Ziphandradram the Magnificent

The cottage was quiet. Just the way Ziphandradram liked it.

Moonlight pooled across the worn wooden floor, claiming the coveted patch of silver glow by the cauldron. His throne, naturally. Ziphandradram loafed there, paws tucked neatly beneath him, surveying his domain like the ancient familiar he was.

Outside, the world hummed with nocturnal whispers. Moths danced around lanterns hung from twisted branches. Nightbirds called to one another in voices that carried secrets. The forest breathed, alive and watchful.

The Witch had left two hours ago, her pointed hat perched at a jaunty angle, broom in hand, off to the monthly gathering at the crossroads where witches went to gossip and trade spell components. Ziphandradram had yawned in acknowledgment. The Witch always came back. Predictable, like the phases of the moon.

So Ziphandradram lounged, basked, and did nothing.

As was his right.

The cottage settled around him with comfortable creaks and sighs. A bundle of dried lavender swayed from the ceiling beam, releasing its drowsy scent. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting dancing shadows that Ziphandradram tracked lazily with one eye. This was his favorite time, the deep night hours when the cottage belonged solely to him, when he could hear every whisper of magic in the walls, every spell embedded in the foundation humming its song.

He'd been the Witch's familiar for seven years now. Seven years of loyalty, of standing guard, of pretending he didn't care when she scratched behind his ears just right. Before that, he'd wandered the forest paths, feral and proud, until the night she'd offered him a saucer of cream laced with moonlight and asked if he'd like to stay.

The bond had formed then, silver threads of magic weaving between them. He could feel her even now, miles away at the crossroads, her presence a warm pulse at the edge of his awareness.

Until the wards shimmered.

His ears swiveled forward.

That wasn't the Witch's smooth passage through her own protections. No cascade of welcoming chimes. No whisper of recognition magic. This was forced. Clumsy. Wrong.

The silver threads of the wards crackled with alarm, sending a jolt through Ziphandradram's spine. Someone had broken through the outer layer, the warning web meant to keep out wandering travelers and curious children. But the inner protections, the serious ones, those still held. Barely.

Ziphandradram didn't move. Yet.

His muscles tensed beneath his midnight-black fur. Through the bond, he reached for the Witch, sending a pulse of warning. She was too far to return quickly, but she'd know. She'd feel his alert and come as fast as the broom would carry her.

Until then, the cottage was his to defend.

The door creaked open, releasing a tendril of unauthorized magic that made his whiskers tingle unpleasantly.

Intruder.

Silent as shadow, Ziphandradram slipped from his throne, muscles coiled. He darted beneath the workbench, settling into the darkness with the grace of his wild ancestors. Golden eyes sharpened, tracking.

Boots. Gloves. Hooded cloak.

The scent of nervous sweat, cheap enchantments, and amateur spell work hit next. Ziphandradram flattened his ears, tail twitching, slow and deliberate. He catalogued every detail: the way the intruder's hands trembled slightly, the desperate edge to their breathing, the reek of debt-magic clinging to their clothes. Someone had sent them. Someone who knew what the Witch kept here.

Someone had the audacity to invade his cottage.

The stranger moved with caution, but not the Witch's kind. This was unfamiliar. Overconfident in their breaking charm. Ziphandradram watched them drift through his space with insulting ease.

They weren't just trespassing. They'd studied the layout.

Into the sleeping chamber, they prowled. Past the Witch's reading chair, the herb-drying rack, the shelf of grimoires Ziphandradram liked to knock over when feeling dramatic. The intruder sidestepped every creaky floorboard and familiar landmark without hesitation.

Insulting.

They returned, drifting toward the workroom with quiet calculation. Ziphandradram ghosted along the wall, belly low, every inch of him bristling with territorial fury and the static charge of protective magic in his fur. The bond with the Witch thrummed with tension she was coming, he could feel her urgency, but she was still hours away.

Hours he would have to fill.

The stranger crouched by the Witch's cabinet, Ziphandradram's cabinet, really, since he guarded it and jimmied open the lock with a badly-muttered unlocking spell.

Ziphandradram's eyes narrowed to lethal slits.

There it was.

The shiny.

That crystalline amulet the Witch had carefully stored three days ago after charging it under the full moon. Ziphandradram had been keeping tabs on it. It hummed with power. It caught the light beautifully. It was his to protect.

The intruder plucked it from the velvet cushion, holding it up like they'd just stolen the moon itself.

Ziphandradram's patience snapped.

He exploded from the shadows, twelve pounds of claws, fangs, and vengeance.

Teeth sank into the intruder's wrist. His claws raked down their arm with surgical precision, shredding cheap protective charms like cobwebs. The figure cursed a foolish curse, and staggered back, nearly toppling the shelf of potion bottles.

Ziphandradram clung like a demon, yowling a battle cry that echoed with something older than words. His growl carried the weight of every familiar who'd ever defended their witch's home.

The intruder flailed, finally shaking him loose, but Ziphandradram landed on all fours, tail fluffed like a thundercloud, eyes blazing with reflected candlelight and fury.

This was not over.

Another sharp hiss, this one laced with the smallest hint of a hex the Witch had taught him and he lunged again, forcing them to retreat. The intruder stumbled over their own feet, yanked the door open, and vanished into the night, leaving behind a trail of shredded fabric, blood, and broken courage.

Ziphandradram stood victorious, chest heaving.

His cottage. His victory.

He padded forward and spotted the amulet, abandoned in their panicked escape. A swift paw sent it skittering across the floor, crystal chiming against wood like tiny bells.

One final bat and the shiny vanished beneath the cauldron.

Ziphandradram sighed.

Lost forever. Typical.

The Witch would find it eventually. She always did. Usually while muttering about "helpful" familiars.

With regal indifference, he hopped onto the Witch's favorite chair, circled three times, and settled in for a well-deserved rest. He began cleaning his paws, tasting the lingering tang of failed protection charms.

A familiar's reward.

His cottage. His shiny. His rules.

When the Witch returned hours later, sweeping through the door in a swirl of midnight robes and fury, she found her familiar purring contentedly, a few drops of blood on the floor, and her warding spell still flickering with the memory of forced entry.

She looked at Ziphandradram.

Ziphandradram looked at her.

"Good boy," she murmured, scratching behind his ears.

He purred louder.

Obviously.