The Chronicals of Alaraf

Officer Reichhörnchen did not walk so much as materialized at the edge of the rooftop, the way old operators do when they’ve spent too many decades refusing to announce themselves like reasonable people.

His Fylgia — a heavy, stone-quiet bobcat with fur like scorched autumn leaves — padded beside him, tail flicking in that unimpressed way only elder guardian spirits can manage.

Rob squinted down at the courtyard below, where Muezza was attempting to retrieve his dignity, and Calico was committing what could only be classified as Class-C Symbolic Theft.

“Mm,” he said, leaning on the railing. “Protocol violations everywhere.”

The Fylgia rumbled in agreement.
It was not a purr. It was judgement.

Muezza yowled something about sin, injustice, and missing headgear.

Rob’s eyebrow twitched.

“Kid,” Rob called down in his dry, Deitschlish deadpan, “if you survive long enough, you’ll learn that Calico only steals objects that are hurting you.”

The Fylgia sat, massive paws neatly aligned, eyes glowing like lit coals in a blacksmith’s forge.

“Besides,” Rob added, “you didn’t need that hat. You just needed someone to take it off before it fused with your identity.”

He tilted his head, studying the two small figures below.

“Calico did you a favor. You’ll thank them in three to five months, depending on how stubborn you are.”

The Fylgia gave a decisive nod.

This meant: He’s being generous. It’ll take you five.

Rob sighed, that particular kind of sigh that contains forty years of paperwork, graduate seminars, unhinged students, collapsed timelines, and at least one assassination attempt he refuses to discuss…[and really, really should.]

“Come on,” he said to the Fylgia, patting its thick shoulder. “Let’s go intercept the fallout before someone writes a memo.”

The bobcat rose, stretching with slow, terrifying grace.

Before they left, Rob glanced once more at Calico in the distance — streaking toward the security office, hat held triumphantly like stolen fire.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“That one,” he murmured, “is going to fix the whole damn department someday.”

The Fylgia chuffed softly.


It meant: Already started.

And together, they vanished down the roof access stairwell, leaving behind the faint scent of old books, pine needles, catnip bugspray, and the unmistakable, lingering authority of a man who has been everyone’s Federal Agent longer than anyone realizes.