There are a lot of things I expected from magical academia.
Dead languages? Sure. Exploding scrolls? Absolutely. A girl who carries me around like a grumpy handbag? That was a surprise, but I've adjusted.
But this? This was new.
Why are we going into a cursed orchard? I chirped, eyeing the wrought-iron gate creaking in the breeze like it had eaten someone once and never quite moved on.
"It's not cursed," Arwen said. "It's enchanted. Probably."
It's breathing, I warbled.
"Field application of alchemical flora," our instructor announced as the gates opened with a groan. "Today, your familiars will forage for magical fruit. And yes, House rules apply. Don't eat anything without identification."
Everyone immediately began eating things.
I clung to Arwen's shoulder as we stepped into the Verdant Orchard, a lush, sprawling maze of golden vines, twitching blossoms, and trees that occasionally glared. Some fruit hummed with internal energy. Others whispered. One tree outright insulted a boy from House Lenmoor.
I liked that one.
The assignment was simple: each student had to guide their familiar through a test of instinct. Harvest something useful. Demonstrate control. Earn points.
I immediately ran face-first into a plum.
"Don't," Arwen warned.
Too late.
I devoured it.
It was not a normal plum.
The moment it hit my spirit stomach, I exploded.
Not literally. But definitely metaphysically.
A ripple of gold-white-violet light burst out of me, shaking the orchard. Vines curled. Trees bent back. A bird screamed in another dimension. My feathers stood on end. My soulbond with Arwen flared hot, visible to everyone present like a blazing constellation.
And then—just as suddenly—the light vanished.
I collapsed into a sugar-coma heap at Arwen's boots.
There was silence.
"He ate a wyrm plum," someone whispered.
"Those are supposed to be locked."
"That wasn't a soulbeast reaction. That was a—that was a signature surge."
"Did it just burn through the registry filter?"
Arwen crouched beside me, fingers trembling as she reached for my face. "You idiot," she whispered. "You absolute idiot."
I chirped weakly. Worth it.
A noble from House Vandrel started scribbling. Someone else whispered the phrase 'ascendant class.' Someone else said 'feral spirit class' and got punched by their own familiar.
Valesh appeared like a storm cloud with tailored lapels. "I suggest a full scan," he said. "His bond is unstable. There could be corruption."
Arwen didn't rise. She just looked up and said, "Touch him and I'll put that clipboard through your teeth."
The orchard, wisely, said nothing.
Someone from the crowd mumbled, "This is going in the Tea Society report." I sneezed on their boots.
When the crowd finally cleared, a woman stepped from the deeper trees. She wore a coat of living moss and a crown of whisper-thorns. Her eyes gleamed like carved bark. The students called her Mistress Hemlin, the keeper of the orchard, but I knew a witch when I saw one.
She knelt beside me and tilted her head. "This one isn't from here."
"He's mine," Arwen said.
"No," the witch replied. "You found each other. That's different."
Her fingers hovered over my forehead. I flared with magic—not in resistance, but resonance. Something deep and strange and old echoed through me.
"He was never meant to be named," she said softly.
Arwen frowned. "Why?"
"Because names tie you to fate. And his has been broken."
She stood. "Be careful, child of Nightveil. Some threads, once pulled, unravel more than you."
Then she vanished into the orchard mist.
We were escorted back under the guise of medical supervision, but I knew the stares we got weren't just concerned. They were calculating. Hungry. Dozens of noble eyes cataloging what they'd seen and what it might be worth.
Back in our dorm, I was wrapped in seven blankets and a pocket ward. Arwen paced. She muttered to herself, tracing diagrams in the air that only half-coalesced before fading in sparks.
"They saw it," she said. "The surge. They know now. It's only a matter of time."
I poked my head out of the blanket stack, eyes wide and pleading.
"You think I'd send you back?" she muttered. Her look could have curdled milk. "If they want you, they'll have to rewrite the Empire."
She sat down, exhausted.
And then, softly: "I almost named you."
I chirped.
She looked away. "Not yet."
I curled up against her side, feeling the bond between us settle like warm honey. No fancy threads. No chimes. Just shared silence.
She didn't speak for a long time.
Outside, rain tapped against the window like a song no one wanted to hear. Somewhere in the orchard, fruit trees whispered to one another. And far beneath the Academy, something ancient stirred.
In a sealed chamber lined with silver thread and memory-stone, a sigil flared. A map shimmered with heat. One dot pulsed, then pulsed again—faintly, irregularly, like a heartbeat too rare to classify.
"The soul signature has spiked again," a robed figure murmured.
"Confirm target classification."
"Unbound. Unnamed. Ascendant-potential."
A pause.
"Do we move?"
"Not yet. But we'll have to prune the orchard. Before anything else takes root."
That night, I dreamed of vines growing through palace walls. Of roots binding royal collars. Of Arwen standing before a courtroom with fire in her veins and me on her shoulder, wings flared wide like justice.
I dreamed of names—not given, but earned.
And when I woke, Arwen was already dressed, boots laced, coat immaculate. Her eyes met mine.
"They've summoned us to the Chancellor's quarters," she said. "And this time, it's not a club meeting."
I chirped. Then I jumped onto her shoulder.
She smirked. "Let's give them something to talk about."
We didn't get far.
At the corridor junction just outside the dormitory wing, four students waited. Not standing like normal people—positioned. Like chess pieces that thought they were clever.
"Arwen Nightveil," said the tallest, a boy from House Ellistar with a glow-crystal cane and an heir's sneer. "We were told you might try to avoid scrutiny."
"I avoid boredom," Arwen replied. "You four are very good at providing that."
He ignored her and looked at me. "The Chancellor's summons isn't optional. Neither is a pre-screening."
"He's fine," Arwen snapped. "He's not sick. Not contagious. Not yours."
"Protocol says otherwise," said another, flicking a brass scrollcase open. "Section 12—unclassified magical bursts must be isolated and examined within forty-eight hours."
Arwen took a step forward, and the corridor dimmed. She didn't need magic to make the air around her feel like a thunderhead.
"You want a sample?" she said. "I'll give you one. Right through your teeth."
"Is that a threat?"
"No. That was a warning. This"—she lifted me into view—"this is a threat."
I bared my teeth. They weren't very big, but I had the energy of someone who would bite a gemstone just to spite a banker.
They hesitated.
Behind them, the Chancellor's assistant cleared her throat. "Apologies. The Chancellor has… amended the order."
Everyone froze.
"He requests a conversation. No scans. No samples. But he would like to see the familiar."
Arwen nodded slowly. "Then he can ask politely."
"He is."
Ten minutes later, we were ushered into an enormous room that smelled like old ink and stormlight.
And there, behind a desk made of memory-wood and carved regrets, sat the Chancellor.
"Come in," he said.
We did.
And I knew nothing would be the same after this meeting.