One must never forget the fundamental tenets governing the vibrational resonance of reagents in the synthesis, amendment, or study of any prime matter within the sacred continuum of the Tavil ot Rua, the Breath of the World. The universal soulweave pervades both substance and sentient interactions with its empathetic bonds. To deny this immutable truth is to reveal a mind deficient in both rational thought and perceptual acuity.

Fools often grossly oversimplify the actual gamut of emotional entanglements between minds, matters, and the world’s magic. Passion, hatred, fear, even indifference, every intermediary sentiment, each modulates the greater aetheric tapestry! Can these amateurs not fathom that only by mastering this nuanced, tangled web can we adequately identify a catalytic scheme and calibrate resonant chambers to ensure a harmonic and productive convergence between reagents? Note that any neglect of spectral emissions, whether from phosphorescence or flame, can also lead to dissonance, elemental aberrations, or worse, catastrophic eruptive dissolution.

To the true student of the alchemical arts, I shall bequeath the keys to the recondite geometries underpinning all matter. Under my tutelage, you will uncover the subtleties of the soul in its interactions with the world and those around you. For to truly grasp the mysteries of Creation is to ascend toward the Divine, a journey that begins with mastering your own self.

– excerpt from “Understanding the Divine Essence: The Penultimate Discourse on Alchemy” by Mifodus Fibelion, master alchemist, philosopher, polymath, and the eponymous founder of Fibelianism, published 187 AK.

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Remembrance 2, 2497 AK, Radiant Empire, Cleft Isles, Greyport.

“Ugh. Boys are the worst.” Lyra’s words cut through the festive hubbub. With unsteady drunk steps, she stumbled beside her friend, Mina, while paying no attention to the jugglers and bards and other acts lining their path, slightly off from the crowded main thoroughfare.

Lyra was not having a good night. Scratch that. She was having the worst night.

Not that she would ever admit it to anyone.

Things had started well enough—flirting with Thomas, getting him to buy her those cute bangles she had her eye on, then letting him win her a prize at the ring toss. But now, even with the party heating up to a fever pitch, the festivities felt dull without Thomas by her side. Sure, his temper was bad, and he could be rough with her when drunk. But that’s just how men are, right? Lyra’s mother always told her to smile and bear with it. Thomas was a mage. A real one. He was “going places,” her mother said—whatever that meant.

Lyra did not care, so long as it meant away from this stupid, stinking town. She had sworn herself she would be more than a peasant girl scrabbling for scraps of attention from some drunk.

Not like Mina. Lyra shot a sideways glance at her friend, who was already halfway to complete intoxication. She’ll never be more than a fisherman’s wife… or worse, a tavern wench. Lyra held back a sneer. Mina did not have the sense to want more. She would end up marrying some local boy and live out her days in a shoddy house by the docks, reeking of fish and washing clothes while her husband was off at the tavern or the whorehouse. Lyra almost felt sorry for her, but the pity was brief. Lyra was better than that. Better than Mina.

Better than her mother.

Mina stumbled into her, giggling as she took another swig of mead, oblivious to the thoughts brewing in her friend’s head. “Uh-uh. Can you believe Rob? He’s one year older, and he thinks that means he can tell me what to do! Wait until I tell Mum he ditched me!”

“Oh, that’s so evil. Your mum’s a dragon!” Lyra laughed drunkenly, though it rang hollow. “But that’s, like, different. Robert’s your brother. I’m Tommy’s girlfriend! He’s supposed to keep me company! But noooo, he’d rather run off to do… whatever it is boys do when they’re off being secretive and stupid.”

“Yeaaah,” Mina slurred, leaning into Lyra’s shoulder for support. “What are they even doing in that old place? It’s creepy. And dusty. Like, ewww.”

“I’m with you.”

“They think they’re all mysterious and cool just because they can hold a sword. Like, wow, congrats, you can swing a sharp thing. So impressive. I could do that too—if I wanted!” Mina gestured wildly, mimicking a sword swipe, and nearly tripping over her own feet.

“Exactly!” Lyra scoffed. “I’ve been listening to all of Tommy’s stupid rants about spells and whatnot. But apparently, drinking and dancing with your girlfriend is too boring. I mean, I spent all afternoon picking out this dress. It’s my best one! And for what? For him to run off and leave me in that courtyard with nothing but stale pastries and the same stupid lute song!” She could almost still hear the faint strains of that minstrel’s tired tune grating her ears.

“Oh! Don’t get me started on the music! If I hear one more song about maidens lost in the woods, I’m going to scream. Like, not all of us want to be rescued, okay?”

“Exactly! It’s like, we’re perfectly fine on our own. But no, we have to wait around for the boys to finish whatever super important thing they’re doing, like…” Lyra’s voice trailed off, having spotted a dark blot flitting across the moon. It had not looked like a cloud. She squinted, confused whether her eyes were playing tricks on her, then glared suspiciously down her empty ale mug.

Something crashed into her with the speed of a runaway horse, knocking the breath from her lungs before she could scream. The festival lights blurred and went dark as she was shoved into an alleyway and slammed into a wall. Strong fingers clamped around her throat, hoisting her effortlessly off the ground. Her feet dangled, kicking uselessly against her assailant as her vision swam.

“Where is he?!” a voice shouted in a savage snarl.

Lyra gasped for air, her pulse roaring in her ears. “Piss off!” she rasped and hurled her mug. It bounced pathetically off her attacker. Her heart hammered in panic. She knew well what happened to girls caught in dark alleys like this—girls who never returned or who came back broken, hollowed out. One of her classmates had flung herself into the Split rather than live with the memories.

“Let me go!” Lyra wheezed through the chokehold. She clawed at the thick arm that pinned her to the wall, her painted nails scraping uselessly against skin that felt like iron. “You won’t… get away with this! My fiancé… he’s a mage... He’ll burn you alive!”

A chilling growl cut through her. “That arrogant lump of whale fat ain’t your fiancé any more than your piss smells like roses, girl.” The grip tightened on Lyra’s throat, and the world around her began to blur, the edges of her vision closing in. “I knew when I spotted you not stitched to his hip like a needy pup that he and his little goon squad had run off to that stupid hideout he never shuts up about. Now, tell me where it is, and I might not snap your neck like a twig.”

Something clicked in Lyra’s mind. That voice. She knew that voice. Blinking away tears, she finally recognised the unpleasant face of Kaydence Templeton. This bitch! The overgrown, mannish brute had always been an eyesore, sneering at everyone like she was better than them. What a joke. Kaydence was nothing but the cursed bastard of some worthless Elf-loving fool! She’ll die in a ditch or rot in the duke’s dungeons with the other lowlifes, Lyra seethed inwardly. “Y-You?! Let go! How dare you—”

“I’m asking the questions!” Kaydence snarled like some feral beast. Lyra shivered in terror. Something’s not right. Was it the lack of air making her delirious? Kaydence’s freaky red eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, their pupils narrowing into vertical slits like a serpent’s.

“Release her!” Mina had finally caught up, stumbling into the alley with wide, frantic eyes. Lyra’s hope flickered, only for it to die instantly. “Unhand her, you brute! I– I’ve already called the Guard! They’re on their way!” Mina lied poorly, her voice cracking with fear. Lyra wanted to scream. Idiot! Use your head! If you’d called for help, how are you here alone?

Kaydence looked unimpressed. “Do not test my patience. Not tonight,” she growled dismissively, her lips curled in disdain. “I don’t have time to play chicken with children.”

Mina, either too terrified or too foolish to back down, took a shaky step closer. “M-My brother will beat you up!” she blurted, grasping at a more credible threat. At least this one was sincere. Mina’s eldest sibling, Flynt, was little more than a thug in uniform—though that description applied to most of the Greyport City Guard.

Kaydence merely rolled her eyes. She waved her free hand in an almost careless gesture, and Maria’s body froze mid-step, as if time had stopped for her. Only her eyes moved, wide with terror, darting frantically in their sockets, but the rest of her was locked in place, like a statue.

Those blood-red serpent eyes slid back to Lyra, gleaming faintly in the impenetrable darkness. The cold around them thickened, pressing in like an unseen, suffocating force. The last of Lyra’s inebriation was ripped out of her, leaving space for more panic. “I’m not scared of your little mage-poser boyfriend or the Guard,” the monster hissed, its voice dripping with venom. The steel grip around Lyra’s throat tightened. “Now, ANSWER ME!!”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Lyra whimpered, barely able to make a sound. Every breath was harder to draw. Her chest burned. The weight of her own helplessness crushed her soul. No one was coming. No one could help her. She was alone, trapped inside a nightmare she could not wake from.

She could never escape.

She caved in. “Th-The old windmill… in the southeast…” she whispered, the words forced out through what felt like shards of glass in her throat.

Instantly, the pressure on her neck vanished. The freezing darkness that had shrouded the alley evaporated, as did Kaydence herself, disappearing like a shadow merging into the night.

Lyra sagged, collapsing to the ground. Somewhere, she heard Mina fall, too, but the sound was distant, irrelevant. Trembling, tears streaming uncontrollably down her cheeks, Lyra curled up on the cold, wet cobblestones, heedless of her best dress getting soaked through. She hugged her knees to her chest and started sobbing.

* * *

The shack’s interior was as dark and bitter cold as ever, with its cracked wooden walls and sparse furniture. Weak flames wavered and crackled in the hearth, yet they failed to provide any warmth or repel the dampness moulding the walls. A lonely chair stood abandoned by the fireplace, a tattered cloak folded over its backrest. The Vampire’s fancy overstuffed armchair, ever incongruous, sat in a corner, vacant of its ghastly occupant. The rickety table had been propped up against a wall, its broken leg braced with a crude metal splint.

A small alchemical set bubbled quietly on top of it.

Soft hisses, gurgles, and pale glimmers drifted from its vials, stills, and pipes of glass and copper. The apparatus seemed complex, at first glance, but it was distinctly bare-bones—something to be carried around and used on the road by a wandering potion maker. A wooden case lay next to it, compact and well-worn. Reagents filled it, packed in neat compartments: colourful powders, crystal shards, little bones, crushed herbs and twisty roots, and tiny vials snugly nestled in padded slots. A leather-bound booklet rested, open, on a stand, its pages covered in arcane symbols and cabalistic diagrams.

At the setup’s core hung a pair of round glass vials: one filled with a deep crimson liquid—unmistakably blood—and the other with a swirling gaseous fluid that shimmered in the dim light. Thin copper tubes connected them, spiralling above a magical circle lifted straight from the occult booklet and chalk-drawn on a piece of old leather. The glyphs pulsed faintly in time with the gas’s shifting prismatic hues.

A man stood hunched over the table. Occasionally, the glow of embers flared from the tip of his long, slender smoke pipe, briefly illuminating his worn-out face.

His skin was pallid, sickly, almost grey. Deep lines etched his features, betraying a weariness that ran far deeper than mere physical fatigue. A faint shadow of stubble had crept back up his gaunt cheeks hollowed by exhaustion. Amber-rose eyes stared out from the bottom of their sunken sockets, slightly unfocused, their natural sharpness eroded by the endless tides of overwork. Premature greyness streaked his long black hair, tied in a loose bun at the back of his head, though several strands had slipped free, falling untidily over his pale face.

Each drag on the pipe cast a flicker of ember light over him, unveiling the faint tremor in his hands and the shadows beneath his eyes. He exhaled slowly, the heavy, fragrant smoke drifting from his chapped lips like his soul trying to escape, but all that broke out was a loud, drawn-out, bone-weary sigh.

“Ughhhhhhhh… Why do I do this to myself?”

Gabe Fellworth was not having a good night. But then again, he rarely did—not since selling his soul to a grinning devil disguised in Human skin. And, no, he was not talking about his marriage. That was an entirely different source of sleepless nights.

He glared at the two strands of black hair in his hand, rubbing them together absently, trying—really trying—to convince himself to let this go.

What am I doing? The girl had no ties to his mission—not even remotely. She could not. Should not. Probably not. Gabe’s contact had provided plenty of background on this “Kaydence Templeton.” Too much, really. All useless. Hearsays and fishwives’ gossip. Rumours had their value, but these only confirmed the girl and her mother were local pariahs, infamous simply for not fitting in with the good folk. Bigots are the same everywhere. Greyport might have been the province’s capital, but a small-town mentality clung to the city like a bad stench.

Gabe pulled his collar up, took a whiff, and grimaced.

Anyway.

Nothing came of his pointless investigation that would have put the pair on his map.

The girl’s father was a blank space. Common enough. People in port cities constantly drifted in and out with the tides. The mother never married, never stuck with a man for long—besides the Elf. And he’s obviously not it. Bronze skin was hardly rare—though more so here compared to the mainland. It did not mean the girl was related to their target. She could be the bastard of any wandering noble. Or even three or four generations out. Titled folk loved to toot their horn about blood purity, honour, and whatnot, but the truth was that centuries of marital indiscretions had scattered the old bloodlines far and wide. It’s all probably in my head.

The discrepancies between her age and appearance did not necessarily indicate overwhelming magical potential. Plenty of things cause deformities. And even if it was magic, it could not even be hers. Red eyes? So she got weird pigments. Big deal. It was an odd coincidence considering his partner’s secondary objective, but that was all there was to it: a coincidence.

Probably.

That Elf orbiting the Templetons was more intriguing. Still not my problem, though. Gabe was here on domestic matters, not foreign ones—and certainly nothing involving the Sacred Forest. In fact, he would gladly limit his interaction with Elves to enjoying their emberleaf pipeweed. Living long and healthy lives had made the pointy-eared folk infuriatingly unhurried and long-winded. He still had nightmares of meeting with his elvish counterparts.

Just the opening tea ceremony alone had lasted over two hours.

“Ughhhhhhhhhh…”

Gabe let out another long, suffering sigh, knowing he was just stalling at this point. He stared down at the bubbling vials and the two hairs in his hand, feeling the weight of it all. This little test could either put his worries to rest… or turn his headache into an aneurysm. It was not even complicated—just a simple check to rule out the girl’s connection to a certain bloodline and gauge her magical potential. Nothing too dramatic.

Maybe then, he could actually get some sleep.

But he doubted it. Even if he got the results he wanted, something else would come along to ruin his night.

Something always did.

He was about to place one hair in the centre of the magical circle—but stopped, doubt again creeping back in. With a sigh, he tweaked the power-dampening rune, boosting its potency. It might throw in a few false negatives, but at least it would lower the odds of the whole thing blowing up in his face.

Not that it was likely to blow up.

In fact, it was really not supposed to be dangerous at all—just a fancy blood test with extra steps. Gabe had never heard of it blowing up.

I’m just being paranoid.

Feeling marginally more at ease, he dropped the hair inside the circle. The symbols flared to life all at once. The blood vial started to boil, and the shimmering gas spun faster in its glass prison. “Alright… Now, just waiting for the reaction to–”

A loud rap on the door nearly made Gabe drop his pipe. Gods fucking dammit! He made a quick gesture as penance for blasphemy, fingers brushing his goat pendant, then carefully set the pipe aside and headed for the door. He was on edge. Only a handful of people knew about this so-called “safe house”—and fewer still could show up unannounced. Only one of them should be in Greyport right now, but she was not due back until sunrise.

He slid the cover off the peephole and was greeted by the weathered trapper’s face Hawthorn wore as a disguise. Even through the illusion, the Vampire looked distressed, surprising Gabe enough that he took a second to remember the passphrase.

“Err, who goes there?”

“A weary truth seeker.”

“What has brought you here?”

“A smell of blood in the dark.”

Gabe unlocked the door, and Hawthorn stumbled into the shack. Her illusion fell away, revealing the Vampire more dishevelled than he had ever seen. He raised an eyebrow but did not move right away to help her, instead keeping his distance, his hands slipping inside his pockets as he subtly readied a spell—just in case. Bloodsuckers were tricky when drained, and though she acted sane so far, Gabe had not survived this long by taking chances.

“You alright? Need a drink?” he asked casually, his tone more relaxed than the situation warranted. Mentally, he was mapping his escape route and remembering the addresses of a couple of her donors.

But Hawthorn waved him off, collapsing into her padded seat before burying her face in her hands with a muffled scream.

“Alright...” Gabe muttered. Not the most reassuring sound. But I’ll take it. Keeping the undead woman in his peripheral vision, a ready killing spell at his fingertips, he moved to check outside. Down the dark street, every other lamppost flickered blue, the rest broken. Orange light glowed in the distance, just out of sight—the festival still going strong. No sign of pursuers, at least.

He locked the door and turned fully toward his partner.

“What happened? You’re back early.”

Without looking up, the Vampire responded with a strained question of her own. She sounded… confused. “Do you know anyone who goes by ‘Wraith’?”

Gabe scratched the back of his head. “You’ll have to narrow that down. On the top of my head, I can think of seven people using that moniker. Wait, no. Eight. Though one of them’s a bard who goes around graveyards wailing depressing songs, so probably not him. Unless…”

“No, a necromancer, who also uses Fire magic. Ice, too, possibly… I’m not sure. They might have been using Fire magic to remove warmth from the air. They were alone.”

At that, Gabe’s easygoing demeanour faltered, his tired gaze sharpening. A necromancer who could handle a Vampire solo was already bad news—even considering Hawthorn had been forced to hold back to maintain a low profile. However, a triple-affinity mage was a catastrophe.

“Did they get away?” he asked, though the fact she returned at all—without a prisoner or a body—already answered the question.

“They… let me go,” Hawthorn admitted, shame in her voice. “They went— ugh!” She gasped suddenly, clutching her chest. “Can’t… say… Geas.”

Gabe’s eyes narrowed, his heart cooling down. “They let you go? And put a geas on you? How did we both miss someone that strong?” He took a slow breath. “Are you compromised?”

The Vampire’s tense expression gradually smoothed over. “No, I don’t think so. It’s not… I messed up. But I didn’t know I could be countered like this. I’ve never heard of anyone… The way their mana moved… It was like they knew exactly how to control me. Almost like…” She trailed off, lost in thought. “But I don’t think they’re our enemy.”

Gabe leaned back against the doorframe. “I want you to take this in the least offensive way possible, Hawthorn, but you’re not making any sense right now.”

“I need to contact my Master…”

“Hold on,” Gabe interrupted, his voice still calm but with a firmer edge. “You know we’re not supposed to use long-distance communication magic. You think I’d have dragged my ass all the way out here if we could’ve done this over magic mirrors from a cosy bed in Phoenix Rise?”

“Oh… right.” Hawthorn blinked, her thoughts clearly scrambled. “But if they’re a lost Great Ancestor... the coven needs to know.” She suddenly perked up, as if remembering something important. “Oh, also, the windmill two streets down is on fire.”

“…What?!”

Right at that moment, an ominous, sharp, shrill hiss tore through the quiet shack. Gabe barely had time to turn toward his alchemical tools, eyes widening in horror as he saw the gas vial heating up to incandescence, the shimmering fluid inside spinning faster and faster.

Oh, that’s not good.

The world erupted in a blinding flash, searing his vision as the explosion ripped through the room, obliterating the table, chair, padded seat, chimney, walls—and blasting both co-conspirators out into the night.

* * * * *