They started with paper.
That was Iris' first warning that this was going to be worse than any dungeon.
Lysa dropped a stack of forms on the table between them with the casual brutality of someone used to weaponizing stationery. The top sheet was lined with tidy boxes and dense labels.
"Good morning," she said. "Today's horror: naming bureaucracy."
He eyed the stack as if it might grow teeth. "I thought we were going to go through offers."
"We are," she said. "Later. First, we stop you from committing a minor legal crime by existing with unnamed beasts."
She tapped the top sheet.
"Beast Registration Packet," she said. "Version nine. Don't ask about the first eight. They were… less successful."
He squinted at the lines.
"Official Name," he read. "Combat Designation. Contract Identifier. Public Alias." He looked up. "Why does one wolf need four names?"
"Because four different parts of the Guild don't talk to each other," Lysa said. "And they each invented their own system."
"That sounds like a 'you' problem," he said. "Why is it a 'me' problem?"
"Because you're the one with the wolf," she replied. "Sit."
He was already sitting.
She slid the first form toward him and uncapped a pen with the decisive click of someone who had long ago accepted that ink ruled the world.
"Official name," she said. "This is the one that goes in internal records. Used in contracts, high-level reports, and boring meetings where people argue about budgets."
"Pass," he said.
"Not optional," she replied. "Next: combat designation. This is the short version used in the field. Shouted by panicking people in armor."
He slumped. "So that's two names for the same beast."
"Three," she said. "Contract identifier is what gets encoded into the bond ledger. It's technically a number-string, but some Tamers embed meaning in it."
"Of course they do," he muttered.
"And public alias," she finished, "is what the city knows them by. Ballads, rumors, newspapers. Helps separate messy reality from brand."
He stared.
"So you want me," he said slowly, "to give my wolf an official name, a battle nickname, a secret contract code, and a stage name."
"Correct."
"That's ridiculous."
"Completely," she agreed. "Welcome to the capital."
He dropped his forehead to the table.
Lysa, to her credit, did not push the form into his hair. Instead, she opened a folder, pulled out another sheet, and began writing in brisk, neat strokes.
"What are you doing?" he asked, not moving.
"Documenting your objections," she said. "If you get in trouble later, I can prove you didn't agree to any of this willingly."
He lifted his head just enough to squint at her. "You can do that?"
"I can file it," she said. "Whether anyone reads it is another matter. But paper is armor."
He considered that. "That might be the most terrifying thing I've heard all week."
"You haven't seen the budget for training dungeons," she said. "This is nothing."
She slid another sheet over. This one was… shorter. Three lines, each with a blank after "Beast A," "Beast B," "Beast C."
"Given the… reactions yesterday," she said delicately, "we can start with placeholders. Safe, neutral, temporary labels. Minimal pressure."
"Like what?" he asked.
"'Primary Wolf,'" she suggested. "For him." She nodded at his wolf. "It's descriptive. Non-poetic. Unthreatening."
The wolf stared at her.
Then, very deliberately, looked away.
"See," Iris said. "He hates it."
"You're projecting," she said.
"Am I?" he asked.
Lysa turned back to the wolf. "Primary Wolf," she tried. "Look here."
Nothing.
The wolf continued to look anywhere but at her, expression settling into a very familiar stubborn neutrality.
Shadow Cat's presence curled with smug amusement from the beam.
"He responds to his own name," Iris said. "It's just not pronounceable without breaking my throat."
Lysa made a small note: SUBJECT WOLF NON-RESPONSIVE TO GENERIC PLACEHOLDER.
"Okay," she said. "No 'Primary Wolf.' What about something more… personal, but still safe? 'Grey,' maybe. Color-based names are very popular."
Shadow Cat flowed off the beam and onto the back of the chair with impossible grace, tail flicking once.
The wolf's ears flicked.
He did not look at her.
Iris folded his arms. "You are being judged by a wolf and a shadow cat," he said. "This is a new low."
Lysa sighed and wrote again: PLACEHOLDER NAMES APPEAR TO BE TREATED AS BACKGROUND NOISE.
"For the record," Iris said, "I support their protest."
"I know," she said. "I'm documenting that too."
He glanced at the form, surprised to see:
SUBJECT: IRIS
OBJECTION: "WHY DOES ONE WOLF NEED FOUR NAMES?"
STATUS: REASONABLE. UNHEARD.
He huffed a small, reluctant laugh. "You're actually writing that down."
"Encrypted," she said. "In very boring language. Nobody important reads the crowded lines."
"That's… horrifyingly clever," he said.
"Thank you," she replied.
They tried again.
"Shadow entity," Lysa said. "Combat designation only. We can keep the official name 'Shadow-Class Oracle Beast' on paper. For the field, something like… 'Shade'?"
The cat blinked slowly.
Lysa snapped her fingers lightly. "Shade," she repeated. "Respond if you..."
The cat began grooming its paw.
"With respect," Iris said, "I don't think it wants to be called 'generic noun number three.'"
She tried "Whisper," "Veil," and "Umbra" in turn.
On "Umbra," the cat simply… slid sideways out of sight again.
"Impressive," Lysa muttered. "It's using my naming attempts as an excuse to leave the room."
"You and me both," Iris said.
More notes:
SHADOW ENTITY: UNCOOPERATIVE WITH GENERIC DESIGNATIONS. APPEARS TO UNDERSTAND NAMING ATTEMPTS AND REJECT THEM.
The Thunder Wolf Queen, hovering just beyond the wall, tolerated the conversation with growing agitation. Every time Lysa's pen moved into the "Official Name" box near the line marked "HIGH-GRADE LUPINE, STORM-AFFINITY," a faint rumble answered from outside.
"What if we just…" Lysa began. "Left hers blank for now. And put 'see attached note: entity declined.'"
The rumble intensified.
"Or not," Lysa said quickly.
Iris rubbed his face. "They all hate this," he said. "You hate this. I hate this. Why is this a law?"
"Because someone, decades ago, was very proud of their filing system," Lysa said. "And nobody stopped them."
"That," he said, "is the true horror of this world."
They worked or failed to work for the better part of an hour. Every attempt at a placeholder bounced off the beasts like pebbles off stone.
"Combat designation Alpha-One?" Lysa tried.
The wolf yawned.
"Public alias 'Storm Guardian'?" she attempted.
The Queen's rumble sounded distinctly unimpressed.
"Contract identifier W-01?" she muttered, more to herself.
Shadow Cat reappeared just long enough to bat the corner of that form off the table.
Papers fluttered.
Lysa caught them with the reflexes of someone who had spent years saving reports from sudden gusts of wind and poorly trained air mages.
She set them back down, neatly squared, and took a careful breath.
"Your beasts," she said, "are extremely opinionated for creatures that don't use human language."
"They use judgment," Iris said. "It's more efficient."
She made another note: BEAST REACTIONS SUGGEST NAMES HAVE IMMEDIATE EMOTIONAL IMPACT. RECOMMENDED: AVOID IMPOSING UNDESIRED LABELS.
Silence settled for a moment.
The paperwork sat between them like a patient predator.
"The Guild," Lysa said finally, "doesn't specify how you choose names. Only that chosen names are written, consistent, and used. There's nothing that says they can't be… mutually agreed."
He frowned. "You mean I should pull names out of my panic and hope they like them."
"I mean," she said slowly, "perhaps… you could ask them."
He stared.
"…Ask them?" he repeated.
"Yes," she said. "You already feel them. They clearly understand more than most beasts. If names are going to sit on their backs like weights, it seems fair to let them pick which stones."
He looked at his wolf.
At the window.
At the beam.
The idea sat there, absurd and obvious.
"I don't know how to ask," he said, voice low.
Lysa tapped the form with the end of her pen. "You didn't know how to command them in a fight either," she said. "You shouted whatever came to mind, and they answered."
She glanced at the empty lines.
"Maybe this works the same way," she added. "Messy first. Then clearer."
He exhaled slowly.
"I am not prepared," he muttered.
You never are, Shadow Cat's voice slid into his mind, dry and amused. That hasn't stopped you yet.
He closed his eyes.
"Fine," he said. "We'll… ask."
The forms did not get less terrifying.
But for the first time, they looked less like a sentence and more like a question waiting to be translated.