8 years ago.

Night had fallen over Darkmire Woods. Two blood moons hung in the sky, red as wine-soaked coins.

Atlas was eleven years old. He sat on the tree stump of a great oak, his feet swinging idly over its edges. Mirael paced along a narrow trail, her eyes sharp and alert. They rarely ventured into the forest, but tonight they were here to defend it against flesh-hungry spirits. There were villages nearby, and farther down the coast, a fishing town with a lighthouse Atlas admired.

The Ashen Empire had begun its invasion of his world nearly five years ago. The galaxies at the edge of his universe were the first to fall. That was when he met his master, Mirael. Orphaned and alone at the time, he had been drifting on a raft on Eaut, an oceanic planet close to his homeworld.

He was too young to understand the tragedy that had befallen him when his planet had been destroyed, but old enough to understand that something important had been stripped away—and that the emperor, some dark entity from a pocket dimension, had been the one responsible.

Atlas heard a buzzing sound from behind him.

Without a glance, Mirael shot her hand forward, catching something from the air and flinging it toward the sound.

An arc of moonlight passed in front of Atlas, scarlet against the dark of the forest.

“How did you do that?” Atlas asked, staring at the firefly nailed to a tree.

“Practice.”

“Not the throwing.” He stood up, walked closer to the firefly, then gently lifted the red dagger from its wings to let it free.

“This,” he said. He held up the dagger. “How did you make this?”

He studied the blade as he held it. Against his hand, it was as red as the moons, with a hilt the same color as the night.

“Alchemy,” she said simply.

“You always say that like it explains everything.” He drew closer to her, pointing to where she had grabbed the dagger from. He searched the shadows as if a hidden sheath might appear there.

She reached over, held the moonlight as if it were glass against her touch, then pulled it gently toward the shadows to place it on a hilt.

She stared sagely for a moment, then motioned toward the moon.

Atlas reached out and curled his fingers around nothing.

“What have I told you about the secret of alchemy?” his master asked.

“Nothing,” Atlas replied plainly. He held his palms up. “Quite literally nothing, Master Mirael. I’ve only been asking for five years now.”

He was sure there was more to it than knowing a secret. Even the way she reached for the moonlight was different—as if plucking the chords of a song she knew by heart.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Mirael scoffed lightly. “Don’t be silly.” She drew the shape of a blade, then pulled it out of the air in one smooth motion. Her movements were silken. Effortless. “I’ve taught it to you a thousand times. If you didn’t know it, we wouldn’t be here.” She leaned forward, glancing around the forest uneasily. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Have I ever told you that you’re the most talented Alchemist I’ve ever met?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve never done any alchemy. I don’t even know if I’m an Alchemist. Actually… I don’t think I even understand what an Alchemist is.”

He clenched his fists in frustration. Why couldn’t he be something simpler, like a Fire Mage or a Necromancer? Something he could wrap his head around.

Mirael blinked and gestured impatiently. “You haven’t done any alchemy? Well then, what are you waiting for?”

Sighing wearily, he reached out, but only to prove a point. He couldn’t hold on to anything tangible, but for the span of a heartbeat, he thought he could feel something cold and dry between his fingers, like he was closing his hand around a sheet of winter fog.

His eyes widened. He stared at his palm. There was nothing there, but he thought he could make out the faint glimmers of something blue.

Mirael grinned when he looked up.

The first time Atlas had met her, he thought she was another of the Emperor’s spirit-servants. Half of Mirael looked normal. Her hair fell back in waves of green. Her eyes were olive and glinted with watchful intensity whenever she focused on something. Her skin had warm tones of amber and clay. He had never met someone more connected to nature.

The left half of Mirael had transformed into something more sinister. Charred gray skin split at jagged seams to reveal fractured bones and pulsing green flames. If she took off her shawl, Atlas could see the glow of her heart through her shirt. She told him it was because she housed an eidolon in her body. A demon spirit. Or more accurately—a fraction of a spirit. One of the eleven pieces of Abysara.

Atlas heard the trees rustle behind him as the air in the forest changed from crisp and autumn-like to dry and arctic. A dense fog crept through the canopy. The leaves turned brittle and stiff.

“Keep low to the floor when you’re fighting,” Master Mirael said. “The snow might be firm, but the ice underneath is treacherous. Plant your feet before you leap.”

“Ice? There’s no ice here.” He looked down. He was used to her speaking absently like this, but not with so much urgency.

“Not now, but there will be when you remember this.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Its claws are long, and they can strike in a wide arc, but they’re inflexible too. Instead of dodging from afar, try to leap into close range.”

She pointed around the forest. “You need to practice your courage on this creature. You are still too full of fear.” She raised the dagger in her hand. “It has armor underneath its fur. Even around its skull. Only a few spots are vulnerable.”

She traced the dagger along the back of his neck. “This is a kill.” She pointed the dagger at the side of his stomach. “This is a kill.” She placed it flat across his thighs. “And this is a kill. You understand?”

Atlas nodded along, though he was still confused. Her tone was making him anxious. He didn’t know what she was talking about, but he didn’t like the idea that he was full of fear. He resolved to prove her wrong.

“Here it comes,” Master Mirael said.

Atlas froze, his ears pricking at the faint rustling from the shadows. A low, scraping sound filled the air, like ice rupturing under pressure. His breath hitched as the sound grew louder, moving closer, circling them. The shadows grew thicker, twisting unnaturally into clawed silhouettes.

Through the thicket, a shape began to form. It had star-pale fur and molten-blue eyes. Crystal claws that looked like they were forged from the heart of a glacier. Frost bloomed around its feet. Atlas’s breath turned into mist in the freezing air.

“And Atlas… beware the spirit with hair like moonlight. The Winter Witch feeds on terror. Only courage will save you.”

The yeti lunged toward them, death in its long arms, its notched teeth.