The moment the sigil shattered, the Undermarket woke up.
Not with alarms... with whispers.
The air turned cold. Lights flickered out. The ground beneath us pulsed, not with magic, but with intention. Like the place had decided we'd overstayed our welcome.
"We need to run," I chirped.
Arwen was already moving.
Corridors that had been empty now stirred with movement... cloaked figures stepping from archways, eyes glinting behind half-masks. No one spoke. No one needed to.
I flared my spark once, just enough to light the space ahead. The walls didn't just pulse... they shifted, closing in, trying to corral us.
"They're herding us," Arwen muttered.
"Not successfully," I said and jumped to her shoulder.
We turned left, then right, sprinting through a passage of glowing sigils that writhed beneath our feet. My spark left a trail of light, gold and violet, that twisted like a banner behind us.
"So much for subtlety," I wheezed.
"They can follow it," Arwen snapped.
"I'm trying not to glow!"
"You're terrible at that."
---
We reached a junction and stopped.
A figure blocked the way. Not tall. Not threatening. Just… still.
They wore no crest, no cloak, only a mask of etched stone... no eyes, no mouth, just a single sigil at the center. A spiral, old and unfamiliar.
Arwen raised a hand. "Move."
The figure didn't speak. Didn't move.
Instead, they lifted a finger and pointed... not at her, but at me.
My spark flared... not in fear, but recognition.
Then the figure vanished. No sound. No smoke. Just gone.
I swayed. My feathers prickled. Something warm pulsed across my chest.
Arwen caught me. "What did they do?"
I looked down.
Etched onto my feathers... faint, glowing... was the same spiral sigil.
"I think I've been marked," I said.
"I hate this market," Arwen muttered. "We're leaving."
We didn't stop running until the city swallowed us whole.
Arwen led us through back alleys and enchanted wards, past sleeping gargoyles and gossiping gargoyle statues- there's a difference. We passed three checkpoints, two suspicious shadows, and one singing lamppost that I think was just confused.
Finally, we reached a crumbling tower tucked behind the Academy's old observatory. No guards. No sigils. Just dust and the scent of forgotten magic.
"Welcome," Arwen panted, "to the worst safehouse in the Empire."
I collapsed onto a faded cushion. "I love it. Does it have snacks?"
She tossed me a dried root chip. "No."
I chewed anyway.
---
The room was dim. Dust floated like slow snowfall. Arwen knelt beside me, her fingers hovering over the spiral sigil still glowing faintly on my feathers.
"It's not a curse," she murmured. "Not a brand either."
"Then what?"
Her lips pressed tight. "A claim."
My feathers bristled. "Excuse me?! I am not up for claiming. I am a free-range soulbeast."
"It's not holding you," she said quickly. "It's… watching. Like a beacon."
I twitched. "Great. I'm a walking invitation."
She didn't laugh. She didn't even glare. Instead, she touched the sigil... and her bond with me pulsed.
Soft. Strange. Stronger.
"I think it's tied to your spark," she said. "And I think I know what it is."
I blinked. "Tell me."
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she reached into her coat and pulled out a folded page... old, frayed, ink faded but legible.
"The First Bond," she whispered. "A myth. A pact made before the Empire. Before naming."
I stared at her.
"I think your spark remembers it."
My feathers puffed. "I don't even remember breakfast."
"You're different," she said quietly. "You've always been more than a soulbeast."
She hesitated.
"I could name you. Lock your spark. Hide it."
I didn't move.
She didn't either.
Then, softly: "But that would make you theirs."
I chirped. "Let's not."
She smiled faintly.
We didn't speak again for a while. Just sat in the quiet, the sigil glowing like a silent question between us.
I must have dozed off.
Safehouse cushions are like that... just dusty enough to feel cozy, just enchanted enough to mess with your dreams. I dreamed of spirals. Not swirling, dizzying ones. Quiet ones. Old. Like something coiled patiently beneath everything.
When I woke, Arwen was still awake. She hadn't moved from her spot, cross-legged, cloak draped over her shoulders like a storm waiting to happen.
The sigil on my chest was still glowing.
"So," I mumbled, "do we panic now?"
She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she set down the parchment she'd been reading and looked at me.
"Do you trust me?"
I blinked. "You carry snacks and threaten nobles. Yes."
"This might be bigger than us."
I tilted my head. "Bigger than the Empire?"
"Maybe."
She stood and walked to the narrow window, pushing back a heavy curtain. "I sent word to one of my contacts... someone who knows sigilcraft beyond what's legal."
I hopped to the windowsill. "And?"
"She replied with a single sentence." Arwen held up a small scroll. "If the mark took, the Court will act within the day."
As if summoned by dramatic timing, there was a knock. Not on the door. On the air.
Arwen turned. I flared slightly.
A letter folded itself through the open window, landing with a whisper of gold light.
She opened it.
I waited.
Then she cursed... softly, viciously, like someone who'd expected this and still hated it.
"They've moved up the Trial."
I squawked. "Already?!"
"Three days from now," she said. "In the Imperial Court. Open forum. Full assembly."
"That's not a trial," I muttered. "That's a performance."
"Exactly."
She let the letter burn in her hand, ashes falling like snow.
"They're going to use this as a chance," she said. "To force the naming. Or strip me of status and take you by force."
I shuffled closer. "We can run."
Arwen didn't laugh.
"Running isn't survival anymore," she said. "It's surrender."
She turned to face me fully. Her eyes weren't cold... they were clear. Like everything had sharpened into focus.
"I have a plan."
I blinked. "That usually means fire."
"This time," she said, "it means witnesses."
---
The next hour passed in a blur of planning.
Arwen scrawled messages on sigilpaper, sending them off on enchanted inkwings. She summoned favors, debts, even one reluctant professor who owed her something from an "incident" involving magical frogs and a broken observatory dome.
I listened, somewhat stunned, as she outlined it all.
"They expect us to walk in alone," she said. "They expect us to beg for leniency or run."
"And instead?" I chirped.
"We bring every noble we've shamed, every witness to your spark, every scroll proving the bounty leak. We turn their spectacle into a revolt."
I stared.
"You want to embarrass the Empire."
She smiled thinly. "No. I want to expose them. If I can't protect you with titles, I'll protect you with chaos."
My spark flared, not in fear, but something else.
Pride, maybe.
Or something older.
---
Later that night, I perched beside her on the safehouse's crooked balcony. The moon was high, silver and watching. Arwen sipped cold tea like it was a battle plan.
"They're going to call you unstable," she said.
"I am."
"They'll say I'm reckless."
"You are."
"They'll say our bond is a threat."
I didn't answer.
Because they were right.
It was.
A threat to their power. Their order. Their grip on what soulbonds should be.
Arwen reached out and touched the fading sigil on my feathers. It pulsed one last time and vanished... not erased, but absorbed.
I felt it in my spark.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
"They think naming you will control this," she said. "But names are just chains."
I nuzzled her hand. "Then let's be unchained."
She didn't smile.
She just nodded.
And in that moment, I knew we weren't just walking into the Court.
We were walking into war.