It was a quiet morning in the palace.
Which, in this empire, was usually the most dangerous kind.
Sunlight filtered through arched windows, dappling obsidian floors with gold. A breeze drifted in from somewhere, carrying the scent of tea leaves, old parchment, and the faint iron tang of spells long since burned into the walls.
I was nestled in Arwen Nightveil's lap like a smug, traumatized marshmallow.
Not that I'd ever admit it aloud.
She absently ran her fingers behind my ears. It was a dangerous move. I should've bitten her.
But my stubby wings had gone limp. My claws twitched in a dream. And I was warm. Blissfully, decadently warm.
> [Soulbond Status: 92.3%]
Familiar Designation: Pending (Naming Trigger Deferred)
Linked Partner: Arwen Nightveil
Emotional State: unreadable (possible contentment)
Threat Level: Moderate-to-Domesticated
My instincts screamed at me to keep my emotional distance.
Unfortunately, my instincts had the spine of a damp biscuit.
---
"You were snoring," Arwen murmured.
I blinked groggily. No, I wasn't.
"You absolutely were. It sounded like a feathered teapot."
Rude. Accurate, but rude.
She tilted her head, violet eyes narrowing just slightly. "You're comfortable."
I'm not, I muttered internally, shifting dramatically. I'm enduring.
"You're purring."
I'm not.
She smirked. "You really are."
I opened my beak to argue—then realized I was purring. A soft, low hum like a reluctant lawnmower.
Betrayed by my own biology.
---
"You need a name," she said suddenly.
Nope.
I froze.
"I've been calling you 'runt' for three days," she added. "It's starting to feel rude. Even by my standards."
She smiled. Gently. Like naming me would be… special.
> [Warning: Naming Ritual Detected]
Bond finalization threshold approaching.
Naming will lock emotional imprint. No backsies.
I leapt off her lap like someone had lit my tail on fire.
"Seriously?" she said, watching me dive behind a pillow. "You're scared of a name?"
Yes! I chirped from cover. I mean—no! I mean—it's complicated!
"Gods," she sighed. "You're going to be an absolute menace in public."
Public? I chirped in horror.
That's when the door opened without knocking.
---
"Arwen."
The voice was smooth, imperial, and immediately punchable.
A tall, pale-haired man stepped into the room, ignoring every rule of etiquette and personal boundaries. His presence was like someone had distilled smug into a person and dusted them with gold.
Crown Prince Thalen Durethiel.
Also known (in multiple timelines and fan forums) as Future Tyrant #3, Arwen's Political Fiancé, and That One Guy Who Always Dies Second.
He smiled like someone who'd never been told no.
"I was nearby," he said, "and thought I'd visit my beloved."
Arwen didn't look up from her book.
"I'm not your beloved," she replied.
He chuckled, as if her refusal was flirtation. "You'll change your mind eventually."
"I'd rather eat sand."
He finally noticed me, perched behind the pillow.
His expression curdled. "What is that?"
I fluffed my feathers, rising to my full, admittedly unimpressive height, and puffed up like a baby dragon guarding a paperclip hoard.
Do not approach. I am feral. And emotionally fragile.
---
"I hatched him myself," Arwen said. "Rare soulbeast. Vicious when provoked."
"Hatched?" Thalen snorted. "You make it sound like a hen."
I narrowed my eyes. Touch me and find out.
He reached out anyway.
So I bit him.
Right on the fleshy part between his thumb and index finger.
Thalen yelped and stumbled back.
> [Trait Activated: Tiny Rage]
+3 Bite Damage | +12 Smugness
+1,000 Arwen Approval (Hidden)
---
"You little beast!"
"You touched him," Arwen said mildly.
"He bit me!"
"He doesn't like strangers."
"He's not a person!"
"He's mine."
The room froze at that.
And deep in my fuzzy, feathered chest, something strange… fluttered.
Mine.
Was that good?
Or dangerous?
---
"You really think this… thing is appropriate?" Thalen said. "The Court is already whispering about your instability, Arwen. Showing up with a mangy beast won't help."
"I wasn't planning on showing you either," she said, eyes glinting.
Thalen turned to leave.
Before he did, he said, "You'd do well to remember your place, Arwen. Even Nightveil blood can be diluted."
The door slammed shut.
---
Silence.
She stared into the fire for a long time.
Her hands clenched around her book. The leather creaked under her grip. Her jaw was set, but her eyes — her eyes flickered with something unreadable.
I didn't say anything.
I just crawled back into her lap.
She didn't move.
She didn't stop me.
---
"He was always like that," she said eventually. "Always cold. Always pretending to love me when the scribes were near."
I could bite him again, I offered silently.
She laughed — a soft sound, like someone remembering a joke from years ago and realizing it wasn't funny anymore.
"I should've incinerated him," she whispered.
Her fingers trembled against my back.
> [Bond Status: 94.1%]
Emotional Feedback: Stabilizing
New Trait Gained: [Empathic Echo]
You feel what she won't say. You remember the things she tries to forget.
---
Something stirred.
A flicker of memory not mine.
Flames. A cracked mirror. A boy's voice—her voice—screaming in the dark.
Then silence, heavy and suffocating.
I blinked, stunned.
Did… did I just see her memory?
> [Bond Trait: Empathic Echo – Strengthened]
Residual fragments now accessible during extreme emotion.
Oh no.
That was definitely going to become a problem.
---
"You still don't want a name?" she asked again, quieter.
I looked up.
So badly, I wanted to say yes.
Instead, I tucked my head under her hand.
Not yet.
---
A knock came. This time, polite.
A courier entered and handed Arwen a letter sealed in violet wax.
She opened it slowly. Her eyes narrowed.
She passed the letter to me like I couldn't read it. (I could. She didn't know.)
---
> TO: Arwen Nightveil
House of Obsidian
You are hereby summoned to the Imperial Academy of Binding Threads.
Term begins early.
Familiar required.
Attendance mandatory.
– Under Imperial Decree, The Grand Loom
---
Arwen sighed.
"Well," she said. "Looks like we're going on a trip."
I squeaked in horror.
A school arc. Of course.
---
She folded the summons like a blade she was too tired to wield.
"The Academy of Binding Threads," she murmured. "They really want me back."
She didn't say why. But her hand clenched the paper hard enough to crinkle.
> [Empathic Echo – Triggered]
Surface emotion: Resentment. Suppressed panic. Cold pride wrapped around a deeper hurt.
A dormitory. Too quiet. Too clean.
A girl sitting alone while others whispered.
The memory wasn't full. Just enough to sting.
"I hate that place," she said softly. "But they hate me more. It keeps things balanced."
---
That night, I dreamed what she didn't say.
A thread-summoner's duel. Girls circling. The taste of blood in her mouth.
She didn't scream.
She smiled.
And bled anyway.
---
Morning came in pale gray light.
She was already awake when I opened my eyes, brushing my feathers flat with deliberate calm.
"You look like you had nightmares," she said casually.
I blinked. So did you.
She paused. Just for a moment.
Then: "Don't pity me."
I chirped and leapt off the bed. Dramatically. Like a tiny, overly confident warrior.
She watched me hop toward her dressing mirror and preen. My feathers were a mess. I gave myself a static puff, then spun in place and nearly tripped over her boot.
"…It's working," she muttered, almost smiling.
---
Breakfast arrived. Thalen had filed a petition to have me removed from the Academy. Arwen responded by declaring she'd use him as a demonstration target if they insisted.
She meant it.
She always did.
---
She drafted contingency spells. Then burned them.
She wrote a poem. Then folded it into her sleeve.
And when the carriage rolled in beneath the tower that afternoon, I knew one thing for certain:
If the world was sharpening its blades again—
—I would bite first.