"Okay. So. Decided on a name?" Fractal pressed, eyes wide with expectation. She bounced on her heels, wings twitching behind her. Naturally, the moment the dryad left, everyone had gathered. After all, there was only one reason a dryad would show up at the estate—news worth eavesdropping on.

"He's a male griffin. Name him Griffith," V offered with a shrug, casual as ever.

"Great. So V has no naming sense. At all." Cordelia folded her arms, unimpressed. I just nodded along, because, well… yeah.

"Yeah, no. I'm not naming him something that sounds like it came pre-installed with the species. And I'm definitely not naming him based on his color."

"Terry?" Ten chimed in, sounding proud—like she'd solved some ancient riddle.

A moment of silence. No applause followed.

She remained undeterred. "Geoff? Nathan? Doris? Boris? Ezreal?"

She rattled off names like someone flipping through an outdated baby name book. They were all so aggressively normal it was almost impressive. These were names you gave children you didn't plan to remember—or worse, teachers you barely tolerated.

"Clearly his name should be space-themed, like me!" Fractal declared, hand over her chest, full of smug self-importance.

I couldn't help but smirk. "I didn't name you Fractal because of space. I named you that because of the pattern in your wings—the way they reflect light like bismuth, spiraling into literal fractals. They pulled me in. Beautiful, geometric, and impossible to look away from. You liked it, so I kept it."

She blinked, her wings twitching in surprise. Then she beamed, just a little. She had liked it.

"But him?" I gestured at the griffin, now curled up near the hearth like a creature pretending not to listen. "He hasn't reacted to any of the names so far."

"Maybe… name him in the Bastian tongue?" Fallias offered with a shrug. "Back home, we name our children after our parents or elders. Keeps their memory alive."

I tilted my head toward her. "Who were you named after, then?"

"My grandfather's brother. He was a dragon—mist and snow, scales like molten amber. Slain by the Spear of the Sacred Sparrow before I was born. But his death left a silence in our songs. The kind that lingers."

Her voice went soft then. Not sorrowful exactly. Just… distant.

I let that sit with me for a moment. The weight of names. What they meant. What they carried.

I tried a few more—Erevon? Sorash? Malorik? None clicked. He rejected each with subtle flashes of emotion. He didn't speak like Fractal yet, not in words, but he sent back images. Thoughts. Feelings. Sensations.

Imagine a newborn with the mind of a dreaming child. That's what it was like. I'd done this before, with Fractal—but this time, it was stranger. Deeper. He didn't just send me images. He sent smell. Sound. Taste.

I saw myself through his eyes.

To him, I was protector. Tower. Constant.

But also… something else.

Mysterious. Cloaked in black vapor—not smoke, but something heavier. Like mist that remembered pain.

Miasma? I thought. Is that what it looks like to you?

He answered with another image—fast, immediate.

Not miasma. Void.

I felt it through him. My aura—my presence—was like the absence between stars. Not just black, but deep. Heavy. Comforting like a warm blanket in the dark. But too long in it? It smothered. It hid.

And in that absence, shapes flickered. Stars. Constellations. A galaxy's worth of small, glowing truths.

He saw me not as something terrifying.

He saw me as safe.

And that made naming him even harder.

"You'll be everything you wish to be. So I want a name that encapsulates that. You are what you choose to be. Be Beast or Kin—Sky or Tree." I exhaled softly, repeating the final line of Dryad Lila's poem like a prayer.

It was a gamble.

She had once promised to teach me how not to become a tyrant. Most lords who bonded with a creature like this—who called a Spirit Beast their own—lost their way. Power whispered too sweetly. But maybe, just maybe, I could invoke her promise now. Maybe I could be better.

Still, I realized something uncomfortable: I kept reaching for others, despite swearing I'd stand on my own. Is it different if I approach them, rather than them being forced on me? Does that still count as dependence?

I shook my head. Later. Introspection would come later.

Instead, I raised my Gloss and composed the message.

To Her Radiant Majesty, High Queen Lillianne, Reqdenyet'enen,

As you might have heard, I have accomplished one of my lifelong dreams. A Spirit Beast has chosen me—no, bonded to me. A Diabolos Griffin.

His Arte is… unique. Whatever he kills, he may integrate aspects of. Traits. Physical features. But he cannot alter the bodies of others—only his own. In a way, he is a true bioweaver. Perhaps, in time, he could evolve toward full Corpokinesis, though I doubt it. His mana signatures don't suggest that path. Still, his core emotion is distinct. Pride. The kind that is shared among all griffins, but with a sharpness to it I've never seen before.

Stolen story; please report.

We have yet to settle on a name. None offered so far feel right. Your insight into the Bastian tongue, and its poetic layers, would be deeply appreciated.

With respect and ink-stained hands, Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr Walker Duarte-Alizade, The Star Writer

I sighed. Getting a message back from the Queen could take days. Weeks even.

It arrived within moments.

My Newest Prince,

How lovely it is to receive a handwritten missive from one who will soon stand at the Sanguine Spear. The Scarlet Table shall be delighted to hear of your new bond. A Diabolos Griffin—how dramatic. How you.

Your idea with the Blue Letter Trading Co. is wise. The court games grow tiresome, and I had begun to worry you'd fall prey to their tedium. Fortunately, I received your message while soaking in the hot springs. If I may suggest something of value in return—take a maiden you favor to one. There's no finer way to seal a bond-to-be, should you feel so inclined.

...Ah, I'm rambling. You caught me in a mood. Forgive me. On to what matters.

There are three names I would try:

Orkaziel

– Translates loosely to

The One Who Devours Light

.

Basarioel

– This one is clearer:

He Who Claims Divinity of Flesh.

Ayinox

– The most flexible. It might mean

The Eye of the Void

,

He Who Gazes into the Void

, or, more ominously,

The All-Consuming Eye.

Ultimately, it is not we who name the beast. It is the beast who accepts the name.

Enclosed below is my royal seal in place of signature. Let it remind you that Bast watches.

I blinked at the royal seal now stamped on my Gloss, gleaming with her family's sigil. I tilted it toward Cordelia.

"Hey, Cordelia? Can I get my Walker emblem added as my Gloss signature?"

"Sure," she muttered, not even looking up, "just become royalty."

"I thought I already was?"

She rolled her eyes hard enough.

"A prince is…" She started the sentence, stopped, looked up. "You know. Now that I think about it, perhaps you are?"

***

I had Basarioel in a bag—an actual canvas feed sack that I'd repurposed for dignified baby beast hauling. Dignified for me, anyway. For him? Not so much.

He was draped over my shoulder, his long tail poking out behind me with a lazy curl, occasionally flicking in irritation every time I stumbled or bumped into a railing. I didn't blame him. I'd spent the better part of the last hour trying to explain the concept of names. More specifically, his. The three names the High Queen suggested echoed in my mind on repeat. Orkaziel. Basarioel. Ayinox. All ancient-sounding. Weighty. Full of mythic gravitas.

"It's between those three," I told him, trudging through the outer grounds of the manor, "unless you want to be called Terry."

The spike of rage that tore through our mental link was almost hilarious—if it hadn't felt like a hot poker stabbing into my temporal lobe. His feathers even bristled from within the bag, a sharp crackle of mana rippling through them like static.

"Not Terry. Got it," I muttered. "Strike that one off the list."

We came up over the ridge where the sheepfolds lay, nestled in the bowl of the valley. From up here, the woolen bodies of the herd looked like tufts of walking clouds dotting the pasture.

"Here are the sheep," I said flatly. "They're your new neighbors. Try not to eat them."

Basarioel let out a low, gravelly chirp of protest.

"Hey, it's not off the table forever," I added quickly. "Just… not yet. Look, other than needing to be present when they require shepherding, I'm mostly hands-off. Still, as the leader of this land, my [Sheep Husbandry] skill applies. Same with [Shepherding]."

I scratched my neck, adjusting the bag so he could peek his head out.

"Anyone tied to the land here gains the benefit of my status," I said, casting a glance at him. "No. Not you."

He tilted his head, and I felt the question forming in our shared link. It wasn't words, but the cascade of images and associations were easy to read: rolling fields, the manor in miniature, himself standing next to me, then alone, then merged with the landscape.

Am I tied to the land here?

"Currently, only four people are directly sworn to the land," I answered, walking toward the overlook platform. "Four under my crystal."

I reached into my coat and pulled out the faceted white gemstone embedded in the metallic housing around my neck. It shimmered with a pale internal glow—living light pulsing with mana signatures far older than mine.

High Queen Lillianne and Archduke Grenadais had both imbued this with their personal sigils, joining it with my own and thus elevating it from a mere artifact to something much greater.

[Everis Hills]

Population:

23 ⟶

112

Taxes:

55 Waning Silver ⟶

1 Waxing Silver

Buildings:

Alizade Manor

Sheep Pens

House 1

House 2

House 3

House 4

House 5

Small House 1

Small House 2 (Under Construction)

Tent 1

Tent 2

Tent 3

Tent 4

I blinked at the numbers. "One hundred and twelve," I whispered aloud. "That… can't be right."

Basarioel gave a chirp of what I could only interpret as a smug I told you so.

I felt a vein twitch in my forehead. "Okay. Who the hell are these people? Last I checked, you can only swear fealty through the manor's statue, the one housing the seed crystal this crystal was cut from."

Then the memory snapped back. Right. Wallace mentioned getting a retinue together. And Ferron was busy hiring more hands for the Blue Letter Trading Company…

"I'm a horrid manager of property," I groaned.

"You aren't," a calm voice offered from behind me.

I spun. Isaac. Of course. Appearing like a ghost in the mist—only this ghost wore reading glasses and smelled faintly of clove oil and paper.

"You just haven't found the proper steward yet," he said gently.

I sighed. "Maybe. Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention."

"You were," said another voice from above.

Fractal swooped down in her weaverbird form, feathers scattering as she shifted midair. Her silhouette shimmered, bones and beak reshaping, body elongating as talons turned to toes and skin met wind. With a soft thud, she landed next to us, dressed in her usual modest traveling robes.

"You were paying attention," she said again. "Just not to everything. And that's alright. That's why you have us."

She tucked a strand of wind-tossed hair behind her ear and smiled up at me.

"Actually… we've already found a steward," she said, brushing dust from her sleeves.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Or at least," she added, tilting her head, "I know someone who would be perfect."

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "Let me guess. One of the psychics from the Hall?"

"Alexander…" she said sweetly. "How would you like to meet my fiancé Sven?"

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