The heat of the late afternoon pressed against the high windows of the Familiar Placement Office like a living thing. Outside, the wide avenue shimmered under a sky the colour of burnished copper. Brass tram rails ran in long, gleaming lines between buildings of pale stone and dark tropical wood; wrought-iron balconies spilled over with climbing vines that had already begun to brown at the edges from the dry season. Every so often a steam vent hissed from a side alley, releasing a brief white plume that vanished almost at once into the heavy air. The city smelled of warm stone, machine oil, sugarcane, and the distant metallic tang of the river.

Inside the office the temperature was only marginally kinder. Ceiling fans turned with a slow, steady click, powered by narrow copper pipes that snaked along the cornice. The air still carried the scent of ink, polished jacaranda wood, and the faint ozone of institutional wards.

Your left hand was wrapped in a clean but inelegant bandage. The joint beneath was swollen and already darkening to a deep plum. One of Lioren’s six tails had struck with the kind of casual precision that made the injury feel almost deliberate. You had not cried out. You had simply stood there, fingers curling, while he rearranged his tails across the bed as if nothing of consequence had occurred.

The clerk — a middle-aged woman in a high-collared ivory blouse and a practical dark skirt — looked at the bandage for the third time and apologised again.

“This is not the standard of the Collegium. I must stress that.” Her voice was low, professional, and genuinely distressed. “Physical harm before a completed bond is taken very seriously. The records will reflect it.” She hesitated, then set the return forms down with deliberate care. “The bond has not been ratified. An exchange remains possible. We can place him with another practitioner and offer you a different candidate, if that is what you wish.”

You were silent for a long moment. The experience with Lioren had left a taste like old metal in the back of your throat. Pride, resentment, the quiet certainty that you had never been enough for a Class S who measured worth in silk sheets and high ceilings. Still, you nodded.

She led you through a side corridor lined with framed certificates and into the archive library. Tall shelves of dark tropical hardwood rose to the ceiling, their glass doors reflecting the golden light that filtered through heavy wooden shutters. Brass index drawers lined one wall, each labelled in precise copperplate. A large wall chronometer ticked with the unhurried authority of institutional time. The fans here were larger; their blades stirred the warm air into slow, visible currents that made the dust motes dance.

You walked the narrow aisle between the cabinets, fingers trailing lightly over the cool glass. Files upon files of names, classifications, polarity readings, placement histories. Some marked with the small red seal that meant “removed from protected register.” You asked, quietly, which lineages tended to form bonds more readily — which were considered more obedient, more stable.

The clerk did not need to consult any ledger.

“The reptilian lines,” she answered at once. “Draconics, certain serpentine variants, the heavier scaled bloodlines. They are slower to attach in the sentimental sense, but once polarity aligns the claim is usually permanent. They do not abandon lightly.” A small, apologetic smile. “Unfortunately we have none available at present. A new shipment from the southern breeding grounds is expected in approximately two months. I can place your name on the notification list.”

You said that would be fine. The words came out flatter than you intended.

You both turned to leave. The clerk shifted the stack of folders she carried against her hip, and one of them slipped free. It struck the polished floor with a soft, decisive sound that seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet room.

She bent, retrieved it, and her expression changed as she read the name on the cover.

“Ah.” A pause. “This one.”

She opened the folder carefully. Inside were measurements, polarity charts, two prior placement reports stamped with the same red seal, and a single formal photograph that did not do justice to the subject.

“Class S. Draconic lineage. Registered defect: inverse mana polarity. Returned twice — once for temperamental incompatibility, once after an experimental bonding attempt that the records describe only as ‘unsuccessful.’ He is scheduled for removal from the protected register at the end of the week. After that...” She did not finish. Everyone who worked in these offices knew the disposal pathway. Private collectors with fewer scruples. Research laboratories that did not ask polite questions. The fighting pits that operated three districts over, where the crowds paid to watch Class S creatures tear each other apart under gaslight.

You looked at the file longer than you had intended. The photograph showed a tall figure with white-silver hair, pale scales along the cheekbones, and eyes the colour of fresh blood. Even in still image the posture was controlled, almost aristocratic.

Despite the bruise darkening under your bandage, despite the quiet humiliation of the last weeks, you signed the provisional custody forms.

Two days.

You spent them moving through the lower markets near the factory district, where the air was thicker with coal smoke and the sweet-rot scent of overripe fruit. You bought what little your remaining coins could stretch to: cheaper cuts of meat that would still be nourishing, a handful of basic restorative herbs, clean bandages, a second set of sheets that smelled of harsh soap. In the evenings you sat at the small scarred table in your outer room and tried to recreate the simpler elixir formulae from memory, measuring by eye, stirring with a chipped ceramic rod. The results were serviceable at best. Lioren watched from the doorway of the bedroom, six white-and-russet tails arranged with deliberate elegance, expression caught between amusement and faint disgust.

“You are actually going through with it,” he said on the second evening. He was draped across your bed as if it had always belonged to him, one arm folded behind his head, the silk of his open robe falling away from a pale chest. “Josephine already made her interest perfectly clear. Proper rooms. Proper attendants. A wardrobe that does not smell of potion residue.” He smiled, slow and satisfied. “If you insist on returning me, I will not pretend to be heartbroken. I will finally live as a Class S is meant to live.”

You did not answer. You simply finished the elixir you were working on, corked the small bottle, and set it aside to cool.

That night, as on the night before, Lioren remained in the bed. You took the narrow sofa in the outer room, knees drawn up, the thin blanket doing little against the residual heat that clung to the walls. You would not make a Class S Familiar sleep on the sofa. The decision sat in your chest like a stone.

On the second evening the knock came just as the light outside had begun to soften into that particular deep gold the city wore before dusk. You expected one of the factory workers who sometimes climbed the narrow stairs after their shift, coins already counted out for a recovery potion. You wiped your hands on your apron, crossed the small main room, and opened the door.

Vaelthar stood on the threshold.

He was far taller than the doorway comfortably allowed. White-silver hair fell past his shoulders in a heavy, slightly disordered fall. Red eyes regarded the dim interior without hurry. Pale scales caught the last of the hallway light along his cheekbones and the column of his throat. Elegant curved horns rose from his hair, one of them adorned with a thin dark chain. A long, powerful draconic tail rested against the worn floorboards of the landing, the tip moving once in a slow, assessing arc. His wings remained folded and hidden, but the breadth of his shoulders suggested their presence even in repose.

The Collegium attendant beside him was a compact man in a sweat-darkened uniform, leather portfolio tucked under one arm. He looked relieved to have completed the delivery before full dark.

“Signature confirming receipt and provisional custody,” he said, already extending the papers and a fountain pen. “The previous Familiar remains under your roof for three additional days. Collection has been scheduled. Please have him prepared.”

You signed. The attendant checked the signature, gave a short nod, and left. His boots sounded loud on the wooden stairs as he descended.

Vaelthar stepped inside.

The apartment seemed to shrink around him. One main room with a cooking nook barely large enough for a single person to turn around. A narrow window that looked onto a cramped courtyard where laundry lines crossed between buildings and a neighbour’s steam-powered water pump clanked at irregular intervals. A bedroom that was little more than an alcove, currently occupied by Lioren, who had risen to a sitting position on the bed. The walls were a faded cream that had long since surrendered to the city’s dust. The floorboards had been scrubbed often and never truly restored. The air held the lingering sweetness of potion work, the warmer scent of the street below, and now something cooler and cleaner that seemed to follow Vaelthar in like a change in pressure.

His gaze moved once through the space — precise, unhurried, cataloguing the single exit, the quality of the latch on the window, the distance between the sofa and the bedroom door. Then it settled on Lioren.

The Vulperion had arranged his six tails with deliberate artistry, white fur tipped in deep russet, ears angled forward in a display that managed to be both elegant and openly challenging. Neither of them spoke. The silence that stretched between the two Class S Familiars was immediate, dense, and sharp enough to feel like a held breath.

Only then did Vaelthar look at you.

He did not comment on the size of the rooms. He did not offer reassurance or complaint. He simply stood in the centre of what little open floor remained, white hair catching the last of the afternoon light that slanted through the window, red eyes steady, and waited.