The carriage slowed.
That was my first mistake — relaxing. Letting my feathers settle. Believing, for even one golden second, that the worst was behind us.
It wasn't.
"Wake up," Arwen said softly.
I chirped. Sleepily. Regretfully.
Then I saw the gates.
They were enormous — not just tall, but impossibly intricate, woven from metallic threads that shimmered like moonlight and blood. Each filament pulsed with enchantments too old and bitter to be decorative.
> [Warning: Active Thread Arrays Detected]
Defensive Type: Auto-Rejection Protocols
Friendly Entry Level: Debatable
I swallowed hard.
Arwen didn't slow. She stepped from the carriage with that same imperial grace that screamed touch me and die twice.
She didn't look back.
So I followed.
The Imperial Academy of Binding Threads was everything I hated in a building. Symmetrical. Impossibly clean. With the faint hum of judgment in every brick.
The moment we crossed the courtyard, people stared.
Not just at Arwen.
At me.
"Is that a spirit beast?" a voice whispered.
"No collar—"
"—Wild-born? Or summoned?"
"Why is it following her?"
I ruffled my feathers with hostile pride.
Arwen's face remained unreadable. Her steps were slow and deliberate — not because she was uncertain, but because she wanted them to look longer. She wanted their discomfort to steep.
"Eyes forward," she murmured to me. "They don't deserve your attention."
I squawked. I did deserve attention, thank you very much. I was a rare, sarcastic, slightly underfed miracle of a familiar.
But fine. I trotted beside her anyway.
A tall woman in silver robes intercepted us at the courtyard's edge.
"Princess Arwen," she said with a forced smile. "Welcome back."
Arwen inclined her head. "Instructor Lyselle."
"Quite a surprise," Lyselle continued. "We weren't expecting you this term."
"Nor was I."
The tension was immediate. Deliciously sharp.
Lyselle's eyes flicked down to me. "And this… creature?"
"My familiar," Arwen replied. "He bites."
I blinked innocently.
Lyselle sniffed. "I trust he's house-trained."
"No," Arwen said. "But he's better company than your instructors."
Inside, the academy smelled like chalk, iron, and regret.
The halls were wide. Too wide. Designed to make you feel small.
And yet, with Arwen beside me, no one looked taller.
We were led to her assigned suite — not a dormitory, not for her. She was "special," which apparently meant "quarantined like a magical biohazard."
Her rooms were far from the others. No neighboring suites. No shared walls. Just a long corridor of silence and spite.
The moment the door closed, she dropped her bag and slumped into a chair.
"I hate this place," she muttered.
I climbed onto the armrest.
She didn't push me off.
That night, I dreamed again.
Threadlight danced across her old memories — students whispering, instructors glancing away, shadows stitched into the hems of uniforms. Arwen, younger, still arrogant — but unsure. Lonelier.
One name shimmered brighter than the rest:
> Cyrel Norein.
A warning: Don't let them bind you.
A face: gone. Forgotten. But the echo lingered.
I woke curled against Arwen's side, my claws twitching.
A soft warmth pulsed at my chest.
> [Trait Unlocked – Thread Sense]
You can now feel the presence of living thread signatures within twenty meters.
Warning: You are being observed.
My feathers stood on end.
I looked to the window.
Empty.
But the walls whispered otherwise.
---
The Next Morning
Orientation was a disaster.
Arwen didn't attend. Obviously.
So I went. Alone.
Or… I followed a group of students until I arrived at a huge circular chamber full of posturing nobles and awkward teenagers.
No one noticed me at first.
Then someone tripped over my tail.
"Gah—what the Void is that?"
"Is that Arwen Nightveil's beast?"
"I heard she tortured a prince."
"That's not how soulbonds work."
"Is it eating the biscuits?"
I was, in fact, eating the biscuits.
A tall boy with silver eyes knelt beside me.
"Hey there, little guy," he said cautiously.
I eyed him. No noble crest. Worn boots. Ink-stained fingers.
Suspicious.
He offered a biscuit.
I took it.
Then bit his sleeve.
He yelped.
I fled.
By the time I found Arwen again, she was seated in the Threadloom Garden, completely unbothered.
She raised an eyebrow. "Did you make friends?"
I plopped dramatically into her lap and refused to answer.
She laughed — once — a soft exhale like a bruise remembering how to breathe.
---
Later That Day
Instructor Lyselle summoned Arwen for her "Reintegration Assessment."
Which was a fancy term for thinly veiled punishment.
We entered a domed training chamber lined with glowing runes.
A student waited inside — blonde, smug, perfectly pressed. The kind of person who wore confidence like armor and didn't care who it cut.
"Lady Nightveil," he said, bowing. "An honor."
"Doubtful," Arwen replied.
"I'm Cassian. Thread Duelist."
She didn't respond.
Lyselle gestured. "A friendly demonstration. Just to assess your standing."
I hopped onto a perch and prepared to scream.
Thread duels weren't like spells. They were alive — threads pulled from the caster's own aura and trained like blades. Each one vibrated with identity, pain, memory.
Cassian summoned his: five silver threads. Sharp. Fast. Brutal.
Arwen summoned one.
One thread.
Black. Silent. Coiled like a noose.
Cassian smirked. "One? Brave."
Arwen smiled.
He lunged.
She didn't move.
Her thread blurred once — then his snapped. All five. Midair. Before they even struck.
Cassian collapsed, clutching his chest.
Not injured. Just… unraveled.
Lyselle paled.
Arwen dusted her sleeve.
"Assessment complete," she said coldly.
---
Bonus Scene – "Kitchen Diplomacy"
That night, when Arwen finally dozed off — one hand still resting on my back like I might vanish in my sleep — I slipped out of the suite.
Not dramatically.
Just... waddled.
I had unfinished business.
Namely: biscuits.
The Academy kitchens were massive, ancient, and terrifyingly well-organized. Copper pots glistened like medals, and the spice rack was alphabetized. Alphabetized. What kind of villainy—
> "You're not supposed to be in here."
I froze.
The voice belonged to a spirit beast. Not a human. That would've been fine. This was worse.
She — yes, she — lounged across a flour sack like it was a throne. She was sleek, taller than me by three tail-lengths, and had fur like polished moonlight. Her ears flicked. Her claws were manicured.
"Oh no," I muttered. "It's royalty."
She sniffed. "What are you? An egg that lost its directions?"
I puffed up. "I'm bonded."
"To whom, a goose?"
"Arwen Nightveil."
The silence that followed was glorious.
The kitchen door creaked again.
A human cook stepped in, saw both of us, and froze mid-gasp.
I panicked.
She opened her mouth.
I flopped onto my side dramatically, rolled toward a sack of sugar, and let out the most pitiful whimper I could muster.
"...Aw," the cook said.
Hooked.
Two minutes later, I was being hand-fed scraps of honey bread while Miss Royal Furball watched in disbelief.
"You manipulative little cretin," she muttered.
"You're just mad I'm cuter."
"I'm mad you got the last apricot tart."
Fair.
Later, when I finally waddled back to Arwen's suite, she was waiting at the door. Silent. Barefoot. Eyes unreadable.
"I wasn't—" I began.
She held out a biscuit.
Still warm.
"…Oh," I said softly.
She turned away. "Next time, take me with you."
> [Soulbond Deepened: 96.1%]
[Name Still: ???]
[Familiar Status: Hungry but Loved]