Ashes and Companion realm

The courtyard still reeked of smoke.

Ash clung to Lucien’s clothes, seeping into the seams of his cloak, a bitter reminder of the fire that had driven them from their dorms. Teachers paced through the crowd of students like wardens, their faces tight, their eyes sharp, though none looked surprised. Not even shaken.

That was what unsettled Lucien most.

The fire hadn’t been an accident. He was sure of it.

Arian stood beside him, arms crossed as he scanned the courtyard with an expression that bordered on murderous. Sylveira, his lynx, prowled at his side, tail flicking with tension, ears twitching at every sound. 

Toren was hacking into his sleeve, muttering curses between coughs, while Blaze, the small fire drake, hovered nervously above him, flicking sparks into the air. 

Darius tried to help another student—someone smaller, shaken half to death—while his Obsidian Stag, antlers faintly pulsing with mana veins, sniffed the air, alert to any distortions in the magical field. 

Caelith scribbled quick notes into a pocket-sized journal, head lowered so no one could see what he wrote, while Nyx, his sharp-eyed hawk, perched silently on his shoulder. 

Elira’s serpent, Emeris, coiled around her arm, tongue flicking as though tasting the tension in the air. Fenris, Lucien’s wolf cub, padded close to his legs, ears back, tail low, clearly agitated.

Lucien shifted, restless. The air still felt wrong, charged.

The Headmaster himself soon arrived, striding through the courtyard with an aura of control that calmed the chaos instantly. His robes were untouched by ash, his hair perfectly groomed despite the smoke still rising from the east wing. 

Every gaze turned toward him, reverent, almost worshipful. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even need to. Just the gesture of his hand was enough to silence the crowd.

“You are safe,” the Headmaster said, his tone smooth as silk. “There has been a… disturbance. Nothing more. The situation is under control.”

Nothing more.

Lucien’s stomach twisted. He glanced toward Aldwyn, who stood a pace behind the Headmaster like a shadow given form. The assistant’s eyes swept the students with calculating precision until, just for a breath, they landed on him.

Lucien’s chest went tight. He looked away.

The Headmaster continued, “Classes are suspended tomorrow for safety checks. You will return to your dormitories under supervision. No one wanders alone. That is all.”

A murmur rippled through the students. Some looked relieved. Others, like Lucien, only more unsettled.

---

The five of them regrouped in the corner of the courtyard, Toren leaning on Darius for support. Blaze hovered nearby, fidgeting in the air.

“Well, that was a lovely midnight stroll,” Toren rasped, voice hoarse from smoke. “Think they’ll serve toasted bread for breakfast? Maybe roasted pigeon?”

“Shut it,” Arian snapped. Sylveira padded beside him silently, eyes fixed on the surrounding crowd. Lucien felt the weight of Arian’s awareness like a hand pressing on his back.

“It wasn’t just a fire,” Caelith said quietly. He closed his notebook and tucked it away. Nyx shifted on his shoulder, wings twitching, silently scanning the courtyard. “They wanted us outside. Distracted.”

“Cover for what?” Darius asked, scowling. The Obsidian Stag sniffed the air, antlers glimmering faintly as if detecting hidden disturbances.

Lucien hesitated. Aldwyn’s words still lingered in his ears—careful who you trust—but his throat felt locked. “Something else was happening,” he muttered at last. “I could feel it. He… knew.”

“Who?” Arian’s voice cut in sharply.

Lucien swallowed. “Aldwyn.”

Silence fell over the group. Toren finally broke it with a groan. “Oh good. The creepy scarecrow who stares like he’s peeling our skin off with his eyes. That’s comforting.”

“He’s more than that,” Lucien whispered.

Arian studied him for a long, tense moment. Then he turned away. “We’ll keep watching.”

Lucien wanted to ask, We? Or me? But he didn’t.

---

The next day dawned gray and heavy, the air still carrying the faint scent of ash. Students whispered in clusters, buzzing with rumors about the fire. 

Some claimed it was an accident in the alchemy labs, others muttered about sabotage from rival academies. Few believed the Headmaster’s reassurance, but none dared speak their doubts loudly.

The five of them dragged themselves into the lecture hall, exhaustion etched into their faces. Lucien barely slept. His dreams had been fractured—shadows pressing close, Aldwyn’s voice curling like smoke, the fire roaring until it swallowed the sky.

Professor Rhylas entered, his hawk companion perched on his shoulder. The bird’s eyes were sharp, bright, alive with restless intelligence. Rhylas himself carried an aura of quiet strength, the kind that made students sit straighter without realizing it.

“After last night,” he began, “we’ll continue with something vital: your companions.”

Lucien stiffened. Fenris padded close, ears flicking, tail low, clearly on edge.

“Many of you treat them as ornaments,” Rhylas went on, pacing before the class. “Symbols, tools, curiosities. But they are more. Bonded spirits. Guardians. Extensions of yourself.

If they are left in this realm constantly, they weaken. If they are neglected, you weaken. To grow stronger, you must learn to send them into the Companion’s Realm.”

The students stirred with interest. Whispers rippled.

Rhylas raised his hand. Nyx vanished first, dissolving into a shimmer of light. One by one, companions began leaving: Sylveira, Blaze, Emeris, even Darius’ Obsidian Stag shimmered faintly before fading into the realm.

Lucien bit his lip. “Fen… go.”

The wolf cub growled softly, ears pinned back, tail lashing. It refused.

He tried again, pushing with his will the way Rhylas had described. Nothing. Fenris ruffled his fur, letting out a sharp, defiant yip that made nearby students snicker.

Heat rose to Lucien’s face.

Arian’s Sylveira vanished in a graceful shimmer, leaving Arian to glance at Lucien with a flicker of irritation—or was it disappointment? Lucien couldn’t tell.

“Lucien,” Rhylas said, voice calm but firm. “Try again. Do not command. Invite. Trust your bond.”

Lucien shut his eyes, reaching for the connection. He felt Fenris’ presence—familiar, weighty, hovering at the edges of his thoughts. He urged him to fade, to rest. The bond tugged tight.

And Fenris resisted.

No.

The refusal was wordless, but Lucien felt it solidly.

Snickers spread through the class. Toren shot them a glare, but it didn’t stop the whispers.

“Enough,” Rhylas said finally, expression neutral. “Some bonds resist. You’ll try again in time.”

Lucien slumped. Fenris leapt onto his shoulder, pressing close. The cub’s stubborn loyalty burned into him, a reminder of trust, failure, and everything in between.

---

After class, they gathered in the quiet of the courtyard. Toren tried to cheer him up, but the words bounced off. Darius offered a pat on the shoulder, Caelith a quiet observation that “resistance is data too.”

Only Arian didn’t speak. He watched Lucien, gaze unreadable. When Lucien finally looked up, Arian said in a low, clipped voice, “If you can’t control your own companion, how do you expect to survive what’s coming?”

Lucien’s chest tightened. He wanted to argue, to shout, to tell Arian it wasn’t about control but about choice—that Fenris had chosen to stay. But the words caught in his throat.

Arian’s shadow twitched on the ground like a living thing. His jaw clenched. “Fix it.”

He turned and walked away.

Lucien sat in silence, Fenris pressed against him, feathers brushing his cheek. Its presence should have comforted him. Instead, it only reminded him of every eye in the classroom, every whisper, every weakness.

And somewhere, in the halls of the Academy, he knew Aldwyn was still watching.

•••