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A new Starforge Tales collection has arrived.

Science Fantasy Pack 01 contains:

• 12 high-resolution science fantasy artworks + bonus images

• Dedicated cover artwork

• Mobile wallpapers

• Desktop wallpaper

• Poster version

Featuring:

• World-seeds and living planets

• Floating cities

• Celestial gardens

• Ancient archives

• Cosmic ecosystems

• Stellar navigators

• Impossible civilizations

Created in a painterly fantasy cover-art style focused on wonder, discovery, hope, and exploration.

Available now:

The city counted years the way most civilizations counted sunsets.

Nobody remembered why.

Visitors found it strange.

Children found it normal.

The city occupied a floating island that circled a luminous star-tree.

Every year, one leaf fell.

Only one.

The leaf drifted slowly through the sky before dissolving into light.

The citizens called this event a Turning.

A merchant arriving from another world asked an old woman how long she had lived.

"Seventy-three Turnings," she replied.

The merchant stared.

"You look far older than seventy-three."

The woman smiled.

"I am."

The merchant frowned.

"Then why do you say seventy-three?"

The old woman pointed toward the star-tree.

"Because I have witnessed seventy-three endings."

The merchant looked up.

The tree held thousands of leaves.

The old woman continued.

"Anyone can count days."

Another leaf detached.

The crowd below fell silent.

Children stopped running.

Musicians lowered their instruments.

Everyone watched.

The leaf descended through the evening sky.

A tiny golden star.

The old woman smiled.

"But wisdom comes from learning which moments deserve counting."

More stories:

The Department of Fallen Stars occupied a very small office.

This was surprising because stars fell rather often.

At least according to the paperwork.

Mira processed three complaints before lunch.

One claimed a missing constellation had landed in a cabbage field.

Another reported a moon behaving suspiciously.

The third insisted an entire sunrise had arrived two days early.

The third complaint turned out to be correct.

Mira hated when that happened.

She climbed the observatory tower carrying a stack of forms.

Above the city, a brilliant object descended slowly through the clouds.

Not a meteor.

Not a ship.

A star.

A literal star.

It drifted toward the central plaza with all the urgency of a customer arriving five minutes before closing.

Citizens gathered below.

Scholars panicked.

Priests began revising several important beliefs.

Mira opened Form 27-B.

UNSCHEDULED CELESTIAL ARRIVAL

The star settled gently onto the fountain.

Then it spoke.

"Good afternoon."

Nobody answered.

The star brightened politely.

"I believe I am lost."

Mira looked at the form.

Looked at the star.

Then checked the box marked:

OBJECT REQUESTING DIRECTIONS

It was going to be a long day.

More stories:

The door had been sealed for eight thousand years.

Everyone agreed it should remain closed.

Tessa disagreed.

The ancient vault lay beneath a crater where no plants grew and no animals nested.

Even the wind avoided it.

Three expeditions had vanished trying to enter.

A fourth had fled after hearing voices beyond the stone.

Tessa descended alone.

The chamber beneath the crater was impossibly vast.

Stars glowed across the ceiling.

Not painted.

Not projected.

Real.

An entire night sky trapped underground.

At the center stood the door.

Silver.

Perfectly smooth.

Waiting.

As she approached, symbols ignited across its surface.

A language older than every known civilization.

Tessa's translator crystal flickered.

Then produced a single sentence.

EMERGENCY EXIT

She froze.

Not entrance.

Exit.

The realization struck harder than fear.

The vault was not protecting the universe from what lay beyond.

It was protecting something beyond from the universe.

The door began to open.

A line of golden light appeared.

Then widened.

Something moved within.

Not attacking.

Not rushing forward.

Watching.

Patiently.

As though it had expected someone to arrive eventually.

And now it was deciding whether to let her leave.

More stories:

The library had no books.

At least, none made of paper.

For six centuries scholars crossed the stars seeking its knowledge.

Most returned confused.

Some never returned at all.

When Arin finally reached the Seventh Moon, she expected shelves.

Instead she found a valley.

A vast crystal valley hidden beneath the moon's surface.

Thousands of luminous trees stretched toward an artificial sky.

Each branch held glowing fruit.

Each fruit contained a memory.

Histories.

Languages.

Songs.

Entire civilizations preserved as living records.

A caretaker waited beneath the largest tree.

Not human.

Not machine.

Something older than both.

"You seek knowledge," it said.

Arin nodded.

"I seek the truth."

The caretaker reached upward and plucked a single silver fruit.

"Then choose carefully."

Arin accepted it.

The fruit dissolved into light.

Suddenly she stood within someone else's memory.

She saw oceans that no longer existed.

Stars arranged in unfamiliar constellations.

Worlds erased from every modern chart.

Then she saw something else.

A map.

Hidden deliberately inside thousands of unrelated memories.

A map no one was meant to assemble.

The caretaker watched silently.

"You found it."

Arin stared.

"You knew it was there?"

The being smiled.

"The library is not hiding knowledge."

It looked toward the glowing forest.

"It is hiding a destination."

More stories:

Nobody knew how many suns had vanished.

The maps disagreed.

Ancient star charts showed constellations that no longer existed.

Entire civilizations had recorded worlds orbiting lights now absent from the sky.

Most scholars blamed errors.

Liora did not.

For twelve years she hunted missing stars.

The trail led her to an observatory floating above the clouds.

The structure drifted silently between shattered moon fragments.

No engines.

No crew.

No explanation.

Inside, countless celestial maps hung suspended in crystal chambers.

Each chart recorded a different era of the universe.

Liora moved deeper.

Past galaxies.

Past forgotten empires.

Past suns older than history.

At the center of the observatory she found a single machine.

A sphere of silver rings rotating around an empty space.

The machine was active.

Waiting.

A symbol appeared in the air above it.

One star.

Then another.

Then thousands.

The missing suns.

Liora stared.

The stars had not died.

They had been moved.

Carefully.

Deliberately.

Hidden.

And whatever power had hidden them was still watching the sky.

More stories:

The temple descended from the sky once every twelve years.

Every nation claimed it belonged to their ancestors.

The temple disagreed.

Pilgrims crossed deserts to witness its arrival.

Scholars brought maps.

Treasure hunters brought weapons.

Priests brought certainty.

Nara brought questions.

When the gates opened, ancient machinery awakened beneath silver floors.

Gardens grew beneath artificial constellations.

Crystal birds sang from metallic trees.

At the center of the structure sat a single object.

A key.

Small.

Ancient.

The scholars argued over its purpose.

The priests debated its meaning.

Nara ignored them.

Because engraved beneath the key were four words.

Not a warning.

Not a blessing.

Directions.

The temple had not come to be explored.

It had come to point somewhere else.

And whatever destination waited beyond the stars—

the builders clearly expected visitors.

Clockwork beasts. Steam cathedrals. Machine citizens. Forgotten engines. Industrial wonders.

My newest Starforge Tales art pack is now live.

Inside:

• 12 original steampunk and industrial fantasy artworks • clockwork creatures and industrial-fauna • giant engines and impossible machinery • railway halls, festivals, and industrial cities • vintage poster / gouache visual style

Explore a world where engineering, myth, and wonder have become inseparable.

Available here:

The evacuation order arrived three minutes too late.

By then everyone in District Twelve could already hear the boiler screaming.

Not hissing.

Not rattling.

Screaming.

A sound of metal under impossible pressure.

Rina sprinted through the crowded streets carrying a valve key longer than her arm.

Steam rolled from maintenance grates.

Windows rattled.

People ran.

Children cried.

Alarm bells rang across the district.

"How long?" she shouted.

The station foreman checked a shaking pressure gauge.

"Six minutes."

Rina cursed.

The emergency crews had been dispatched across the city.

No reinforcements were coming.

She dropped through an access hatch into the boiler chamber.

The machine filled the cavern.

Iron.

Brass.

Pistons.

Pressure tanks.

A mechanical heart the size of a cathedral.

Every gauge sat deep inside the red.

Five minutes.

Rina ran across maintenance walkways.

Heat blasted upward from ruptured pipes.

One ladder collapsed behind her.

Another valve exploded.

Four minutes.

The release controls waited at the far end of the chamber.

Behind a wall of escaping steam.

Three minutes.

Rina wrapped a chain around her arm and jumped.

For a moment she disappeared completely into the white cloud.

Then the chamber shook.

Silence.

A second later, pressure alarms began falling one by one.

The boiler settled.

District Twelve remained standing.

Rina sat on the catwalk laughing weakly.

Above her, thousands of people would never know how close the city had come.

The station appeared every hundred years.

No timetable explained it.

No railway map acknowledged it.

Yet every century, on the same fog-shrouded night, tracks emerged from the hills and a train arrived.

The people of Hollow Junction prepared for it the way sailors prepared for storms.

Quietly.

Respectfully.

Lena stood on the platform as midnight approached.

Steam drifted across empty rails.

The station clock stopped.

Every light in town dimmed.

Then the whistle sounded.

Low.

Ancient.

Far too large.

Tracks that had not existed an hour earlier now stretched into the darkness beyond the mountains.

The train emerged from the fog.

Black iron.

Brass trim.

Windows glowing with warm amber light.

It rolled to a stop without a sound.

The doors opened.

Passengers stepped onto the platform.

Some wore fashions centuries out of date.

Some carried luggage older than the town itself.

One woman descended holding a brass ticket.

She studied the station sign.

"Hollow Junction," she whispered.

Relief filled her face.

"Thank goodness."

Lena approached carefully.

"Where did you come from?"

The woman looked genuinely confused.

"Tomorrow."

The station clock began ticking again.

The train whistle sounded once more.

And somewhere deep beneath the town, forgotten machinery woke.

The bridge had not failed in three hundred years.

Which was exactly why everyone panicked when Alarm Bell Seven started ringing.

Tessa climbed the tower stairs two at a time.

Below her, thousands of people crossed the Iron Span.

Merchants.

Workers.

Schoolchildren.

Entire neighborhoods depended on the bridge every day.

Alarm Bell Seven rang again.

The sound echoed across the valley.

Inside the control chamber, ancient pressure gauges shuddered violently.

Tessa checked the readouts.

Her stomach dropped.

One of the primary support pistons was losing pressure.

Fast.

Too fast.

A junior mechanic appeared in the doorway.

"Can we shut the bridge down?"

Tessa looked through the window.

The nearest alternate crossing sat four days away.

"No."

"Then what do we do?"

The bridge groaned.

A sound like a mountain changing its mind.

Tessa grabbed her maintenance satchel.

"We climb."

The mechanic stared.

"The support tower is six hundred feet tall."

"I know."

"It's raining."

"I know."

"There's lightning."

"I am aware."

The bridge groaned again.

Tessa opened the hatch leading outside.

Wind and steam slammed into the chamber.

"Good news," she shouted over the storm.

The mechanic looked hopeful.

"The problem is definitely up there."

They began climbing.

Nobody remembered who built the mountain engine.

The city only remembered that it had always run.

For seven hundred years, pistons larger than houses rose and fell beneath the stone.

For seven hundred years, steam flowed through pipes carved directly into the mountain's heart.

Then one morning the rhythm stopped.

The silence woke everyone.

Mira descended alone.

Past abandoned maintenance halls.

Past rusted service lifts.

Past memorial plaques bearing names older than the kingdom.

The engine chamber waited at the bottom.

It was enormous.

Cathedral enormous.

Nation enormous.

Its brass surfaces vanished into darkness overhead.

A single maintenance lantern still burned beside the machine.

Someone had tended it.

Recently.

Mira approached carefully.

A figure sat beside the silent engine.

An old woman.

Oil-stained coat.

Silver hair.

Hands blackened by centuries of work.

"You maintain this place?" Mira asked.

The woman smiled faintly.

"Maintained."

"The city needs the engine."

The woman looked up into the darkness where forgotten machinery slept.

"No."

Mira frowned.

"No?"

"The city needs to remember it."

Steam hissed softly somewhere deep below.

The old woman stood.

For a moment she seemed impossibly ancient.

As old as the machine itself.

Then she handed Mira a brass key.

"The builders left instructions."

Mira stared at the key.

"Where?"

The old woman pointed toward the mountain wall.

Toward a sealed bronze door nobody had noticed before.

"They hid them," she said quietly.

"Because someday people would mistake the engine for magic."

The Ministry regulated explosions.

Not all explosions.

That would have been unrealistic.

Only licensed explosions.

Industrial explosions required Form 18-B.

Ceremonial explosions required municipal approval.

Unauthorized inspirational explosions carried severe penalties.

Jun worked Third Desk, Catastrophic Paperwork Division.

Then the Inventors’ Quarter detonated.

Again.

Steam alarms wailed across the district.

A brass pneumatic tube slammed a message capsule onto Jun’s desk.

INSPECTION REQUEST.

MULTIPLE VIOLATIONS.

POSSIBLE UNLICENSED ENTHUSIASM.

Jun sighed, grabbed her inspection satchel, and boarded the emergency tram.

The workshop was somehow still standing.

Mostly.

An elderly engineer covered in soot waved cheerfully from a crater.

“Good news!” he announced.

“There are survivors?”

“No! The boiler worked!”

Jun opened her citation ledger.

“You detonated three municipal walls.”

“Technically the walls detonated themselves.”

“Your permit authorized controlled steam release.”

The engineer pointed proudly toward a spinning machine assembled from pipes, church bells, and what appeared to be stolen bakery equipment.

“Yes,” he said. “Control remains our long-term objective.”

Jun stared at the machine.

It emitted sparks, steam, and faint accordion music.

“Is that safe?”

The engineer looked offended.

“Absolutely not.”

The machine exploded.

Jun calmly added a fourth citation.

“Progress,” she muttered, “continues to exceed regulation.”

The city sold sunlight by the hour.

Most people rented dawn.

Midday cost extra.

Full sunset illumination was for executives, magistrates, and theater districts.

Tomas repaired pressure valves in the lower steam wards where daylight arrived filtered through copper grids and stained exhaust haze.

Then the central solar engine failed.

Airships grounded.

Factories halted.

Upper districts panicked.

Lower districts noticed because, for the first time in living memory—

the company lights shut off equally.

Tomas climbed maintenance ladders no laborer was supposed to know existed.

The solar chamber stretched above him like a brass cathedral full of dead mirrors.

Someone had sabotaged it.

Deliberately.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

A woman in administrative silver stood in the doorway holding a toolbox older than the city charter.

"You know how to restart it?" Tomas asked.

She looked at the dead machinery.

"No."

"Then why are you here?"

The woman opened the toolbox.

Inside rested handwritten schematics banned for nearly eighty years.

"Because," she said quietly, "my grandmother helped design the system that taught your city to meter the sun."

Steam hissed through dark pipes around them.

"And I think," she said, "it's time we stopped renting daylight."

Retro pulp space opera. Chrome rockets. Cosmic frontier heroines. Alien companions. Bright vintage-future adventure.

My newest Starforge Tales art pack is now live.

Inside:

• 13 original retro sci-fi artworks • frontier women, pilots, mechanics, salvagers & explorers • glossy vintage-future aesthetics • strange companions & weird frontier life • bright color, chrome, rockets & cosmic adventure

Inspired by classic pulp sci-fi covers, bomber nose-art glamour, and retro space opera energy.

Available here:

Every seventeen years, the market returned.

No engines.

No transponder codes.

Just impossible lantern-light drifting through the dust storms of Nebula Nine.

Smugglers called it a myth.

Explorers called it a navigational error.

Arin found it by accident while dying of reactor failure.

The city hung inside a hollow asteroid carved into gardens, bazaars, shrines, and open-air machine workshops.

Thousands of species traded there.

Nobody asked names.

Nobody asked wars.

Only value.

A woman with silver mechanical eyes examined Arin’s ruined fuel core.

“You crossed three restricted borders carrying this.”

“I was trying not to explode.”

“A practical motive.”

She handed the core back.

Repaired.

Perfect.

“No charge?”

The mechanic looked genuinely offended.

“Traveler. You arrived during hospitality season.”

Arin stared.

“Hospitality season?”

Around them, bells began ringing through the asteroid market.

Stalls closed.

Lanterns dimmed.

The mechanic’s expression changed.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “You should leave.”

“Why?”

She looked toward the dark opening above the market ceiling.

“Because hospitality season is for outsiders.”

The bells rang louder.

The distress beacon had been transmitting for eight hundred years.

Nobody answered it because nobody believed the coordinates.

Beyond Saturn’s orbit, beyond the mapped debris lanes, beyond the last freight shrines, there stood a lighthouse burning in empty dark.

Captain Ilya went anyway.

The station should have been dead.

Instead, warm lights waited behind polished glass.

Gardens grew under artificial suns.

Tea steamed on a table set for one.

The caretaker arrived exactly nine minutes after docking.

She wore an old navigation uniform faded almost white.

“You’re late,” she said gently.

“For what?”

“The replacement shift.”

Ilya laughed once. “I’m not your replacement.”

The caretaker looked genuinely confused.

“Oh.”

She turned toward the observation window.

Outside, impossible against the black, hundreds of ancient ships floated in silent orbit around the lighthouse.

Waiting.