled in my bones...'

Dr. Hiz's eyes always lingered on my hennaed hands. Once he asked me where else I apply henna besides my hands, and I said, "On my feet, a little above my ankles, on my chest, my lips, my hair, and on both hands a little above the wrists..." And he said, "How has this man not been enchanted by a woman as ethereal as you?" I replied, naïvely like Baytai Hejiri, "Well, he likes whiskey." The doctor said, "In your letter, you called him a superman, but he's not even made of clouds, cotton, or sponge. He's just a joker. Forgive him." I replied, "I won't forgive him." All of these conversations paraded in front of me, and I struggled within myself because, as Mokhtari said, a human being’s bag is not milk; it leaves a place for pain.

The ash from my cigarette fell to the floor and crumbled. I crushed it under my shoe on the tiles. Without paying attention to this mess, I reached for the bowl on the table and ate the remaining chips. When I came to my senses, my face was wet with tears. The blue flickering lights in my home slowly turned off and on again, inviting me to sleep. "Oh woman, come, sleep, you’re so tired." But "What’s sleep to the eyes of a lover?" I am a servant of long nights. I am a woman of the night. If there is any light in life, it's a tiny spark that warms my heart during these nights, insomnia, and madness.

The bruises on the skin of my left hand, where the veins from the IV needle had been connected, were still visible. A bruise like a violet flower had made its mark on the whiteness of my skin. I thought of deleting my message, as I’m a writer in this country and being left without a response crushes my heart. But I was too tired to do anything, so I told myself, “To hell with it! One day, I will die, and everything will be read all at once. A day when it’s too late, and the tea has gone cold.”

The next day, I wake up. I feel weak, and my blood pressure is low. The air is turning dark. I quickly get out of bed, eat a quick breakfast so I don’t faint from weakness. In the hallway, the smell of fresh bread fills the air, and even though I haven’t eaten bread for years, I crave going to the bakery to buy a piece of hot, oven-fresh bread. I put on my cotton jacket and tightly fasten my belt so my pants won’t fall down from my thin waist. I angrily check my phone, and I see my message still unread... I curse myself. I walk out of the house with firm steps. I tell myself, tonight I won’t let my feelings control me. I’ll open my ears and let myself be humiliated as much as he wants. Maybe I’ll become a better person. As he said, “Maybe you haven’t been humiliated enough yet.” No... the traces of the important men in my life have been so deep that I haven’t been humiliated enough.

I run my hand along the springtime hedges and breathe in the scent of blossoms. My hair is tied up in a cherry-colored bun, and for a piece of bread, I’m going out of my way, hoping my soul doesn’t melt from the craving for fresh, hot bread. The night falls. The call to prayer sounds, and I find myself in the bakery with my shoulders slumping in the dusk. I want to call him from there and tell him, “Mr. so-and-so, stranger, good-for-nothing, you left me behind. Is this how you treat people?”

But his voice rings in my ears:

"Ah, I saw you called, but when my photo pops up on my phone, I just turn it off. Ha ha ha."

I think of my face. How seeing my photo bothers him or how easily he opens his mouth to lash out at me. I tell my guardian angel, "You are my witness." This man, like those who have drunk magic water or locked their seven bonds, did everything in his power to torture me. The thought of the tears I’ve shed, the nights I stayed awake, and the cigarettes we never shared together disgusts me. I wish I could scoop all these ruthless words from my memory and throw them into the well, but alas...

I’m in the bakery now, and the heat from the oven touches my face. I think my heart is burning like the oven, and I miss him terribly. The kind bakers with smiles on their faces, far from the weakness of the wealthy and obsessed with money, invite me to sit with them. I’ve seen one or two of them before. I had brought them sweets, and we had kneaded dough together and talked about flowers. The bakery, where life flows among the pure-hearted people, I turned to them and said, “I came for a fresh, hot loaf, but first, can someone lend me their phone to make a call?”

Like in gangster movies, five phones appeared in front of me. They said, “Call anyone you want, say whatever you need. Go ahead.” I laughed. It felt like an old film. I chose the oldest phone and said, “I want to call my teacher who’s mad at me.”

The baker said, “My phone is yours, sister.”

I turned my back on them and dialed his number. My hand trembled as if connected to electricity. My eyelid began to twitch. On the second ring, he picks up, cheerful and carefree, waiting to talk to an unknown number. Without saying hello, I say, “We washed, with the blood of the liver, the robe of the soul / No thread of his remains, nor any warp, O cupbearer... I won’t wait to see what he says. I continue, ‘Not a moment passed without me thinking of you, not a page of the calendar turned without me writing about you...’” It seems he’s starting to understand. He falls silent and greets me, saying he’s been busy, very busy. I say, “Everyone’s busy, I wrote to you, you didn’t reply. I called, you didn’t answer. Is this how it works?”

He shoots me down, a professional marksman, saying, “Nothing happened, we only met twice.”

It feels like snakes twisting inside me. I get sick thinking of those nights, of all the laughs we had, and suddenly he looked at me and answered my question about whether he truly didn’t love me with a laugh: “Ha ha, no, I really don’t love you. Ha ha ha.”

My hand shakes, the juice of my soul pours out, and I can’t look at the bakers. Suddenly, he asks, “How are you?”

What should I say? That I’m dying? Does it even matter to someone who doesn’t make time for you? For someone who doesn’t care? So I censor the truth and only, relying on my latest test results, say, “You could have prevented this from happening with my test results!” And I remember my grandfather and continue, “I never thought after my grandfather, a great sorrow would knock me down. But you did. You turned your back on the light.”

I don’t continue. To someone who has fallen asleep, talking about energy, karma, dharma, and how tomorrow is too late, how tea is cold, and how indifference to others' suffering is useless – it wouldn’t help.

I want to hang up the phone abruptly, but to my surprise, the baker holds up a large frying pan with an omelet and offers it to me. He says, “It smells good, come eat with us. Don’t go, we’d feel indebted.”

I think about how the people here, with hearts as pure as crystal, embody nobility without attending philosophy or mysticism classes. In the same sacred bakery attire, with their white aprons, they are a true example of grandeur.

Months ago, I had wished to break my vegan diet on the Chalous road and treat myself to a couple of eggs or a roadside omelet. Now, why would I want to interrupt this moment for a little bread? From the other side, the phone asks, “Did you take the baker’s phone – and of course, laughing, like a gazelle in a pasture – ?”

I say, “I don’t know...” I turn to the bakers and ask, “Who is the baker here?”

My mind starts spinning. I feel like I could burst from joy. It’s like I have wings on my shoulders. Wow, I’m someone important enough to be asked!

I say, “Learn from these bakers, who are people of heart and purity...”

I hang up the phone, feeling braver than ever. As always, I’ve never owed or been indebted to my heart and feelings. I take the fresh bread in my hand and leave, thinking how much I want to go to that place where we smoked together and I sent my birthday balloon to the sky for him.

_______________________________________________________________________

sanaz seyed esfahani

Lamija Begovic was raised in a world of power, pressure, and perfection. As the daughter of one of Sarajevo's most influential men, she  was raised to take over an empire-sharp, fearless, and unbothered by the men who try (and fail) to impress her.

Ayub Husić has spent years at her brother's side: quiet, strategic, and quietly in love with the one woman he can never have.

He keeps his distance. She barely notices.

Until her father reassigns him-directly under her leadership.

Now, she's watching. He's unraveling. And the lines they never crossed before are starting to blur.

I wrote a thing about a Hacker during the night, Pizza and Taco Delivery person during the day. Furthermore, she's living on earth after the planet has become subjugated to an alien race. So, there's that.

"She severed her raven locks, concealed her feminine form—yet could not hide her dazzling brilliance. A forged eunuch's decree hurled her into the palace's bone-devouring depths. When the Crown Prince's all-seeing gaze pinned her in place, she knew: in this lethal game of gender and power, to lose was death... but to win might be far worse."

[Intellectual Property Legal Notice — Joint Protection]

This work is an original literary creation, officially under contract and registered for copyright protection. It is protected by the following laws and international treaties:

The following actions are strictly prohibited and constitute serious infringement:

Upon confirmation of infringement, the following legal actions will be taken immediately:

This work is under active monitoring by international digital tracking firms as part of the Infringement Control Program (ICP). All suspicious IP addresses and user activities are permanently logged and preserved as legal evidence, unaffected by account deletion, platform removal, or VPN masking.

This statement is a formal legal notice. From the moment of publication, any unauthorized use shall be deemed a deliberate infringement. Legal action will be pursued without negotiation. All consequences will be borne by the infringer.

Authorized Legal Representatives (International):

Mr. Lin Haoyue — Black Lotus Legal Affairs (Taipei)

Ms. Chan Yingshan — Obsidian Law Group (Hong Kong)

Ms. Noor Aisha — Malaya IP Legal Consultancy (Kuala Lumpur)

Contact: [email protected]

The Lands of Ralosia series takes place in a world with individuals capable of incredible feats of strength, animals of abnormal size, and races of people with distinct anatomy and cultures.

This book covers 12 of the stories that comprise the series. While one can read them in order, feel free to jump around to whichever ones seem most interesting.

Cru (pronounced crew), is seen as cold and distant by his dorm mates Jacob Carter, Echo Rivers, and Kaelan Rhodes.            Cru made the mistake of loving the wrong person and hasn’t forgotten. How could he? They were manipulative and smart. Smart enough to know how to convince me that I could be loved. His name was Grayson Hoult. I wish I could’ve walked past him when I met him in daycare. We were eight when we met, his dad was in prison for abuse and he learned how to act. And damn could he act. His mother signed him up for a local theater group to get him out of the house. One day when he was changing into his costume, someone noticed the fist sized bruise on his rib cage and called CPU. His dad was caught attacking his mother and was sent to jail. Grayson was then put in my daycare and I was told to make him feel welcome. We were friends for five years before I figured out that I loved him. We would stay at each other’s houses staying up past midnight telling stories. Then I told him how I felt, I saw who he really was that night. I got my mom to sign me up for a swim camp that lasted all summer to escape daycare. To escape him.

That was three years ago and I’m sixteen now, and I’ve learned that everyone I let in leaves me. Every friend I make moves or grows distant. I’ve learned that it’s safer to leave first, or better yet, not let anyone get close to me. Every year since that night I’ve gone to the swim camp. When I was there I could forget the memories of him, could forget that I still loved him, could be someone else. This year my roommates are Jacob Carter, Echo Rivers, and Kaelan Rhodes. My assessment of Jacob is; soccer star, plays forward, makes the most shots out of anyone on his team. Lives in Salem, Oregon. Is openly bisexual which means he likes girls and boys, no you don’t have to choose between the two. Here for the soccer camp. Sixteen. My assessment of Echo is; quiet, easily forgotten. Non-binary. Loves reading. Track star known for their sprints. Lives in a small town outside of the Idaho border in Oregon. Disowned by their parents, lives with their aunt. Here for the track camp. Sixteen. My assessment of Kaelan is; his heart’s been broken for a long time. Pan. Hides behind laughter and smiles that are faked well. Center defender in soccer, mostly hangs out with Jacob. Here for the soccer camp. Lives in Portland, Oregon. Sixteen. My assessment of myself; cold, detached, distant. Won’t let anyone in. Won’t let anyone see or know who I am. Lives in the same town as Echo, but, I’ve never really talked or hung out with him since freshman year. Here for the swim camp. Best stroke is butterfly. Sixteen. Then there’s the empty bed that we’ve been informed will have an occupant in two days.

wisp and jinx are 2 wisp elfs who were left to run the land of wisparo after their parents deaths, but that's the least of their problems. jinx learns of secrets so curupt it could destroy a darklinders soul, sadly her un ability to communicate half the time doesn't help much. after causing so much cayos that wisp fisnly gets it "fixed" she finsly tells him what she lernt, then they're forced to abandon their everyday lives for the great or good.

The gods are gone, but their blood still courses through royal veins, shaping empires long after their abandonment. Darrow Ghaldre, the feared Kingslayer King, seeks to annihilate every other monarch and their kin to break the divine grip on mankind.

Now, twenty cycles later, peace decays as crops rot, beasts prowl, and whispers stir of god-blood that survived. Johanus Dhulos, once Ghaldre’s blade, now tends his fields in peace with his son Quintin. Until a shadow from the past comes hunting.

The end of kings was only the beginning.

What if instead of aliens' invading Earth, humans invaded their planet?

After World war III reduced Earth to ashes, the last remnants of humanity fled to the stars, carving a new empire among the clouds of an alien world- *Elysium*. But this new paradise was already home to a native civilisation, one now shackled under the terms of a brutal treaty. Every year, the aliens pay tribute. Every day, their skies are shadowed by the ships of their human overlords.

The people of Elysium live under the boot of the Dominion-an authoritarian human regime that controls every aspects of life. Children are bred, not born. Raised not to love or dream, but to dominate. The highest honour in this twisted society is to become an Avatar-a chosen warrior diplomat engineered to mimic their slaves and maintain human supremacy.

Evan, a gifted but rebellious young recruit, never wanted this life. He dreams of something the Dominion forbids: *freedom.* But when he's selected to complete in the Trails, a brutal gauntlet meant to forge the next generation of Avatars, he must fight not just to survive-but to understand the truth behind the Dominion, the aliens they oppress, and the role he was bred to play.

As Evan's beliefs are shattered and loyalties tested, he'll face an impossible choice: rise as a symbol of oppression, or burn it all down...and take himself down with it.

In a world built on ashes and lies, what does it mean to be human anymore?