I've made a lot of questionable life choices.
Getting into a duel with a noble house? Absolutely one of them.
But somehow, getting summoned by the Headmaster the very next morning topped everything. Including the time I licked a mana crystal and briefly forgot the alphabet.
So when Arwen broke the wax seal on the scroll and read aloud:
"To Arwen Nightveil, bonded partner of Familiar [Unnamed],
You are to present yourself at the Tower of Threads, midday."
—I immediately climbed into a teapot.
It wasn't graceful. I don't think it was sanitary. But it felt safe. Porcelain was a shield against authority, right?
Wrong.
Arwen lifted the lid with one eyebrow raised. "Really?"
I squeaked.
"It's just the Headmaster."
JUST?
The Headmaster of the Imperial Academy of Binding Threads was a legend, a recluse, a monster, and—according to some fourth-year who definitely wasn't exaggerating—the person who sewed a god's mouth shut.
Arwen smiled faintly. "You bit a royal wolf and humiliated the Althune House in public. Of course they reported it."
I squawked, tail puffed. It was self-defense!
"They just want to size you up," she added, gently coaxing me out with a warm palm. "And possibly vaporize you. But probably not. I'll be there."
That was not comforting.
---
The Tower was ancient.
It didn't shimmer or float or breathe fire like the other buildings around the Academy core. It loomed. Everything else was flamboyant. This was just real. Made of thread-bound stone that whispered in the corners of your eyes and murals that seemed to watch you back.
We were escorted in silence by a ghost-thread steward, who Arwen saluted like an old friend. The halls narrowed, then opened into a high chamber that smelled of ink and dried lavender.
The Headmaster sat in a wide chair wrapped in tapestries older than the empire. His robes were midnight blue stitched with a single silver loop at the collar—no rank, no house.
But what truly unnerved me was his familiar.
It looked like a blind, silver-furred cat with too many tails and the unnerving habit of staring directly at your thread, not your body. I could feel it tugging at the stitchwork of my soul.
"I see the reports were not exaggerated," the Headmaster murmured, peering at me with eyes that had long since stopped needing to blink. "You are loud."
I puffed up. Rude.
He turned to Arwen. "And you?"
"I'm not loud," she said sweetly.
"Just dangerous."
"I do try."
There was a pause.
"Tell me," he said, voice slow as thread being drawn, "what are you hoping to become?"
Arwen tilted her head. "Alive."
"A shame. I was hoping you'd say Empress."
She didn't flinch. "That's not my plan."
"And yet, the court watches you. The nobles fear you. Even the Threads have begun to whisper your name."
Arwen glanced at me.
I swallowed.
The cat-familiar blinked once, slowly. And the Headmaster spoke again—not to Arwen. To me.
"Some familiars are born to guard. Others… to disrupt."
His voice was soft. But it curled beneath my feathers like a warning.
"You are not unnamed. Merely unremembered."
I didn't understand what that meant.
But the Headmaster dismissed us with a single wave of thread, and neither of us asked questions.
---
We didn't speak on the way back.
Arwen's steps were sharp, measured. Her hands clenched once before she shoved them into her coat pockets.
I rode her shoulder, unusually still.
We both felt it.
Something was watching us.
Not physically. Not even magically. But thread-deep.
That night, Arwen warded the room herself. Not just basic sigils—full mirrored protections, rune weaves, and a shimmering pulse over the door that flickered whenever I blinked.
"You're overdoing it," I chirped.
She didn't answer.
She stood at the window for a long time, gazing out across the campus. Threads shimmered faintly across the sky like a spiderweb.
"Do you feel like someone's waiting?" she whispered.
I wanted to say no.
But I dreamed of threads snapping.
---
In the dream, I floated.
Not in air. Not in water. In thread.
Endless glowing lines stretched around me—some tangled, some braided. I tried to follow Arwen's thread, golden and sharp. But something grabbed it.
Clawed it.
A shadow moved.
And I saw—
No.
I don't remember what I saw.
But when I woke, my thread was pulsing at my core. Arwen sat beside me on the bed, brows furrowed, one hand gripping her dagger and the other glowing faintly with protection runes.
"Your bond was flickering," she said. "You stopped breathing for a moment."
I nuzzled into her sleeve.
Neither of us slept again.
---
"You need air," Arwen declared.
"You need snacks," I replied with a squeak.
So naturally, we broke into the kitchens.
By "broke in," I mean Arwen politely unlocked the door using royal clearance while I knocked over a tray of dried pears trying to be stealthy.
We sat cross-legged behind the spice shelves. Arwen bit into a honey biscuit, and I tried not to choke on a candied date.
"I was supposed to fail here," she said quietly. "That was the plan. Show up. Be hated. Get expelled."
I blinked at her.
"But then you happened. And now the threads are shifting."
"Shifting how?"
She didn't answer.
---
"Would you still care if I wasn't a familiar?" I asked, staring into a broken sugar bowl.
Arwen looked at me for a long time.
"You're not a pet," she said. "You're… you."
That would've made me cry, if I had tear ducts.
She sighed. "You do need a name."
I squeaked.
"You can't be unnamed forever."
She leaned back, threading her fingers behind her head.
"I should call you something ridiculous. Like Warpeep. Or the Biter."
I scowled.
"No? Maybe Ashwing? Or Fluffbane?"
Still no.
Her smile faded a little. "I'll know when it's time."
I nestled beside her boot.
The bond shimmered.
---
That night, as Arwen slept, the bond pulsed again.
And a message scrolled in my vision:
[Soulbond Update]
[Naming Protocol Pending]
[External Identifier Interference Detected]
[Trace Signature: Inconclusive]
[Suggested Action: Protect Arwen Nightveil]
My feathers bristled.
I didn't know who—or what—was trying to name me.
But they were not allowed.
Not while I had wings.
Not while I had teeth.
Not while she still needed me.