Mew

No one announces her.

Court attendants fall silent anyway.

The throne room is awash in late afternoon light, gold spilling through stained-glass windows and scattering across polished marble. Velvet banners hang motionless in the still air. At the base of the twin thrones, nobles stand arranged in careful lines, voices lowered to murmurs fit for royalty.

High above them all, balanced lazily atop the carved canopy of the royal dais, sits a small pink figure with her tail curled in a perfect spiral.

A regal Mew surveys the kingdom from a vantage point reserved for crowns.

Her fur catches the light like spun rose silk, pristine against the dark carved wood. She is small enough to cradle in two hands, yet the air around her carries a faint psychic pressure that makes jeweled goblets tremble almost imperceptibly where they rest. Guards pretend not to notice. Advisors keep their eyes forward.

She belongs to the heir of the throne — the king and queen’s child — and everyone in the castle understands that this makes her untouchable.

She does not behave like a pet.

She behaves like visiting nobility.

When she grows bored of the canopy perch, she does not leap. The air gathers beneath her in a soft shimmer and lowers her with effortless grace. She drifts down past embroidered banners and polished armor, tail swaying gently, until her paws brush the marble floor without a sound.

Several courtiers instinctively step aside.

She ignores them.

Instead, she makes her way toward the steps of the throne, where the young royal stands half-hidden behind heavy robes and expectation. Her ancient eyes soften — not in submission, never that — but in recognition. Of equal status, perhaps. Or at least preferred company.

A single flick of her tail rights a crooked crown resting on a velvet cushion. A cracked petal in a ceremonial bouquet knits itself whole as she passes. She corrects imperfections the way other creatures breathe.

When petitioners bow before the thrones, some dare brief glances toward her. She meets those looks calmly, unblinking, as though weighing their worth. The temperature does not rise, but the atmosphere tightens; power coils quietly beneath her delicate frame.

Yet when the heir shifts their weight or exhales too heavily beneath the weight of courtly attention, Mew turns at once. She rises lightly into the air and settles against their shoulder, tail draping like a silken sash. The psychic pressure eases, replaced by something steadier — protective, proprietary.

The complaint begins as a sharp psychic pulse against the air.

Not loud — simply indignant.

A streak of pink darts through the high-arched corridor outside the royal chambers, trailing faint glittering motes in her wake before swerving abruptly and doubling back. Servants flatten themselves against the stone walls on instinct alone.

At the center of the commotion hovers a visibly affronted Mew.

Her tail lashes once. Twice. Her ears angle back in outrage so pure it feels ceremonial.

She bursts through the carved doors of the heir’s private sitting room without waiting for them to open fully, floating straight to eye level and unleashing a flurry of sharp, musical cries — "Mew! Mew-mew!" — each syllable edged with unmistakable offense. The air around her crackles faintly with psychic emphasis, nearby parchment rustling as though caught in a sudden draft.

She gestures wildly toward the hall with one delicate paw, then reenacts the scene midair.

She glides forward in an exaggeratedly graceful swoop. Pauses. Waits.

Her head tilts to the side, expectant.

Then she freezes in mid-flight, staring at an invisible offender. Her expression shifts from dignified patience to slow, dawning disbelief. With dramatic flair, she turns her back on the imaginary servant and folds her tiny forepaws over her chest, emitting a wounded, scandalized trill that could curdle royal tea.

The message is perfectly clear.

One of the maids did not bow.

She repeats the reenactment — this time adding an unmistakable downward nod with her head, demonstrating exactly how deep the bow should have been. The psychic field tightens slightly as she imagines correcting posture herself; somewhere in the corridor outside, a distant suit of armor gives a soft metallic clank as if reminded to stand straighter.

She hovers there, indignant and radiant, fur puffed faintly with wounded pride.

This is not vanity.

This is protocol.

When she drifts closer, her eyes narrow with sharp expectation. A soft telekinetic nudge adjusts the heir’s collar by a fraction, then smooths an imaginary wrinkle from their sleeve — reassurance that at least someone in this castle understands standards.

Another offended "Mew!" punctuates her point.

Her tail curls high like a banner, waiting for justice to be acknowledged.

After all, she may be the heir’s companion — but in her mind, she is also a crowned presence in these halls. And crowns, no matter how small and pink, are meant to be bowed to.