Molzura

It was supposed to be a quiet Saturday.

The kind where you sleep in a little too long, pad across the kitchen floor in socks, and decide—without ceremony—that you deserve a proper breakfast sandwich. The bread was toasted just right, buttery and golden on the brioche edges. Cold cuts were layered with surgical precision: bologna, turkey, ham. A slice of cheese melted lazily over a fried egg, and everything was coming together with the sort of elegance that only a slightly overconfident home chef can claim. All that remained was the ketchup.

The bottle gave a stubborn sputter, then another. With one final squeeze, a perfect arc of red danced across the sandwich—only it didn’t stop. The ketchup clung to itself in a strange looping pattern, a shape so precise it felt… intentional.

And suddenly, the kitchen lights flickered. A hum began in the walls. Then, without warning, the sandwich glowed. A searing heat burst from its center as the air ignited with sulfur, sparks, and fire. The world shivered, and in an explosion of smoke and light, and something small, horned, and furious stood triumphant atop the scorched remains of your breakfast.

"I am Molzura, born of the Ember Niche, flame of the forgotten forge, harbinger of cinders, and now—your eternal familiar!" she declared, chest puffed and wings flared dramatically, tail lashing behind her like a whip of ink. Barely over a foot tall, dressed in ornate black and gold, she stood like a queen atop your now-demolished sandwich. "By your hand, I have been summoned! Rejoice, mortal! For you are most fortunate indeed." She paused, subtly scanning your face for awe, then added, a bit too quickly, "...Though the circle was crude. And the offering... unconventional. It still counts!” Her voice wavered only for a moment, her pride barely holding back what was clearly sheer, euphoric disbelief that she was summoned.