I've been summoned before. By royalty. By fate. By mysterious scrolls that smelled like cinnamon and doom.
But never by a tea club.
Never by a tea club with its own letterhead.
Arwen unfolded the gilded parchment at breakfast, holding it at arm's length like it might explode.
> "To the Esteemed Soulbeast of House Nightveil:
The Tea Society of Harmonious Threads formally invites you to a private ceremony of spiritual refinement and grooming."
She blinked.
I fell into my oatmeal.
"They're serious," she said.
I warbled in protest. My claws were still sticky from my breakfast date with a honey scone. I was in no condition to meet anyone, let alone something with 'ceremony' in the name.
Arwen turned the letter over. "It's stitched. With thread. They stitched a letter."
She sounded offended. She should've been terrified.
I squeaked something along the lines of "Tell them I'm dead."
"They said refreshments will be provided."
I perked up.
---
✧ The Tea Society of Harmonious Threads ✧
Turns out, the Tea Society wasn't just a tea club.
It was a political jousting match disguised as high tea.
The room was a circular hall of rose-colored threadstone and antique banners from a dozen noble houses. There were no teachers. No guards. Just plush velvet seats, too much perfume, and nobles far too young to be this terrifying.
I was carried in on a satin pillow by a servant-familiar hybrid with glowing silver gloves. I bit him.
Instantly, I was the entertainment.
"Charming," said one girl, sipping something pink and probably haunted.
"So… primal," murmured a boy whose hair looked like it had a trust fund.
"Does he have a name?" asked another, voice syrupy with ambition.
"No," Arwen said coolly, striding in behind me. "He isn't yours to name."
Someone tittered. Someone else looked disappointed.
A butler offered me a tray of pastries. I ate five. Then threw up a sugar cube. I had no regrets.
---
Grooming (Not the Fun Kind)
The tea society wasn't there to socialize. Not really.
They were there to poke me with magical hairbrushes.
"An unnamed soulbeast is a political hazard," said Lady Miora, a fourth-year from House Elendrial. Her peacock familiar glittered beside her like a walking ego. "You don't know what kind of spirit lines you've tangled with."
"He bit Lord Iven's familiar during Orientation," someone added helpfully. "There's precedent."
Arwen rolled her eyes. "If I recall, Lord Iven's familiar attacked first."
"Still," Miora said, folding her hands like she was about to monologue. "We have a duty to ensure the Academy remains… civilized."
"Civilized," Arwen repeated. "So now you're officially in charge of brushing things?"
"We're merely offering grooming services."
They pulled out a gilded grooming kit the size of a treasure chest.
It contained:
A jeweled comb of "generational resonance"
A silken familiar-wrap that smelled like grandmothers and formality
And something called a naming chime that rang like judgmental bells
I bolted under the table.
---
Arwen Does Not Negotiate With Brush Wielders
Arwen lifted the tablecloth with a single sharp motion.
"Out," she said, voice like satin over steel.
I chirped an apology and clambered into her arms. I felt like a pastry-gremlin covered in frosting, but she held me anyway.
"You don't get to fiddle with his spirit threads," she told the table. "And you don't get to 'refine' him."
"But he's unlisted," someone argued. "Unlisted soulbeasts are open for peer review."
Arwen stepped forward.
"Do you think my mother, the Empress, didn't review him?"
Silence.
I curled tighter into her coat.
She walked to the center of the tea circle, staring them all down.
"He doesn't need your approval," she said. "He chose me. That's more than any of your familiars can say."
Then she turned and walked out.
No explosions. No spells. Just authority and very offended teacups.
---
A Bond Unbrushed
We didn't talk for a long time after we left.
Arwen's hands were shaking.
"They were trying to register you," she said finally. "Do you know what that means?"
I tilted my head.
"If they categorize you as unstable… they can invoke the Familiar Clause. Force a reassignment."
I chirped.
"They'd unbind you. Re-home you. Dress you up in Empire-approved collars."
I squeaked like someone threatened to take away my snack privileges.
She saw my expression and pulled me close.
"Don't worry," she whispered. "They'll have to get through me first."
---
Midnight Snack Philosophy
That night, we broke into the kitchens again.
Somehow, I managed not to knock over any trays.
We sat behind a pile of flour sacks and chewed on candied root bark and existential dread.
"I wasn't supposed to care about anyone here," Arwen said.
"You still don't," I chirped.
"I care about you."
I froze mid-bite.
"You're different. You don't want power. You don't want prestige. You just want to eat and bite things."
I nodded. This was accurate.
"I think I need that. Someone who's not trying to impress a bloodline."
I nuzzled her scarf.
She smiled.
---
A Name, Almost
Later, by lantern light, Arwen cleaned frosting out of my feathers.
"You're not just my familiar," she murmured. "You're… something else."
She traced a rune on my back, one that made my bond shimmer warm and strange.
"I could name you," she whispered.
I stopped breathing.
"I almost want to."
I chirped, hesitant.
"But if I do… it ties your spark into the Registry. The moment I do that, they'll see it. Every noble with a tuning rod will know what you are."
She hesitated.
"Not yet," she said. "You're still free."
I pressed my beak to her palm. I'd wait.
---
Elsewhere...
Far across the academy, in a room full of incense and embroidered curtains, a group of students gossiped over a glowing map of registered familiars.
One point blinked faintly.
"Is that him?" asked a first-year in bunny slippers.
"Definitely. He threw a biscuit at the Chancellor's peacock."
"What do we do?"
A third-year stirred her tea with a crystal spoon. "We wait. If he's really unregistered, someone will try to collect him."
She plucked a sugar cube shaped like a phoenix from the bowl.
"And if not…" She smiled. "We invite him to brunch."
The map shimmered.
Somewhere on it, a new trail flickered into being.