The town council cordoned off the street with orange tape, three folding chairs, and several men who looked personally offended that magic continued to exist despite their objections.

  I sat on the kerb wrapped in a blanket that smelt faintly of smoke and panic, holding a mug of tea that had gone cold, reheated itself out of spite, and then given up entirely.

  Beside me, Lord Bastion Thistlewick was grooming.

  Not casually.

  With purpose.

  Each paw was licked, examined, and re-licked with the solemn concentration of someone who had just bent reality and now required emotional equilibrium.

  “I don’t like the smell of anomalies,” he said. “They cling.”

  I stared at him. “You folded space.”

  “Yes.”

  “Threatened something older than the street.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you’re cleaning your beans.”

  “One must unwind,” he said. “You have tea. I have hygiene.”

  “You could have stopped it before anyone screamed.”

  “Yes.”

  “You chose not to.”

  “Yes.”

  “That wasn’t an explanation.”

  “It was accountability,” he replied. “You should try it.”

  I dragged a hand down my face. “What are you.”

  He paused.

  Just long enough for hope to flicker.

  Then he resumed licking his paw.

  “A cat.”

  “You made the anomaly recoil.”

  “Yes.”

  “It recognised you.”

  “Most things do,” he said. “Eventually. It’s a curse of being memorable.”

  I leaned back against the lamppost – the same lamppost that had recently attempted to fold itself into a suggestion.

  “You did something no familiar should be able to do,” I said.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He flicked an ear. “You really must stop reading pamphlets. They’re written by people with ambition and no imagination.”

  I clenched my jaw. “You said if you intervened too often, worse things would notice.”

  “Yes.”

  “What worse things.”

  “Older ones.”

  “Older than you?”

  He smiled faintly.

  “That’s rude.”

  Something in my stomach went cold.

  Nearby, one of the council men pointed aggressively at a pigeon, which was now walking backwards and refusing to acknowledge him.

  “I deserve to know,” I said quietly.

  Bastion sighed – long, exaggerated, deeply offended by my persistence.

  “You deserve,” he said, “rest, food, and better wards on your pantry. Answers are conditional.”

  I turned to him. “You’re not bound like a normal familiar.”

  “No.”

  “You’re not tethered.”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t become one.”

  He looked at me then.

  Really looked.

  “Well done,” he said. “You’re catching on.”

  My stomach tightened. “Then what did I bind.”

  He considered this as though choosing a wine.

  “Let’s say,” he said, “you have a representative.”

  “Of what.”

  He yawned.

  “Oh, concepts,” he said lightly. “Thresholds. Boundaries. The bits of the world that get grumpy when lines are crossed.”

  I stared. “You’re a gatekeeper.”

  He grimaced. “Disgusting term. Far too clerical.”

  “What would you call it.”

  “Custodian,” he said. “Observer. Occasionally… correction.”

  The memory of the anomaly recoiling snapped back into focus.

  “You didn’t fight it,” I said slowly. “You reminded it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Of rules.”

  “Mm.”

  “Whose rules.”

  He smirked. “Certainly not yours.”

  I stood. “This town isn’t a lesson.”

  “No,” he agreed. “It’s a trial run.”

  I spun on him. “For whom.”

  He stretched luxuriously, knocking my mug over in the process.

  It spilled.

  “BASTION.”

  “Oh,” he said mildly. “Gravity happened.”

  “That was deliberate.”

  “Yes.”

  I glared. “You let reality tear open to test me.”

  “I let it peek,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

  “That’s monstrous.”

  “Practical.”

  “You’re unbelievable.”

  “And yet,” he said, “you didn’t panic. You didn’t command. You didn’t attempt domination.”

  I hesitated.

  “You invited it,” he continued. “That’s uncommon.”

  “You could have taught me without risking people.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “But then you might not have listened.”

  I stared at him.

  “You manipulated me.”

  “Yes.”

  “For what purpose.”

  He stepped closer, eyes bright with something sharp and very old.

  “To see if you were worth staying with.”

  The words hit harder than the anomaly had.

  “You don’t mean—”

  “I do,” he said calmly. “I adjusted the contract for a reason. I don’t remain with witches who crave control without consequence.”

  My throat tightened. “And if I fail.”

  He tilted his head. “Then I leave.”

  “You said you couldn’t.”

  “I said I wouldn’t,” he corrected. “Language matters.”

  Silence stretched.

  The orange tape fluttered.

  Finally, I asked, “How long have you been doing this.”

  “Longer than towns,” he said. “Shorter than mountains.”

  I snorted despite myself. “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s a scale.”

  I looked down at my hands, still faintly glowing.

  “You stole a salmon while reality was unravelling.”

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t align with your… custodial duties.”

  He smiled.

  “If one does not indulge in small vices,” he said, “the larger ones become inconvenient.”

  I shook my head. “You’re infuriating.”

  “Deliberately.”

  “And you’re going to keep withholding information.”

  “Religiously.”

  I sighed. “Then why stay.”

  He hopped onto the lamppost base, tail flicking, knocking over a warning cone for good measure.

  “Because,” he said, “you didn’t try to bind me again.”

  “I didn’t think it would work.”

  “That,” he said softly, “is precisely why it would have.”

  I swallowed.

  Behind us, the council finally declared the street “mostly acceptable”.

  The pigeon resumed forward motion.

  Bastion brushed past my leg.

  “Come along,” he said. “There will be more anomalies.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll help.”

  He paused at the door.

  “I will,” he said, “when it amuses me.”

  I groaned. “You are an arsehole.”

  He purred.

  And knocked over the plant on the way inside.