Golden

How they laughed. How they taunted. A goldfish familiar? How preposterous. How silly. How… useless. What can a little fish possibly teach a mage?

But my boy Dean saw only possibilities, and look at us now. Effortless masters of watercraft, able to control the seas with a word, ice with a thought, storms with a flick of the wrist. None but the celebrated Masters of the Crafts can match Dean in capabilities. We came top in all classes and claimed this year’s Student of Note in the yearbook.

And in the hallway to the library runs a line of portraits showing the Students of Note for the past few centuries. Stern faced students peer down at passing studiers, joined by their familiars; dragons, gryphons, devoted dogs, brave wolves, loyal cats.

Then us. The brightest, cleanest painting of Dean and me, Pebbles the goldfish, graces the spot above the doors until next year, when we’ll join the others along the hall. After so much hard work, Dean deserves his moment in the spotlight.

I’m a GOLD fish for a reason, you know.

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