After witnessing his lycanthrope mother's death following her week-long disappearance, his life has never been the same again.
Atlas struggles with his identity and his goals, with the looming notion that there is a dangerous monster prowling in his...
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Werewolves, witches, wizards, magic, creatures beyond the grasp of imagination—it was all just pointless fiction. But in this world, under the long oblivious noses of regular, average humans, exists a realm so indescribable, so astonishing, where all of those magical, fictional things exist.
Armanthia Miller—well, she was what someone would call unapproachable. She was a quiet woman, sharp in all the wrong ways. She lived in a small town in Britain, an old little village nestled into some random mountainside. She had been drawn to the magical tendencies of the town, pulled in by the talk of odd creatures lurking just outside the town's cold, cobble streets—past the warm, old street lights that flickered of a different time and into the vast, inhospitable forest.
Armanthia was a writer, a researcher—some would call her. But she was also a mother. Her son was very young at the time, just celebrating his 5th birthday, when his mother, entranced by the woods' untold stories, disappeared and never came back, leaving behind a forgotten, unfinished book that would soon only be lost to time.
Her only son, Atlas, would follow her faded footprints into the forest, searching for his widowed mother who never came home.
The tall, unfriendly lumber of the woods loomed high above the small boy, his soft footfalls filling the still, quiet air as every step he took brought about the soft crunch of yellow and brown fallen leaves. The deeper he ventured, the more glacial it grew.
Atlas let out soft breaths that could be seen in the frigid air. He stood in a small clearing, a nearby pond iced over so thick that he could walk on it. There was a soft, barely audible crack of a twig; something was coming, Atlas could hear its footsteps.
A weak "mommy?" left his cold, chapped lips as he turned his head to the horizon of trees blocking his view of the dark, star-littered sky. Something large and dark crept out of the shadows—large pointed teeth, black fur, sharp features, and dark eyes. It was his mother, it had to be.
The unnaturally large wolf was slim, delicate even. Dark eyes held the warmth he thought he remembered—the eyes he looked into for comfort, the ones that crinkled with laughter, the ones that held so much vibrance. It was unmistakable; the woman he called his mother was here in front of him, slowly yet surely creeping closer.
"Mommy?" Atlas whispered.
Surely she'd recognize him, her son. Yet her tense, wolfish body held the undeniable graceful movement of a predator. And suddenly she was on him, canines biting into his soft skin drawing the warmth of blood from his fragile body.
A scream ripped through the still, lifeless air and Atlas couldn't tell if it came from his lips or from his mother's. The soft breath that lingered in the cold air, and the feeling of the heavy weight of his mother being torn from him was one of the few things he could remember from that night. The white flash of a graceful fluid motion, the long elegant horn that pierced his mother's flesh. The force that threw his mother's wolf-like corpse across the ice, leaving a red carpet of blood in her wake.
Atlas looked up at the dark sky, the last thing he could remember, perhaps the only thing. It was a full moon that night.
{A/N}
HI!
It's been a while since i've writen in general, and I might be a bit rusty. This book will just be for my pleasure and I'm honestly not expecting it to do as good as my one-shot books which are just a whole diffrent breed of cringey.
But i'm bored, it's the summer, and i have too much time on my hands so why the hell not!!!
Anyways if you did sit through this chapter I just wanted to thank you for taking the time to read my writing good, or bad.
