Sage - POV
Heat clung to Elenor again. That cloying, swampy kind that soaked her shirt and made it stick to her skin like wet parchment. I watched from my usual perch on the nightstand, my stitched limbs still and my plastic eyes wide, as she writhed in her sleep: caught in another demon-drenched nightmare.
She kicked once, hard, nearly knocking over a bowl of dried Lilacs on the nightstand. A muffled whimper escaped her lips. Then a sharp gasp.
Her whole body arched as if something inside her had seized control.
I hated this part.
It always started with thrashing. Then came the sweat. And finally without fail- the blood.
Tonight was no different.
A faint, wet pat hit the fabric of her shirt just as her breathing steadied. She’d snapped out of it. I saw the stain bloom before she did: a rusty, ominous streak spreading down from her nose.
Nosebleed. Again.
She sighed, looking down. “So you had another nosebleed,” I said flatly.
She groaned and scowled at me, and I could already tell where this was headed. “Can we please get you into something else?”
Oh, the drama.
I waved my stubby plush arms with flair and clutched my heart with imaginary offense. “I think I’m awfully cute in this color,” I said, despite my frozen little plastic smile. You have to work with what you’ve got when your face is made of molded vinyl.
Elenor didn’t laugh. She just swung her legs over the bed with all the grace of a sleep-deprived ghost and stood. The old wooden frame groaned beneath her, like it, too, was burdened with spells too old to name. Sunlight spilled into the cottage in golden beams, filtering through the dozens of enchanted crystals she insisted on hanging in every window. They painted the walls with soft rainbows and drifting motes of light that never settled. The air itself shimmered faintly, always smelling of herbs, old magic, and candle smoke. Everything glittered: bookshelves, tea cups, even the dust. It was like living inside a forgotten fairy tale… one with a mild mildew problem and a very cursed sleep schedule.
I tried to follow her to the bathroom, waddling as best I could on my stubby legs.
“Stay. I need to shower.”
She darted off before I could argue, slamming the door behind her like I was a telepathic squirrel instead of her bound Familiar. Steam hissed behind the wall, and I imagined her staring into the cracked mirror again, fighting herself.
You see, nightmares cling to Elenor worse than the heat. Not regular nightmares: infested ones. Magical rot. Something’s been feeding on her in the dream realm for weeks, and even I can’t kick it out. But tonight, she has a plan.
A ritual.
When she finally emerged, flushed and glowing, I was lying in a defeated heap near the door. “You take forever,” I muttered.
She picked me up—thank the gods—and stuffed me into her front pocket. My magic hummed through her fingertips, our bond tingling. I liked when she held me, even if I’d never admit it directly.
“We need to get supplies for the ritual tonight,” she said, grabbing the wicker basket.
And just like that, we were off.
Our cottage sits in an enchanted clearing deep in the Adirondacks. It’s quaint, full of steam-heated pipes and enchanted teacups that gossip if you leave them alone too long. Elenor hummed as she picked berries and clipped herbs. She always hums when she’s nervous.
“You ever think about joining that coven in the upper mountains?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
She groaned, genuinely groaned; and kept picking. “Sage, I have you. I don’t need anyone else.”
I laughed, muffled in her pocket. “I’m a Familiar in a stuffed toy. You need real people. Real witches.”
“You’re not in just any stuffed toy. You’re in a Labubu,” she said, like that made me a Bentley.
“You literally complained about how I looked this morning.”
She didn’t respond. Instead, she knelt, pulled me gently from her pocket, and held me close. Her hands trembled just a little. She always gets like this before a big spell.
“Sage,” she whispered, “you’re my family. I’d be lost without you. I don’t care what you possess- we’re destined to be together forever.”
I almost choked on a cotton fiber of emotion. But I kept my voice dry. “Maybe a coven could help with your nighttime demons, you know.”
She smiled, half-laughing. “It’s not trouble. Just one sleep demon. And this ritual will take care of it.”
We spent the day preparing. The grand cauldron in the middle of the room hissed with heat, its iron belly painted in ancient symbols I helped her restore. Protection, truth, strength, old magic, the kind most witches don’t dare use anymore.
Elenor set me down at her side and began constructing the ritual circle. Every time she muttered “Mote it be,” I rolled my painted eyes internally. After the tenth repetition, I moaned, “You know there are other incantations, right?”
She ignored me. Typical.
Hours passed. We meditated in silence—well, she meditated. I stared at the ceiling and listened to the fire crackling under the cauldron. The bugs outside buzzed like tiny prophets.
Then something shifted.
Her eyes snapped open, and she started tossing ingredients into the pot: mugwort, crushed lavender, a few dream-thief nettles. We chanted in tandem, words we’d practiced for a week :
“Demon of night, take your leave,
Demon of dreams, leave thy weave.
Goddess, free me-
Mote it be, mote it be, mote it be.”
The mixture turned a cloudy lavender and shimmered like it had swallowed a memory. When Elenor inhaled, her entire face softened. That’s when I knew we’d gotten it right.
She bottled the potion with care and placed it beneath the moon to charge.
Then we waited.
I noticed the change first.
“It’s glowing gold now. It’s time!”
She didn’t hesitate. Snatched the potion. Downed it. And for a moment, I thought it was working... until she opened her eyes.
“I think we messed up.”
I groaned. “Told you to join that coven. They probably know better than those crusty tomes you hoard-”
Suddenly she screamed and dropped to her knees, clutching her stomach.
And then she vomited.
Acid. Burning. And something else squirming. Small.
A demon. Palm-sized. Drenched in bile. Trembling.
“PLEASE!” it squealed, staring directly at me.
And honestly? Good. I was terrifying. I am fabulous.
Elenor, to her credit, didn’t waste a second. She slammed a jar over the thing and sealed it shut with a flick of her wrist.
“It worked!” I said, stunned.
She laughed, scooping up the jar and me both. We raced inside, magic still sparking in the air like lightning trapped in silk.
Back inside, she placed the jar and me on the counter.
Elenor crouched face-to-face with the demon in the jar. Her voice honey-sweet but laced with iron. I watched from the edge of the counter, my stitches tight with unease. “What is your name, little one?” she asked, each word poured out like a charm.
The demon blinked slowly, its inky eyes wide and searching. It tilted its head, confusion rippling through its too-thin frame. Then, in a voice like wind scraping across old stone, it mumbled,
“What’s… a name?”
I felt it like a jolt through my stuffing. My ears twitched. Elenor froze—just for a second—but I saw the flicker of something bright behind her eyes. She knew what that meant. So did I.
It had no name.
Which meant she could give it one.
And a name, offered freely? That was ancient magic—the oldest kind. A key. A leash. A promise.
I didn’t breathe, not that I needed to.
Even the shadows seemed to lean in, waiting from Elenor’s next move.
Breaking the silence that lingered too long I groaned, “What now?” I was already suspicious of the wicked look in her eyes.
She ran to the bed, pulled out a wooden box, and opened it with dramatic flair. Inside was another Labubu doll. Blue this time.
“No. No, no, no- please don’t do what I think you’re going to do,” I begged.
“You two will be like cotton candy,” she grinned. “You- pink. Him- blue.”
The demon stared at her, wide-eyed. “What’s this?”
Elenor held up a needle and a silver thread, glowing faintly with spell craft. “A second Familiar,” she whispered.
I groaned. “I am never going to hear the end of this.”
She just smirked. “I won’t be needing that coven after all. Isn’t that right Flint?” She cooed the last words at the demon. He looked up and repeated “Flint.”
The creature looked up at her with wide, flickering eyes. “Flint,” he echoed, tasting the word like it was the first real thing he’d ever spoken.
“Yes,” Elenor said, her voice a lullaby wrapped in spell work. “Your name is Flint.”
And just like that, our strange little family got a little bigger.
