Princess

“Some anchors are grand. Others are small enough to fit beneath a table and still keep the world from tipping.”

— Seraphis Nightvale, Librarian of the Last Home

No one remembers when she arrived.
One day, she simply refused to leave.

There’s a small bed tucked beneath the Backroom worktable—not on any inventory list, not placed by staff. It’s always there, always warm, always at the perfect angle for watching whoever’s sitting above it.

If she’s curled in it, the Inn walks softer.
If she isn’t, it worries.

Wherever the One in the Backroom goes, she follows.
Wherever she settles, the world accommodates.

The Inn does not question this arrangement.
Neither does she.

Who She Is (Depending Who You Ask)

To some, she’s just a tiny, elderly bundle of fur who looks like a stiff breeze might carry her off.

To others, she’s a metaphysical constant—
a pocket-sized fixture of reality who’s been here since before anyone started keeping notes.

The staff call her “Princess.”
The Maids call her “Your Highness.”
Dave calls her “Miss.”
Tess calls her “Not That Chewable, Please.”

The title varies.
The authority does not.

She is pale-furred, soft-eared, and carried by the kind of ancient confidence found only in creatures who have decided the world will simply work around them.

When she looks at you, it feels like she’s judging your last ten life choices.
When she looks at him, it feels like she already forgave them.

She is old.
Not just in age.
In attitude.

The kind of old that makes Time stop in the doorway and mutter, “Not today.”

What She Does (Besides Sleep Through Disasters)

She guards him.
Ferociously, quietly, and with complete disregard for scale.

A hero could collapse beside him and she’d barely twitch.
A god could breathe wrong in his direction and she’d unleash a bark sharp enough to leave spiritual dents.

She keeps watch with one eye open, chin tucked against his foot, as though daring the Pattern to try anything stupid while she’s on duty.

When he moves, she moves.
When he sits, she anchors.
When he disappears for a while, she waits by his door until the Inn sighs and dims the hall for her comfort.

She chews through artefacts, documents, and minor eldritch phenomena with no discernible pattern or remorse.

He once asked her why.
She sneezed and fell asleep on his notes.

He took that as an answer.

Strange Habits & Bite-Sized Omens

Princess has a talent for:

Chewing the Unchewable
Illusion scrolls. Cursed bookmarks. A god’s sandal. A piece of cosmic thread (which had to be restitched into reality with an apology).

Barking at Precisely the Wrong (or Right) Moment
Her bark has cancelled prophecies, ruined rituals, and startled an archfey into hiding behind a bookshelf.

Knowing Who Needs Company
She will sit beside patrons seconds before they break.
Or moments after they already have.
She always knows which.

Sleeping Through Everything Else
Battle. Chaos. World-ending arguments.
If she’s curled against him, nothing short of a structural collapse will wake her.
And even then she might negotiate.

The Missing Beginning (And Why No One Questions It)

No one remembers Princess arriving.
Which is suspicious, because no one remembers him arriving either.

Ask the oldest patrons and they’ll swear she was already here before they were.
Ask staff and they’ll say the same.
Ask the Inn and it creaks as though changing the topic.

Whenever someone presses the One in the Backroom about her origins, he mutters:

“She’s always been here. Always will.”

He says it the same way he says he’s “just fixing something,”
which usually means an entire floor of the Inn is about to shift metaphysical orientation.

Her small bed beneath his table has never been built, repaired, moved, or cleaned by staff.
It simply continues to exist.
Like both of them.

Some say she predates the Inn.
Some say she followed him here.
Some say she’s the reason he stayed.

Seraphis has an opinion.
She refuses to share it.

How She Moves (And Why People Step Aside)

Princess does not run.
She patters with purpose.

When she heads toward him, she is unstoppable—
a six-inch gravity well in a blanket.

When she guards him, she plants herself with the absolute certainty of a creature who has witnessed the fall of at least three Realms and found them inconvenient.

When she climbs onto his lap, even the Inn adjusts the chair.
When she curls at his feet, the Backroom softens its creaking.
When she sighs in her sleep, the walls relax.

Only one person has nearly stepped on her.
The look she gave him ensured it never happened again.

Even Dave steps around her.
Carefully.

Her Place in the Inn (And Why It Matters)

The Inn likes her.
Deeply.

It warms the floor where she sleeps.
It brightens the hall when she wanders.
It hushes itself when she settles by his leg.
It keeps her safe with the quiet protectiveness of a place that has chosen its royalty.

Princess is not a mascot.
Not a pet.
Not an oddity.

She is part of the Inn’s architecture—
a soft constant in a place built on shifting stories.

If she ever stopped following him,
the Inn would tilt slightly off-axis and pretend not to know why.

Her Other Half

Princess’s existence makes more sense when paired with him.
He anchors the Inn with words.
She anchors him with presence.

He mends the world with quiet hands.
She mends him with steady weight.

He forgets to rest.
She climbs onto him until he does.

He never signs his work.
She never leaves his side.

Two threads with no beginning.
Two constants in a place made of change.
Two halves of a story no one asked them to tell — but everyone quietly relies on.

A Final Thought

If loyalty has a sound,
it is the soft patter of tiny paws in an endless hallway
making sure he is never alone.