"Book of Threads" is a genre-blending tale of mystery, fate, and the unseen forces that weave our lives together.
When Jesse stumbles upon an ancient deck of cards, he is pulled into a labyrinth of shifting realities, forgotten histories, and a destiny he never asked for. Alongside the enigmatic Lyra, whose past is as tangled as his own, he must unravel the secrets of the Silver Thread before time itself unravels. It is a story of two threads intertwined, where past and present blur and the line between choice and fate runs razor-thin.
22 Published works from Fantasy, Horror, as well as an illustrated children's book. Beginning a new Youg Adult/Juvenile Series set in the Weaver Universe. make sure you check out my webpage https://phillipsjournal.wordpress.com/the-weaver-universe/ for more detail. There will be a series of shorts (Ort's) released throughout the year.
The air beyond was indeed warm, tinged with the scent of old books and burning wood. The library was exactly as it had appeared—small and intimate, with a lived-in feel that reminded me of the study in my grandfather’s house.
It was also very empty.
“Hello?” I called, my voice echoing faintly.
The only response was the crackle of the fireplace and the shift of ash.
I wandered toward the shelves, running my fingers along the spines of the books. Many were leather-bound, their titles embossed in gold or silver. Others were plain, their covers worn and faded. Without thinking- cause thinking about all this for too long might drive me crazy, I picked one up and opened it, but the pages were blank.
“What kind of stupid library is this?” I muttered, flipping through the book.
A soft sound behind me made me freeze. I pocked the card again and turned, my heart pounding like crazy.
Sitting in a chair by the fireplace was a man.
I swear, he wasn’t there even a moment ago- but there he was now as if he’d always been.
The man’s hair was silver and fell to his shoulders. His eyes, sharp and piercing, glowed like twin stars, and he wore a long coat of red velvet that seemed to shimmer faintly.
“You’re late,” the man said, his voice calm and steady.
“Late for what?” I asked, throat dry.
One perfectly manicured brow raised, “Why, for your lesson, of course,” he replied. He rose then.
