5. Familiar Struggles
5
Familiar Struggles
Ren
I stepped into the Arcane Familiars classroom, my stomach doing backflips worthy of the Blackstone acrobatics team. It was the end of the second week of the semester and everything had gone well so far. I was performing well in all my classes, Luca and I were getting along great, and I’d even figured out a decent routine to get breakfast and get to class on time every morning.
But it could all come crashing down today.
The air practically crackled with anticipation, mixing with the smoky incense Professor Dance always burned, dragon’s breath since it was Tuesday. The room itself was a cozy chaos of mismatched cushions and hanging plants, with cages and perches of various sizes lining the walls.
Freshmen mages of every style and specialty packed the amphitheater-style seats, their chatter rising to the arched ceiling in an excited babble. Small wisps of various magical energies drifted through the air, remnants of previous summonings that hadn't quite dissipated. They looked like soap bubbles filled with shifting colors, each one carrying the echo of a different student's magic. Professor Dance called them “familiar footprints” and said they helped attract the right spirit to each person.
The walls themselves seemed to hum with anticipation, the ancient stones having absorbed centuries of familiar-bonding magic. Even the carved wooden desks bore marks of past ceremonies in the form of tiny paw prints and talon scratches that glowed faintly when new magic filled the room.
“I'm totally getting a raven,” declared Jasper Stone, resident gothic pretty boy. Though actually, despite his carefully cultivated dark aesthetic and tendency to quote Edgar Allan Poe at breakfast, Jasper was one of the few people who'd been consistently nice to me since arrival. He'd even shared his contraband coffee stash one morning when I'd been running on empty after a late night of studying.
Saffron Emberleaf rolled her eyes. “You just want someone to do your conjuration theory homework for you. I'm hoping for an adder.” She inspected her emerald-painted nails. “Of course, I'll adore whatever creature the spirits grant me. I’m sure it’ll be something good.”
Easy for her to say , I thought. Saffron was a psychomancy major and basically had “future valedictorian” stamped on her forehead. I'd be lucky to make it to sophomore year.
I slunk into a seat in the back row, trying to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. Maybe if I was quiet enough, the spirits wouldn't even notice me and I could slip out without summoning anything at all. It's not like I needed a familiar anyway, right? Plenty of great mages got by without an animal companion. Though if I was being honest with myself, I'd always dreamed of having one. Back home, I used to leave little offerings for the neighborhood strays, hoping one might choose to be my friend. None ever did, but I kept trying anyway. Maybe that's why this felt so important. If I could just get this one thing right, maybe I'd finally feel like I belonged here.
My hopes were dashed as Professor Orla Dance swept into the room, her flame red hair in twin pigtails down her back. She shuffled to the center podium and adjusted her too-big glasses. “Good afternoon, everyone, and what a lovely day! I know you're all eager to meet your new partners, so let's not waste any time. When I call your name, please come to the front, and we'll begin the summoning ritual.”
My heart sank. There went my plan to hide in the back and pray that I turned invisible.
I watched as my classmates were called up one by one, each returning to their seat with a new creature perched on their shoulder or coiled around their wrist. Jasper, much to his delight, did end up with an imperious-looking raven. Saffron got a sleek black cat with knowing yellow eyes.
A girl with rainbow-streaked hair practically bounced up to the front, her excitement palpable. After a few moments of chanting, a tiny iridescent hummingbird appeared, zooming around her head in a blur of jewel tones before landing delicately on her finger. The girl beamed with delight.
Next was a stocky guy I recognized from my Introduction to Sigils class. He performed the ritual with a quiet intensity, and was soon rewarded with a small red fox that curled itself around his neck like a living scarf. The fox fixed the room with a gaze that seemed far too intelligent for an ordinary animal.
As I watched, I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. What I wouldn't give to have a majestic hawk or a clever weasel as my magical companion. With my luck, I'd probably end up with a dung beetle.
“Ren Wickens,” Professor Dance called out cheerfully. “You're up!”
I gulped and stood, making my way down the narrow aisle. As I passed Tad Morrowell, the bully who had made it his mission to torment me since day one, he stuck out a foot and sent me stumbling.
“Oops, sorry,” he said with a smirk that suggested he was anything but.
I righted myself and shot him a glare, but kept moving. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing how rattled I was. I finally reached the front of the classroom, my face burning with embarrassment.
Professor Dance gave me a concerned look. “Are you all right, Ren?” she asked kindly.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. I was pretty sure if I opened my mouth, I'd either throw up or start crying, and I didn't particularly want to do either in front of my entire class.
“Whenever you're ready, dear,” Professor Dance said with an encouraging smile. “Just like we’ve been practicing.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to remember the words of the summoning ritual. I could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on me, waiting for me to fail. My tongue felt thick and clumsy as I stumbled over the unfamiliar syllables.
Nothing happened. No flash of light, no dramatic puff of smoke. Just me, standing there like an idiot, my arm outstretched toward an empty summoning circle.
Snickers broke out among the watching students. My cheeks flamed even hotter, and I wanted to sink into the floor. This was my worst nightmare come to life.
“Hey, it's okay,” Professor Dance said gently, laying a hand on my shoulder. “The first time is always the hardest. Clear your mind and focus on your intent. Picture your familiar in your mind's eye.”
I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, trying to block out the whispers and snickers. You can do this, Ren.
I pictured the summoning circle in my mind, glowing with arcane symbols. I imagined a connection, a gossamer thread linking my magic to the spirit realm beyond.
Please , I prayed silently to any spirits who might be listening. Please send me a familiar as incredible as I know I can be. A dragon would be ideal. If I summoned a dragon, no one would ever doubt my abilities again! It could perch majestically on my shoulder, its iridescent scales shimmering under the classroom's conjured light globes. I'd call it something powerful and mysterious, like Obsidian or Nyx.
But who was I kidding? I’d settle for anything. Even a dung beetle would be better than standing here like a tongue-tied idiot, the sniggering of my classmates burning my ears. I swallowed hard. It was now or never.
This time, when I spoke the incantation, it was with crisp, sure pronunciation and a strong force of will behind it. Please send me a dragon.
A sudden gust of wind whipped through the classroom, extinguishing the candles with a hiss. Tendrils of smoke curled upward from the summoning circle, glowing with an otherworldly light. My heart hammered against my ribs as I felt the magic surge through me, crackling along my skin like static electricity. It felt different from normal magic, warmer somehow, like sunlight filtering through leaves. The air filled with dancing motes of light that smelled like honey and storm clouds, and somewhere in the distance, I could have sworn I heard bells ringing. Not church bells, but something older, something that spoke of ancient pacts and promises exchanged between mortals and magical creatures.
The circle beneath my feet began to glow with symbols that weren't part of the original design, delicate spirals and curves that looked like fragments of a language I almost recognized. Each one pulsed with a different color, creating a rainbow of magical energy that made my skin tingle.
This was it. Any second now, my magnificent dragon familiar would emerge from the ethereal mists, its scales gleaming like polished onyx. I held my breath, barely daring to hope.
The smoke slowly dissipated, revealing... a fat, wriggling caterpillar. It was an unpleasant shade of pea soup green, covered in wrinkly folds and tufts of wiry bristles. The creature inched along the summoning circle, leaving a trail of slime in its wake.
My heart plummeted to my scuffed sneakers. A caterpillar? Seriously? This squirming grub was supposed to be my incredible magical companion?
Laughter erupted from the watching students, Tad's guffaws rising above the rest. “Nice one, Wickens!” he crowed. “Looks like you got the familiar you deserve!”
Heat flooded my cheeks, and I wished I could melt into a puddle of humiliated goo, just like the slime trail my so-called familiar was leaving behind. Even the weird kid who never talked to anyone had summoned a freaking red panda.
I wanted to disappear, to sink into the stone floor and become one with the castle's ancient foundations. Anything to escape the humiliation searing through me like a branding iron. How could I face my classmates now? I'd be forever known as the guy who summoned a measly caterpillar while everyone else bonded with majestic creatures.
Professor Dance placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, her voice soft with sympathy. “Ren, listen to me. Every familiar is special and has a unique purpose. Don't judge your new companion too quickly.”
Her words barely registered through the hot tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. I couldn't meet her kind gaze, couldn't bear to see the pity surely written there. Around me, the snickers and whispers of my classmates buzzed like angry hornets, stinging me with each mocking jab.
“Looks like Wickens got a worm to match his talent!”
“Guess we know who's flunking Familiar Bonding 101.”
Each barb landed like a punch to the gut, driving the air from my lungs. I needed to get out of here before I completely lost it in front of everyone. Vision blurring, I scooped up the caterpillar with a shaking hand and shoved it into the pocket of my robes.
“Ren, wait,” Professor Dance called after me, but I was already bolting for the door, desperate to escape.
I burst out of the classroom, my feet carrying me down the hallway in a blind rush. Hot tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision, but I didn't need to see where I was going. My legs moved of their own accord, guided by muscle memory and the desperate need to escape.
I flew past the towering stained glass windows, their vibrant colors dulled by the miserable fog wrapped around my heart. Vaulted archways and carved stone gargoyles whizzed by in my peripheral vision, but I barely registered their gothic grandeur. The caterpillar squirmed in my pocket, its wriggling presence a constant reminder of my humiliation.
Before I knew it, I found myself bursting through the wrought-iron gates of the necropolis, my burning lungs gulping the cool, misty air. The ancient cemetery sprawled before me, a labyrinth of mossy headstones and crumbling mausoleums. Twisted oak trees reached their gnarled branches toward the overcast sky, their leaves whispering secrets of the dead. Black roses grew wild between the headstones, their petals edged with silver in the dim light. Somewhere nearby, a ghostly wind chime tinkled a melody that sounded almost like a lullaby. Even in my distress, I felt the familiar comfort of death magic wrapping around me like a well-worn quilt, the spirits keeping a respectful distance but present enough that I didn't feel completely alone.
I darted between the graves, my shoes crunching on the gravel path. Ornate stone angels watched me with sightless eyes, their weathered faces etched with eternal sorrow. I didn't stop until I reached the heart of the necropolis, where a grand marble crypt loomed like a miniature cathedral.
Ducking behind the massive monument, I collapsed against the cool stone, my chest heaving with gasps and eyes burning with tears.
I huddled against the crypt's marble edifice, my body shaking with sobs I could no longer contain. The caterpillar inched along my palm, oblivious to the anguish its presence had unleashed. I closed my fingers around its squirming form, torn between hurling it into the cemetery's tangled undergrowth and clinging to it like a lifeline.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path, drawing closer with each measured stride. I tensed, hastily scrubbing at my tear-streaked cheeks with my free hand. The last thing I needed was for some well-meaning groundskeeper to stumble upon me in this pathetic state.
“Ren?” a familiar voice called out, gentle and laced with concern. “Is that you back there?”
Oh no. I'd know that rich, honeyed timbre anywhere. Professor Dorian Crowe emerged from behind a towering angel statue, his forest green robes fluttering in the breeze.
I hastily wiped my nose on my sleeve, shrinking further behind the marble edifice as if I could merge with the cool stone. Of all the people to find me in this state, it had to be Professor Crowe. Dashing, brilliant, could-charm-the-pants-off-a-skeleton Professor Crowe, who I may have been harboring a raging crush on since the moment I saw him in the hallway on my first day at Blackstone.
Dorian rounded the corner of the crypt, his warm green eyes filled with gentle concern as they landed on my tear-stained face. I tried to compose myself, but it was like trying to wrestle a jelly slug into submission: messy and utterly futile. A fresh wave of sobs shuddered through me.
“Oh, Ren,” Dorian murmured, crouching beside me. His voice was soft. “Whatever is the matter?”
I hastily swiped at my eyes, trying to salvage some scrap of dignity. “It's nothing, Professor Crowe. I'm fine. Just needed some air.”
The words sounded hollow even to my own ears. It was painfully clear I was the exact opposite of fine, but admitting that to my unfairly gorgeous Necromancy professor was a special flavor of mortifying.
Dorian settled onto the grass beside me, his movements fluid and graceful. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to me. It was soft cotton, embroidered with tiny silver stars and smelling faintly of earl grey tea and old books. Then, with a casual wave of his hand, he conjured two steaming cups of what looked like hot chocolate, complete with tiny marshmallows shaped like skulls.
“My grandmother always said that any crisis feels more manageable with something warm to drink,” he explained, passing me one of the cups. “And these marshmallows are a special recipe. They're infused with a mild calming draught. Perfect for soothing frazzled nerves.”
His eyes, the mesmerizing color of spring leaves dappled with sunlight, held no judgement. Only gentle understanding and an invitation to unburden myself, if I wished.
I turned the caterpillar over in my hands, staring at its puckered green folds to avoid meeting that penetrating gaze. If I looked into those kind eyes for too long, I'd probably blurt out every pathetic insecurity plaguing my psyche, and then I'd have to fling myself into the nearest open grave from sheer humiliation.
The caterpillar chose that moment to start determinedly inching up my wrist, leaving a glistening trail of slime in its wake.
I took a shuddering breath, the words spilling out of me like a dam had burst. “It's my familiar. Or I guess, lack thereof. During the summoning ritual, all I managed to conjure was this dumb caterpillar.” I held out my hand, showing him the wriggling green grub.
Dorian leaned closer, peering at the caterpillar with intense interest. His brow furrowed in concentration as he studied the wriggling creature, a glimmer of something like wonder sparking in his eyes.
“May I?” He held out a hand and after a moment's hesitation, I let the caterpillar inch its way onto his palm
“Ren,” he breathed, his voice soft with reverence as he watched the caterpillar crawl over his palm. The late afternoon light caught in his hair, turning the rich auburn strands to burning copper. His hands, elegant and sure as they cradled my familiar, moved with the kind of careful grace that made my breath catch. There was something intensely intimate about watching him handle the tiny creature with such gentleness, such reverence.
“The thing about magical creatures,” he continued, his voice dropping to that soft, warm tone that always made me feel like we were sharing secrets, “is that they often see what we cannot see in ourselves.” His eyes met mine, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe. “They're drawn to potential, to possibility. To the person we're becoming rather than the person we think we are. Do you have any idea what you've summoned?”
I blinked at him, confused. “Uh, a caterpillar? A really underwhelming, disappointing caterpillar that will probably get me laughed out of Blackstone?” The words tasted bitter on my tongue.
Dorian shook his head, a slow smile spreading across his handsome face. “No, Ren. Not just any caterpillar. This is an Actias arcanum. They're incredibly rare and highly sought after in the necromantic arts.”
I stared at him blankly. “It is? But...it's so... squishy. And green. How can something that looks like a wrinkled pickle be important in necromancy?”
He chuckled. “Ah, but you're only seeing it as it is, not what it can be . Given time and care, this little one will undergo a magnificent transformation and emerge as something new and breathtaking.”
I gazed at the caterpillar in Dorian’s palm, trying to see it through his eyes. The creature continued its slow journey across his skin, unaware of the wonder it had inspired. The little creature paused in its journey across Dorian's palm, rearing up as if to look at us. Its segments shifted, revealing tiny iridescent markings that shimmered like starlight caught in dewdrops. For just a moment, in the right light, I could have sworn I saw the shadow of what it might become, a creature of gossamer wings and moonlight made tangible.
“You know,” Dorian mused, watching the caterpillar's iridescent markings shimmer, “in old necromantic texts, they speak of death not as an ending, but as the ultimate transformation. The ancients believed that every significant change carried a kind of death within it. The death of who we used to be, making space for who we're becoming.” He glanced at me, his eyes warm with understanding. “It's why necromancers often have a particular gift for recognizing the beauty in transformation. We understand that something precious must be released before something new can emerge.”
I found myself nodding, thinking of all the versions of myself I'd had to let go of to become who I was now. Each one a kind of death, yes, but also a kind of birth. “Is that why the spirits sent me this little guy? Because they knew I'd understand about... changing?”
“The spirits,” Dorian said with a gentle smile, “often see the poetry in such connections.”
“What will he become?” I asked hesitantly.
“Well, that, like so many things, depends on what you feed it. Every transformation requires nurturing,” Dorian continued, his voice gentle. “Whether it's a caterpillar becoming a moth, a student becoming a mage, or...” he paused, his eyes meeting mine with understanding, “or someone becoming who they truly are. The key is having faith in the process, even when others can't see the magic happening beneath the surface.”
I felt a lump form in my throat at his words. It was like he could see right through me, not just to who I was, but to who I was becoming. “But what if...” I swallowed hard, voicing my deepest fear, “what if people are disappointed with the end result?”
Dorian's expression softened further. “True transformation isn't about meeting others' expectations, Ren. It's about becoming the most authentic version of yourself. And anyone who can't appreciate that beauty isn't looking closely enough.” He held the caterpillar aloft, watching it inch along his finger. “Nurture him with a steady diet of love and compassion and it will become a creature of beauty, its ethereal glow capable of guiding even the most wayward souls on the darkest night. Feed it raw potential and power, and it will produce a powder that is highly sought after for resurrection rituals. Feed it whispers, and it will weave a shroud that allows one to pass seamlessly between the world of the living and the dead.”
I gaped at him, hardly daring to believe it. “So you're saying... I didn't summon a dud familiar?”
“Far from it,” Dorian replied with a warm smile. “You've called forth a companion of exceptional potential. One that will grow and transform alongside you.” He carefully transferred the caterpillar back into my cupped palms.
I looked down at the small green creature with new eyes, wonder bubbling up to replace the bitter disappointment from before. “I didn't realize,” I murmured. “I feel so stupid for how I reacted.”
“You reacted exactly as most would when their expectations aren't immediately met,” Dorian reassured me. “What matters is where you go from here. This little one has a long journey ahead of him... and so do you.”
I blinked down at the caterpillar, watching it explore my palm with a newfound sense of awe. Professor Crowe's words echoed in my mind, filling me with a tentative flicker of hope. Maybe I hadn't screwed up the summoning after all. Maybe this little guy and I were meant to take this journey together, even if it wasn't the path I had imagined.
“Thank you, Dorian,” I said softly, finally meeting his eyes. “I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't found me.”
One corner of the professor’s mouth quirked up in a gentle smile. “It's my job to guide my students, Ren. Both in the classroom and beyond.” He placed a warm hand on my shoulder and my heart stuttered in my chest at the contact. “Never be afraid to ask for help when you need it. You don't have to go through this alone.”
“I'll try to remember that,” I replied, hoping he couldn't feel the way I trembled beneath his touch. Stars, but he was even more devastatingly handsome up close. The flecks of gold in his green eyes, the stray curl falling over his forehead, the hint of stubble shadowing his sculpted jawline...
I mentally shook myself. Get a grip, Ren . The last thing I needed was to develop an even more debilitating crush on my professor. It was already bad enough that I was crushing on one of my professors to begin with.
Dorian gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before releasing me and settling back on his heels. “I know I’ve said this before, but my door is always open, Ren. For anything you might need. Guidance with your new familiar, questions about class... or even if you just want to talk.” He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. “And while I don't want to make assumptions, I did want to extend an invitation, just in case it might be of interest to you. As the faculty advisor for Blackstone's LGBTQ+ Alliance, I wanted to let you know we're having our first meeting of the semester this evening. It's a welcoming space for students of all identities to find community and support. Well, and cupcakes. We almost always have cupcakes.”
I blinked in surprise, a warm flutter unfurling in my chest at the thoughtfulness of his offer. It was true that coming to Blackstone as a transgender man had been isolating at times. As thrilled as I was to finally have a body that felt like home, I sometimes wished there were others there that understood. The idea of connecting with other queer students held a lot of appeal.
“I didn't know Blackstone had an LGBTQ+ Alliance,” I admitted.
His smile widened. “It's a relatively new organization, but one that's very close to my heart. As an openly gay man myself, I know how important it is to have a supportive community, especially in an environment like Blackstone that can feel... rather traditional at times. Magic, like identity, isn't always what others expect it to be,” Dorian said, absently adjusting his sleeve cuff. “When I first realized I had an affinity for death magic, many thought it was... unsuitable. Too dark, too different. But it was who I was. Who I am. Just like being gay, just like your journey. Sometimes the path that's right for us isn't the one others would choose.” He smiled, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “But I've found that the most interesting people are often those who dare to be authentically themselves, regardless of convention.”
My eyes widened at his casual admission. Dorian was gay? That information sent a whole colony of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I quickly tamped them down, reminding myself sternly that he was my professor and any feelings beyond academic admiration were strictly off-limits.
“That sounds really great, actually,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Something warm and hopeful unfurled in my chest—not just because Dorian was gay, but because he seemed to understand the importance of creating safe spaces. Of making room for people to be themselves, even in a place as traditional as Blackstone. “I'd love to come to the meeting, if that's okay.”
“More than okay,” he assured me. “We'd be delighted to have you. It's in the Willow Commons, right off the main courtyard, at seven. I hope to see you there.”
He stood then, brushing bits of grass off his robes with an easy grace. “I should be getting back. I've got a stack of essays on the ethics of resurrection waiting for me to grade. But I meant what I said, Ren. My door is always open.”
“Thank you, Professor Crowe,” I said, infusing the words with as much sincere gratitude as I could muster. “I feel like I say that a lot.”
“Nothing wrong with that.” He inclined his head. “Oh, and don’t forget to give your new companion a name. I’ll see you later, Ren.”
With a final warm smile that sent my heart into somersaults, Professor Crowe turned and walked back toward the main campus, his forest green robes billowing elegantly behind him. I watched him go, my mind still reeling from the revelations of the last few minutes.
I glanced down at the caterpillar, who was now contentedly munching on a leaf it had found on my robes. For the first time, I didn't feel embarrassed or disappointed by my new familiar. Instead, a sense of cautious optimism bloomed in my chest. If Dorian Crowe saw potential in this little guy, then who was I to doubt it?
“Guess it's just you and me now, huh, buddy?” I said softly, stroking a tentative finger down the caterpillar's squirming back. “Both of us are in the middle of becoming something new.”
I thought about my own transformation, of the years of waiting, the pain and uncertainty, the triumph of finally feeling at home in my own skin.
“Everyone wants the end result, you know? The butterfly, the finished product. But there's something brave about being in the cocoon stage, isn't there? About trusting that you'll come out the other side as something beautiful, even when you can't quite see it yet.”
The caterpillar responded by contentedly munching its leaf, but somehow its presence felt more purposeful now. Like maybe the spirits had known exactly what they were doing when they sent me a companion who understood what it meant to transform.
I smiled. “Looks like we both have some growing to do.”