Uncharted Territories Book Novels & Stories

. "With you currently or back home?" Ivan said kneeling to be eye level with Frank's child-like frame. "Well, both actually?" Frank asked bluntly. "You just experienced an episode of PTSD. You've been getting them on and off for the past few months. I don't know what is triggering it but we've been working through them. As for back home..." Ivan looked down to the dirt as if begging the ground to answer for him. "Ivan just says it, I can handle it." Frank said placing his hand on Ivan's shoulder. "We lost contact with them about 6 months ago. The last thing James was able to get to us was not to return until they came for us. So in short it is bad and due to protecting the girls we're stuck

The container enlarges to hold both. He wrote: Don said: the book is both the map and the territory. This is the most accurate description of what we are doing. The territory is sixteen years old. The map is the book. But the map is drawn from within the territory and is therefore part of the territory. The map changes the territory by existing. The territory was already changing by being inhabited. Both things are true. Both things are always true. ---

After about five minutes of intensely combing through the whole house, I still came out empty-handed. “All for what?” I groaned and snapped my neck to look at the last corner, and my eyes caught something in the shadows—a big ancient Greek book laid on a table with a stack of other smaller books. There were also black inks, bird feathers, and a detailed map. I got closer to the table, and a better observation at the map revealed the mapped territory—all four wolf kingdoms were highlighted with a spot of red ink.

His throat made a quiet noise, before he turned back to the bookshelf and looked down into his lap. Emmet now properly looked over the atlas: lace names were crossed out with new, unfamiliar ones replacing them; full swathes of coastal land was scribbled out, presumably underwater and new borders were drawn on, particularly centred around mountainous areas. He was surprised to see particular rivers swollen up, and new lakes and estuaries where there were previously none.

"This is not the complete map. Although we won the wars against the three territories that surround ours, we are leaving those maps seperate for now." "Can you find the files for those territories? I want to make sure we have a list of all the commodities we have at our disposal for trade. Any other resources you can think of, lets add them to the list." Unbuckling my seatbelt, I slip onto the floor, criss cross applesauce style, and start spreading things out in front of me, like how I used to study in high school before a big test. We spend the rest of the drive like this, passing files back and forth and discussing trades, what we can afford to sacrifice, and how much.

Making my way to a nearby table, I carefully laid the book down, anticipation bubbling within me like a dormant volcano ready to erupt. Opening the book, I was greeted by the sight of intricate maps sprawled across its pages, each line and contour telling a story of the land it depicted. The Five Courts of Lyria unfolded before me, a tapestry of hills, valleys, lakes, and rivers stretching out like a canvas waiting to be painted. My fingers danced across the paper, tracing the topography.

But the content was unmistakable once I understood what I was reading. It described, in careful and frightened handwriting, an encounter with what the writer called the Unmaking. A presence, the writer said, that had appeared in the eastern territories claiming to offer freedom from limitation, freedom from balance, freedom from the careful checked structures that the old families had built to keep power from concentrating in any single line. The writer had refused whatever the Unmaking offered. The writer had died three months later, of causes the letter's continuation, if it had ever existed, did not survive to describe.

As the car continued on its journey to their residence, the tension in the confined space was palpable. The clash between Nysaa Everhart and Mace Sinclair had set a series of events in motion that would challenge their beliefs, their principles, and their very understanding of themselves.

We found a row with three seats and settled in together. As we took off, Nathan started talking about all the hot spots we were gonna hit in New York—the art museums, pop-up fashion shows, food trucks, rooftop bars, and the infamous secret jazz clubs. Penny nodded off first, her head slumping onto my shoulder. I smiled at the sight—she looked peaceful, for once. Not dramatic, not bossy. Just… Penny. Eventually, sleep caught up with me too, and I leaned to the side, my head falling gently on Nathan’s broad shoulder. I heard him chuckle softly, but I was too far gone in my dreams to respond.

The other held a stranger's: Elena Antwi. A cold numbness spread through me. I started to shove them back into the pocket to unsee, to unknow when a stubborn voice hissed: Check the destination. Miami, Florida (MIA). Not Germany. Not the New York layover he'd just mentioned. Florida. The numbness solidified into something heavy and final. I stood, the tickets trembling in my hand, and walked to the bathroom door. The shower drummed steadily. "Baby?" I called, forcing lightness into my voice. "Where did you say that conference was again?"