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And then came the laughter. Thin. Mocking. Cracked like burnt wood.
Ayan’s voice floated from the healing ward: "Lowly Hollowback’s master... First, I will beat you to near death. Then I will sleep with that girl in front of your eyes. Then I will kill you with my own hands."
A few moments later... inside their room.
Star leaned into his leg then, his scaled shoulder pressing against Zephyr’s thigh. The heat radiating from the drake was faint but steady. A silent vow. A promise of fire yet to come. Fenna was creating healing paste for Star.
Zephyr glanced down, letting his hand rest on the curve of Star’s head.
In his mind, he replayed the battle again. Star had fought despite being wounded. They’d won but barely. If Dorian Slate had used another attack, or if Star’s wing had faltered midair... Zephyr would have lost. Worse, Star could have got a permanent injury.
Another truth burned inside his mind, hotter than anything else. He had punched Ayan and won a fistfight but if that had been a beast duel with Ayan and his shadow-leopard in the pit...
They wouldn’t have stood a chance. That knowledge settled in his gut like molten iron. He needed to get stronger. Not for pride. Not for ranking. For survival. And for Fenna.
Because next time, Ayan wouldn’t whisper. He’d act. And Zephyr swore he’d be ready.
The attic smelled of anxiety.
Sun’s bright motes swirled through gaps in the roof shingles, and the wash of noon light striped the warped floorboards in bands of gold. From below, the rhythmic slosh-slosh of Arlen’s dye paddles rose through the planks, carrying the sharp chemical tang of indigo vats. Heat gathered under the rafters, thick as a forge hood; sweat slicked to Zephyr’s brow, and his pulse still thundered as though the arena bell were ringing again.
Star dozed by the wall-stove, his legs twitching at half remembered battles. Zephyr flexed his wounded knuckles; pain flared hot, then ebbed to a dull throb.
The stair creaked.
He whirled, half expecting an ambush, only to see Fenna hauling a jug of well-water and a clay jar of pale salve. She wore an oversized working apron with a long shirt, sleeves rolled to sun-browned elbows, her hair frizzing from steam rising through the hatchway. Bright noon poured behind her, outlining her beauty in white-gold haze.
"Found more of Uncle’s burn paste," she said, nudging the door shut with a hip. "Mint root, pearl ash, pinch of wintercoil. Apprentices swear by it."
"You’re supposed to be resting," Zephyr murmured, trying and failing to soften his frown.
"So are you," she countered, kneeling beside him on the thin pallet. Boards groaned; dust puffed up. The jar thunked onto a crate that doubled as their table.
Star lifted his head, nostrils flaring at the new scent. Fenna stretched out a palm so the baby drake could sample the aroma. "Easy, braveheart. Cool and clean."
She scooped salve, peeled back the linen over Star’s flank. Noon light gleamed on raw scales, still angry red at the edges. Star’s lip curled, but he stayed still as Fenna spread the ointment in slow concentric strokes. Coolness hissed where paste met burn; the dragon exhaled a ribbon of steam, eyelids drooping in relief.
Zephyr’s chest tightened. "All this pain is because of me. I am sorry buddy."
Fenna turned to him. "Your turn." She took his right hand, where bruises storm purple against sun bronze skin. Dried blood flaked when she dabbed salve over split knuckles. The menthol bite stung; he winced but didn’t jerk away.
"Zeph," she whispered, "why did you go alone? What debt was worth bleeding in front of half the city?"
He stared at dust motes swirling in sunlight. "Debt of principle. A line I couldn’t let him cross."
"There’s a difference," Fenna said, bandaging him gently, "between a line and a noose."
He managed a rueful breath. "Then we forge a blade sharp enough to cut it."
Her gaze, all amber and green, searched him. "You’re planning something."
"Yeah! I planned to get stronger," he answered. "And I need you with us. Star and I can’t do this alone."
She squeezed his hand. "You never have to. Didn’t I promise you... I will always support you. You silly, did you forget that?" She blushes a little, her cheeks become thin pink.
Fenna set the jar aside and rose to fetch fresh towels. Mid step the attic stairs shuddered with heavier boots. Arlen Dale shouldered through the hatch, soot streaking his beard, city heat radiating from his leather apron.
"Hope I’m not interrupting’." He took in the salve, the bandages, the tension wound around Zephyr like wire. "The arena office was a furnace. But your mess was contained, boy."
Zephyr’s spine straightened. Star thumped his tail. "Contained?"
The old trader flipped a parchment. "Phoenix Ring covered damages (because they wanted Zephyr to work for them for fifty years), the arena magistrates dropped assault charges. But." He sighed, smoothing the crease. "Ayan Vaelor filed a formal challenge. He wanted a match in the arena pit after his injury got better. You versus him."
Fenna swore under her breath. Noon glare flashed on the blade at her hip.
"When?" Zephyr asked.
"Full Moon Night, of the new era calendar" Arlen said. "Eighteen days from now. Decline and you pay fifty silver crowns and public censure. He’ll brand you as a coward. He will sour every job, every gate, every inn."
Eighteen days: barely half a training cycle. But refusal wasn’t an option. "I’ll fight," Zephyr said.
Fenna rounded on him. "Eighteen days isn’t enough to heal Star, much less train!"
"It has to be," he replied, voice iron. "Three days for wounds, fifteen for work. I got a healing crystal from Luke, I will feed it to Star. He will get better in three or four days."
Arlen folded arms. "You’ll need airspace to train, no roof, no patrol whistles."
"Uncle, are you talking about the city training grounds? City training grounds cost coins we don’t have, we need to save every coin to open our guild." Fenna said.