Let me begin by saying this: I did not mean to start a noble feud. Honest.
I wasn't even trying to be difficult that morning. I woke up. I preened my feathers. I even behaved while Arwen tied her hair back with that black ribbon she only wore when she meant business. I didn't bite anyone. I didn't destroy the drapes. I was—dare I say it—a delight.
And yet, somehow, within the span of a single class, I was branded a menace, a threat to noble decorum, and the harbinger of a declaration of war between bloodlines.
Let's rewind.
The class was called Threadbinding Etiquette & Familiar Integration.
Which already sounded like the magical equivalent of being told to sit still and don't drool.
Arwen had opted to skip it. ("If they want to teach you manners, they can try doing it from a blast radius away.") So I went alone, escorted by a sleepy first-year named Tonk who smelled like vinegar and talked too much about his pet hedgehog.
The classroom was more like an amphitheater. Circular, stone-tiered, with threads of illumination magic laced through the seats. At the center stood a silver podium. And behind it: a woman who looked like she'd swallowed a lemon thirty years ago and had never recovered.
"Instructor Praxelyne," Tonk whispered. "Do not ask her about her eye. Or her divorce."
Got it.
Instructor Praxelyne scanned the class with unblinking disapproval. Her robes were the shade of boring incarnate, and her spirit beast—a hairless owl named Smote—judged us all with glowing eyes.
"Rule One," she began, "you are not people. You are extensions of your partners' intent. You will behave as such."
Charming.
I took a seat near the edge and fluffed my feathers indignantly. Around me, other familiars perched beside their partners. One looked like a crystalline fox. Another was a fire-wreathed badger.
And then there was Lady Cireya Althune.
She sat on a velvet-cushioned platform, surrounded by admirers. Her hair was a silver waterfall, bound with miniature bells. Her expression was cold enough to frost iron.
Beside her lounged her spirit beast: an enormous, glacial-white wolf with gold-stamped claws and a mane that looked professionally brushed. His name, I would learn, was Prince Thawdrin.
Because of course it was.
I was doing fine.
Right up until Prince Thawdrin insulted my tail.
He didn't speak. Not aloud. But the snort. The flick of his perfectly manicured paw. The look.
I may not have been pretty. I may have looked like a puffed-up crow-fungus hybrid. But I had dignity.
So I flared my wings.
And I squawked.
Loudly.
A chalkboard exploded.
The fire badger panicked and caught a desk on fire. The fox vanished in a puff of static. Tonk fainted.
Praxelyne's expression did not change.
"Get. Out."
I was dragged by a magical broom.
I returned to Arwen's suite carrying a scorched notebook, a bite on my tail (don't ask), and a formal warning letter rolled in red thread.
Arwen glanced up from her spellwork. "Was it at least interesting?"
I tossed the scroll at her feet.
She read it. Laughed once.
"You got kicked out by a woman named Praxelyne. I should be mad, but that's actually impressive."
I curled on the bed dramatically.
"Let me guess," she murmured. "It was Cireya."
I flapped a wing.
Arwen's mouth twitched. "She always did collect pretty things and pretend they had opinions."
That night, something… shifted.
As Arwen and I exited the dining hall (where she force-fed me a dumpling for biting a waiter), we passed a group of students clustered around a glowing sigil board.
It pulsed as we approached. Words scrolled across the surface:
> "By violation of thread decorum and disruption of bonded channels, familiar [Unnamed] has challenged the House of Althune to a formal grievance duel. Representative: Lady Cireya. Timeline: Three days."
I stopped walking.
Arwen did not.
I caught up in a panic, wings flared. Duel?!
"I know," she sighed. "You challenged her."
By accident!
"Well," Arwen said dryly, "you either face her or apologize."
I stared.
She smirked. "Exactly. Duel it is."
Arwen spent the next morning lounging with tea while I spiraled.
"There's no rule against a familiar representing their bonded in a minor duel," she explained. "It's just… extremely rare. And historically humiliating."
I chirped in betrayal.
Arwen raised an eyebrow. "You bit royalty. What did you think would happen?"
We trained. Or tried to.
I attempted thread shaping. I exploded a bush.
Arwen tried target practice. I flew into a wall.
She sighed and handed me a padded helmet.
Cireya cornered Arwen near the Threadloom Garden.
"I must say," she purred, "it's a relief to see your standards have finally settled."
Arwen tilted her head. "Cireya, do you ever get tired of your own voice?"
"I merely meant—"
"You never mean anything, that's the problem."
Cireya's wolf snarled at me. I showed him my tongue.
The students around us pretended not to watch. The staff pretended not to care. But the tension was thick enough to embroider.
Cireya departed with a smirk.
Arwen didn't flinch.
But later, in her suite, she closed the door softly. Then she sat on the floor beside me.
"I don't care if they laugh," she whispered. "I just hate that they think they know me."
I pressed my beak to her wrist.
She let out a breath.
"…Let's win this duel."
The arena was enchanted to be just intimidating enough. Floating bleachers. Illusion banners. Dramatic wind.
Cireya wore velvet. Her wolf was gilded. They looked like a propaganda painting.
Arwen wore black.
I wore feathers.
Lyselle officiated.
"By custom, each house may present one representative. Due to… unusual circumstances, Princess Arwen has permitted her familiar to act in her stead."
Snickers from the crowd.
Arwen simply crossed her arms.
"Begin."
I bolted.
Not away. At the wolf.
Prince Thawdrin lunged. We clashed midair. Thread auras cracked.
I summoned everything I had. Every shred of irritation. Every crumb of dignity. Every bite I'd taken in the last week.
My claws glowed.
Threadlight pulsed.
I slapped him.
The wolf spun like a top.
Gasps.
Arwen didn't even blink.
He recovered. Growled. Launched a frost spear.
I dodged.
Then flung my tiny, feathered body into his face.
There was a scuffle. A blur. A very undignified yelp.
And then—
Prince Thawdrin lay on the floor, stunned, his mane tousled.
I stood atop him. Panting. Triumphant.
The arena went silent.
Lyselle cleared her throat.
"…Victory goes to Arwen Nightveil's familiar."
Arwen didn't say anything as we walked back.
She didn't have to.
She opened the door to our suite, stepped inside, then—without turning—said softly:
"I'm proud of you."
I chirped.
She tossed me the last apricot tart.
> [Soulbond Deepened: 98.7%]
[Familiar Status: Victorious and Stuffed]
[Name Still: ???]