His coin pouch, slung inside his belt, held five bronze beast coins, a small bundle of copper, and a dried fruit pit he’d meant to chew on during travel. Four hundred silver beast coins are enough to feed a family of four for years. He might as well have been the moon.
Fenna stepped forward. "Uncle, that’s too much. Can you please help, He is my..."
"I’m not done," Alfred cut in gently. "I’m offering help. You work for me for a few days, real work, not walking the drake like a show pony and I’ll cover half."
Zephyr’s head shot up. "You’d pay two hundred silver coins?"
"No," Alfred said, with a wolfish grin. "I’ll give it to Fenna. It’ll be her coin, her risk. If she wants to put it toward your guild, she can. Her name will go on the paper as co-founder."
Fenna’s eyes widened, surprise flickering to something unreadable.
"But the rest," Alfred said, "you find yourself. And let me give you one more piece of advice. You can earn it in the arena."
Fenna raised eyebrows. "Arena?"
Zephyr flinched. "The bloodpit?"
Arlen gestured through a back window. Beyond, plumes of sparks shot skyward above a coliseum‑shaped building where shouts rose. "Forge‑Arena. Beasts spar in fire‑rings. Wagers are big. Show your Hollowback’s (Drake) tricks, win silver." He eyed Zephyr. "But stakes bite."
"You fight. People pay to see wild things survive. You and that hatchling of yours is rare blood, fiery bond, you’ll sell out a crowd."
"Or die," Fenna snapped, stepping between them. "He’s not ready for the pit. Neither of them are."
Alfred shrugged. "I said it was advice. I didn’t say it was safe."
Zephyr swallowed. A lump of cold sat in his throat. Fenna had put her name on the line. Her money, too. And now he had to decide whether to risk his own blood to match it.
Zephyr’s pulse quickened. Stage 5 demanded forging a name; arena glory might do.
Star chirped, wings fluttering at the clang from the forge. Zephyr met Fenna’s gaze. "We can handle stakes."
"I’ll find the rest," he said quietly. "Even if I have to fight."
Fenna’s hand brushed his arm, hesitant, protective.
"I’ll help," she said. "But only if you promise not to go in blind."
Alfred grunted. "Good. Then get out of my back room. Sunrise waits for no dreamer."
Arlen gave them an attic room above dye vats. Thick beams dipped beneath the weight of drying yarn, and a lattice of rafters held silhouettes of old birdcages now stuffed with lavender to mask the chemical bite of mordants. The vats below burbled in every hue, indigo as deep as midnight, madder red like heart blood, weld yellow bright as noon.
Steam rose through warped gaps between the floorboards, curling about their ankles like tame spirits, filling the room with humid warmth that chased the night chill from their bones. Fenna set her pack by the narrow cot and knelt to unpack a chipped kettle, herb bundles crinkling in oiled paper. She brewed a calming tea for Zephyr, adding a sprig of star mint to steady his nerves, and the fragrant mist mingled with the smell of dyes until the attic felt half apothecary, half workshop.
Meanwhile he helped Arlen stir vats of indigo. The old trader’s arms flexed like braided rope as he turned the paddle, explaining ratios of lime and lye that coaxed the perfect blue. Zephyr listened, committing each step to memory, because knowledge was a coin where actual coin was scarce.
A few moments later...
Zephyr sat on the sill, watching red sparks drift from distant forges. Caravans groaned along the cobbles below, wheels flashing in torch light, and shouts of stevedores drifted up like gull cries at sea. Star perched beside him, reflecting city light in his opaline scales. A Ding sound rang inside his mind, crisp as a temple bell. He opened the System,
[Ding! New Stage 5 Sub-quest Generated: Earn 200 silver coins for guild charter or secure sponsorship.
Bonus: Impress Phoenix Ring founder.
Time: 30 days.]
Zephyr closed the panel, resolving hardening. "Tomorrow," he whispered to Star, "we will enter the arena."
The dragonling answered with a soft hiss, smoke curling from nostrils; it was a promise.
Morning haze smelled of molten metal and roasted grain. Dockhands pushed barley carts past smithies where hammer blows rang like distant drums. Arlen led them through crowded alleys to the Forge Arena. It was a ring of basalt bleachers sunk around a pit where vents bled constant flame. Iron gargoyles, mouths agape, funneled furnace heat into the bowl, keeping the sand hot enough to shimmer. A dwarf announcer’s voice boomed over clanging bells: "Next fight or match is between Iron-Jowl Boars versus Twin Ember Foxes!"
The Crowd roared as beasts clashed amid geysers of fire. Vendors hawked ash spiced corn and blister ale, and gamblers clutched tin cups into which runners tossed colored tokens. Silver changed hands in cups, scribes marked odds on slate boards.
Zephyr’s stomach tightened with nerves. Fenna squeezed his hand. "Star is faster than any boar."
Arlen returned with a parchment. "You’re on the undercard demonstration in the next fight. Wager odds are five to one against the ’Hollowback.’ Win, and you take twenty silver coins plus wagers."
Zephyr exhaled. He knelt before Star, adjusting harness rings. "Remember our training drills, Spark Dash, Ember Trail. Strike as hard as you can. Don’t hold back. Let’s sharpen our combat experience."
Star chirped, eyes gleaming. Zephyr’s blood thrummed with Dragon Sense, heightening every heartbeat.
When their turn came, an iron gate opened. Zephyr stepped onto hot sand, heat vents hissing around him.
The announcer’s cry rolled: "Behold, a rare Hollowback trainer Zephyr the Feeder! (Rank-E) Against... the Ash Scale Monitor! (Rank-D)."
A six foot lizard lumbered into the ring, its bulk swaying with the slow, deliberate menace of something that feared nothing. Thick obsidian scales armored its body like fractured stone, each plate cracked and glowing faintly with the deep amber light of magma just beneath the surface.