There are many ways to start a school day.
Falling face-first into a magical tuning fork that screams when it touches you?
Not my top pick.
"Welcome, welcome," sang Professor Carilayne, a spritely woman with a crown of half-withered flowers in her hair and a cane made of whispering wood. "Today, we test the honesty of your soulbonds."
I did not like the word "test."
Nor the way the professor grinned as she rolled out a velvet-lined case of tuning forks shaped like spider legs and regret.
"These are finely attuned to detect magical harmonics. When struck, they reveal the emotional resonance between familiar and binder."
"Which is to say," she added, "they scream if your bond is a lie."
Excuse me?!
Arwen looked unbothered. I, on the other hand, was already planning my escape through the ventilation ducts.
"We'll start alphabetically," Carilayne continued. "Which, unfortunately, puts House Nightveil first."
Arwen raised a brow. "Convenient."
I waddled up reluctantly, scanning for exits. The fork glowed faintly in the professor's hand—silver, polished, with the House Crest of the Academy etched along its base.
She tapped it on a crystal dish.
It hummed. Then wailed.
Not a nice musical wail. Not a choir-of-angels sort of thing.
No—this was a banshee shriek, a discordant screech that shattered three windows, blew out a lantern, and made a first-year faint into a pot plant.
Someone screamed. I think it was me.
Several nobles dove for cover like the fork had summoned a plague.
Arwen crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Dramatic."
"He's unstable!" Lord Iven shouted from across the room. "That sound proves it—he's corrupted! Dangerous!"
"Your hair is dangerous," I chirped back.
Professor Carilayne looked rattled. "That reaction is… unprecedented."
Arwen's voice cooled. "Define unprecedented."
"No bond should scream," the professor murmured. "It indicates incompatibility or… interference."
Another student, pale and wide-eyed, asked, "Could it be a beast curse? Or a false soul wrapping?"
I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded rude.
I curled behind Arwen's boot.
Carilayne hesitated. "We may need to verify the bond manually."
A floating orb emerged from her desk—a sleek, silver auto-severance sphere.
I hissed.
"Don't you dare," Arwen said.
"The Academy requires us to investigate anomalies—"
"He is not an anomaly. He's mine."
"You may be too close to evaluate that rationally."
That's when Arwen stepped forward and smacked the tuning fork off the pedestal with a flick of her wrist.
It clattered to the floor and fizzled into ash.
"I think we're done here."
Professor Carilayne stared.
No one stopped us as we left.
—
We crept into the overgrown greenhouse through a cracked side door. Dust glowed in the morning sun like powdered moonlight. Magical plants rustled sleepily.
Arwen kicked over a flowerpot and sat down beside me, looking more tired than angry.
"Maybe they're right," she said.
I tilted my head.
"Maybe something's wrong with me."
"You're fine," I chirped.
"You don't know that."
"You wear matching socks. That's rare for nobility."
She snorted but didn't smile. "That bond test wasn't supposed to react like that. My mother always said my threads were… unruly."
"Unruly is fashionable," I offered.
She plucked a weed and twisted it between her fingers. "I just wanted one thing that couldn't be twisted. But maybe even this—us—was a mistake."
I hopped into her lap, wings fluffing.
"You're the opposite of a mistake," I said, pecking her hand. "You're a beautifully haunted pastry. Accept it."
She didn't laugh. But she pet me like she meant it.
"I'll protect you," she whispered. "Even if I have to threaten a professor or ten."
I chirped against her chest. The greenhouse smelled like soft moss and secrets. For a moment, the world was gentle.
Behind a curtain of ivy, a girl with charm-thread earrings was crouched low, notebook open.
She murmured to a paper bird, which fluttered to life and zipped off through the greenhouse rafters.
—
We left the greenhouse through the eastern colonnade, trying to avoid notice. It didn't work.
A familiar voice called, smooth and smug as polished silk.
"Nightveil."
Arwen turned. I bristled.
It was Valesh, son of Chancellor Berain. Too perfect, too pressed, and too pleased with himself.
"I just thought I'd offer a word of… advice," he said, smiling as if he'd already won. "Your outburst today raised a few eyebrows."
"My soulbeast screamed," Arwen replied dryly. "It's called flair."
He chuckled. "Careful. That bond is under scrutiny. You might consider a supervised review. With me present."
"You think I need a chaperone?"
"No. I think you need a lifeline. The Tea Society can't protect you forever."
"I don't need their protection."
"No," he said. "You need mine."
I growled.
Valesh looked down at me with a wrinkle of distaste. "He bit Lord Iven. That alone warrants formal challenge."
"He bites everyone. It's called charm."
Valesh's expression tightened. "House Nightveil is in decline. You'd be wise to ally while you can."
Arwen stepped forward until they were nearly chest to chest.
"I'd rather stitch my name into a firework and launch it into the Chancellor's lavatory than align with you."
He blinked. "That's… oddly specific."
She walked past him without another word.
I hissed at him on the way by.
—
Later that evening, back in our dorm tower, a letter arrived.
Gold-stitched parchment. Rose-scented ink. Arrogance in every flourish.
"The Tea Society of Harmonious Threads formally requests a follow-up resonance review of the unnamed soulbeast under controlled conditions. Kindly RSVP before sundown tomorrow."
Arwen lit it on fire.
I toasted a marshmallow in it.
We stayed up too late that night, crunching candied bark in our blanket fort while the letter's ashes floated out the window.
She whispered something then, barely audible.
"I think they're going to keep coming."
I asked, "For me?"
"For both of us."
I didn't ask why. I knew the answer. I had seen the future once, in another life. And every version of it ended with her standing alone.
Not this time.
—
In a private chamber lined with antique mirrors and portrait ghosts, three nobles gathered around a glowing map.
"She burned the letter," muttered Rilla of House Reichen. "As expected."
"She's baiting us," said Garet, eldest son of House Lenmoor, eyes sharp as threadknives.
"She's protecting him," added Serene Vey, sipping from a cup with the House Nightveil crest scratched out.
They watched the red dot blink on the resonance map.
"Phase two," Serene said.
A whisper-thread flared across the surface of the map, pulsing violet and gold.
Below the table, something stirred in a crystal cage.
They didn't speak of it. They never did.
But the game had changed.
And the next move was already in motion.