Fenrix’s Bond
Night draped the Royal Academy in a hush broken only by the wind curling around towers of stone and iron. Snow fell in silent sheets, softening edges and swallowing footsteps. In the small hours, when torches burned low and the bravest whispers stilled, danger crept unseen.
Arthur lay half-awake on his narrow bed, the Grimoire open beside him, pages marked with notes and runes that glowed faintly under candlelight. Fenrix lay before the hearth, ears twitching in restless dreams. The wolf's breath clouded in the cold air, each exhale steady as a heartbeat.
Arthur's mind turned over what Mara had shared the night before—the seed of rebellion, words heavier than iron, and the promise that he would not stand alone if he dared to stand at all. Yet even as hope stirred, so too did fear: the thought of shadows moving in halls meant to teach, blades sharpened not for duels, but for quiet murder.
Beyond the window, the courtyard lay buried in drifting snow, its statues half-swallowed by white. The hour felt as if the world itself held its breath.
---
The sound came first: the faintest scrape of steel over stone. Fenrix's head snapped up, ears forward, hackles rising along his spine. In the same breath, Arthur reached for the Grimoire, sliding it under the folds of his cloak as he rose silently from the bed.
A shadow moved beyond the door, darker than the corridor's gloom. Arthur's pulse drummed hard against his ribs. The handle turned soundlessly; whoever stood beyond had practice in murder.
Fenrix's lips peeled back from white fangs, a silent snarl shaping his breath into frost.
The door opened a crack.
Arthur saw a glint of steel—a dagger, thin and curved, meant not for battle but for a single, killing thrust. A figure stepped through, cloaked in black, face masked save for eyes that glimmered with resolve.
In that instant, Arthur understood: this was no drunken cutthroat, but an assassin sent with purpose.
---
The assassin moved swiftly, dagger aimed for Arthur's chest, steps quiet as falling snow.
But Fenrix lunged.
A blur of fur and muscle struck the intruder's arm. The blade twisted off target, slashing Arthur's cloak instead of flesh. Fenrix's jaws closed around the assassin's wrist, bone grinding beneath the pressure.
A sharp cry broke the silence. The dagger clattered to the floor, spinning once before coming to rest near Arthur's feet.
The assassin tore free, blood trailing from Fenrix's jaws, and struck with a second blade drawn from a hidden sheath. The wolf twisted, the blade barely grazing thick fur. Arthur moved without thought, words spilling from his lips in a harsh whisper: an incantation from the Grimoire, runes sparking black-violet along his fingertips.
The curse struck the assassin's shoulder, rot blooming across cloth and skin alike. The attacker staggered back, breath coming ragged, eyes wide in sudden horror.
Fenrix pressed the advantage, slamming into the figure's chest and pinning them against the wall. The stone quivered under the impact, frost and dust falling like brittle rain.
---
Arthur stepped closer, breath sharp in his lungs. "Who sent you?" he demanded.
The assassin's gaze flickered toward the window, measuring the risk of escape. Arthur raised his hand, the lingering glow of Anti-Heal curling around his palm like smoke.
"I won't ask again," Arthur warned, voice low, dangerous.
The assassin's breath rasped. "They fear you," he spat, words torn by pain. "You're an heir they cannot control. Better dead than crowned."
"Who?" Arthur pressed.
But the man only sneered, blood on his teeth. With a final breath, he twisted his wrist sharply. Arthur saw the small glass bead clutched between his fingers a heartbeat too late.
A hiss of breaking glass. The assassin convulsed once, then went limp.
Poison. Arthur recognized the scent: bitter almonds and iron.
Fenrix released his grip, stepping back, fur bristling.
---
Arthur let the corpse slide to the floor, heart still hammering. He wiped cold sweat from his brow, breath shaking.
Fenrix nudged his hand, warm and solid, grounding him in the moment. Arthur knelt, burying his fingers in the wolf's fur, the familiar scent of snow and wild earth anchoring him.
"Thank you," he whispered. The words felt small against the enormity of what had almost happened, but they were true.
Fenrix leaned into the touch, his breath rumbling deep and steady. In those golden eyes, Arthur saw not a beast bound by magic, but a companion—fierce, loyal, and free by choice.
---
The scrape of boots on stone pulled Arthur's gaze to the doorway. Lilith stood there, cloak thrown hastily over nightclothes, a dagger of her own glinting at her side.
Her eyes widened at the sight of the dead man, then moved to Arthur, searching for wounds. "You're hurt?"
"Only my cloak," Arthur managed, voice still hoarse. "Fenrix stopped him."
Lilith exhaled, relief breaking across her features before resolve hardened them again. "There will be others," she warned. "Once blood is demanded, it rarely stops with one man."
Arthur nodded. "Then let them come. We'll be ready."
She stepped into the room, gaze locked with his. "Not just you. *We* will be ready."
---
Servants removed the body before dawn, the corridor scrubbed clean by pale, trembling hands. Yet no soap or water could erase the truth: an heir had been marked for death within the Academy's walls.
At first light, Arthur stood in the courtyard, fresh snow crunching beneath his boots. Fenrix sat beside him, chest rising and falling like a great bellows, eyes never still.
Across the yard, students gathered in uneasy clusters. Some watched Arthur with awe; others with thinly veiled dread. Word had spread before the bells had finished tolling.
Draven approached, armor gleaming under morning frost. His eyes flicked to Fenrix, then to Arthur.
"You're harder to kill than they thought," he remarked, voice low.
Arthur met his gaze evenly. "And you, cousin? Do you think they should try again?"
Draven's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "I think if they do, they should send more than one."
He turned, cloak sweeping behind him. Arthur watched him go, suspicion and bitter respect tangled in his chest.
---
In the hours that followed, Arthur walked the Academy grounds, Fenrix never more than a pace away. Everywhere, whispers grew: about the failed assassin, the heir who had stood unbowed, and the beast that had protected him.
Mara found him near the old archive. "They fear you more now," she said softly. "Fear makes them clumsy—but also desperate."
"They tried once," Arthur replied. "They'll try again."
She nodded. "And when they do, remember this: fear cuts deeper when turned back upon its master."
Arthur laid a hand on Fenrix's thick fur. "They won't find me unguarded again."
---
That night, Arthur returned to his chamber, door bolted, Fenrix settling before the hearth. The Grimoire lay open in his lap, its pages whispering secrets in runes older than the throne itself.
Arthur traced a passage written in his mother's hand:
> "True power is not the spell that burns, but the bond that endures. Trust, once given, binds souls beyond magic's reach."
He looked at Fenrix, whose eyes watched him through flickering firelight—eyes that had seen the moment of death and chosen instead to protect.
Arthur whispered into the quiet: "We walk together, old friend. Whatever comes."
Fenrix thumped his tail once, slow and deliberate, a vow as true as any oath sworn in marble halls.
And outside, winter winds howled around stone walls, carrying rumors of blood, steel—and a bond that no dagger could sever.
**To be continued...**