Claude did in fact want a ride.

If he wasn't still gripped by the throes of defeat and embarrassment, he would've gladly accepted.

Though his walk to work was better than what it could've been thanks to Ms. Callisto.

"Feel your feelings. Process them. Then move on." It sounded so simple. Like something he'd read in a guidebook not at all related to complex and annoying emotions.

The best teachers always did that. Made the complex simple. In theory….

He still needed to learn how to process abject failure and brutal beatings.

A lightbulb seemingly went off in his head as he watched a stallion stomp down the stone streets dragging a hefty merchants carriage.

The horse had to have come from quite a distance. Its muscles pushed past its thin dark skin and pulsed with blood and exhaustion.

"Right….." He always knew how to process negativity. He did it every morning. "I'll just workout more, then go from there."

He passed a Witches storefront and saw his reflection in the windows.

He looked like a mummy if they could bruise. If they weren't undead kings of the Sunlands and were instead fourteen year olds who were very much alive.

"I'll workout after a days rest then. Dammit."

*********

After half an hour of walking, Claude made it to work. It took a few shortcuts and almost being run over by an overweight street performer spitting pink and blue fire to reach the eastern edges of town, but he made it.

It was drier there. The desert norm of the Angelos District could hide behind forestry no more as the scarcity of rivers and lakes increased the more he traveled east.

Sometimes it almost felt like the sun was closer, drying the air and hardening the grains of sand collecting between the cracks on the stone road.

The east side of SkyHaven was less flashy and performative than the rest. It was the backbone of the city. There were no high climbing apartments and cute storefronts. Only department stores, sheet-metal giants of production and factories.

Street performers were swapped out with on the spot construction-workers looking for pay. Usually— forcibly, retired heroes with lost limbs and injuries to the mind far worse than anything physical— people at risk of horrific and dangerous class-changes. All they could do was offer their strength and elemental skill to building the city.

Claude kept his head down as he passed them. Two years ago he tried to ask one what being a hero was like and got robbed. The man had no fingers and was covered in claw marks outlined by hideous burns. Hard to miss. But Claude never saw him again. And on his birthday— a week later, his dad gave him everything back….

Now he fit right in with them.

"Hey! Dog-boy's finally become one of us!" One of the more mentally fit men yelled, getting a laugh out of the others waiting for work.

"DOG-BOY! DOG-BOY HAHA!" Someone yelled from an alley.

Claude fake laughed nervously as he closed in on him and his father's workplace at the edges of Bonehelm Street.

Like the other buildings it was colorless. But instead of being comprised of steel and sheet metal, it was made of woods and stone. The signage was a simple nailed in wood board that read, "Bonehelm's Boneyard Kennel." He still remembered painting the words on the sign years ago.

The sounds of barking dogs and working men filled the silence as he pushed through the doors and stepped inside.

"Oh— Uhm… Hi, Claude!" the front desk worker dropped her eyes as Claude approached to clock in.

"Afternoon."

A cat hopped up on the dark oak-wood desk and let off a series of high pitched barks as he filled out his timesheet. Raising a kitten around dogs produced interesting results.

"Afternoon, Marvin." Claude added as the cat walked over his paperwork and smacked him with her tail.

"How…. How was your day?"

"Good." Claude replied.

"So the other guy looks worse?" She brightened suddenly at the opportunity to break the ice, bouncing on her tiptoes.

Claude looked up from his paper and handed it to her, "Only if you find blondes ugly, Ilka."

Ilka— being a blonde herself, defensively stroked her braid of hair. "I think it depends…."

Claude didn't know how to respond to that, "If anything's wrong on my time sheet can you fill it in for me? I'm already late."

Ilka smiled, her pale skin was smooth as butter, "Sure thing! Your dad's back and needs all hands on deck so I was going to do it for you anyway."

Claude raised and thumbs up—

"Ack— damn!" He forgot his wrist was healing from….. anyway.

He pushed past the entry office, shoving through a door full of holes and covered in claw marks.

The scents of urine and wet dog magnified as he entered the kennel grounds.

It was nothing more than a massive plot of land in the backyard of the storefront. Gated by the lowest quality runewritten steel beams matched to marked collars.

Dozens of hybrid hounds, both rescue, found and sold, ran around the open space. Some worked with other trainers, others simply raced around sporadically stationed mazes and obstacle courses. It looked like hell but there was a method to the madness.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

"The son has returned!" A lady working with a geriatric warhound yelled from across the sanded field.

"He's trying to be like his father."

Claude's head swiveled to the left of the kennel grounds and he found his father seated on one of the stone benches. He slowly raised a finger to his lips as the hound next to him snarled defensively at the movement.

"You still think I don't know how hound-handling works, dad?" Claude thought as he studied his father.

Gil Grey…

He was a tall man. Lanky in limb but heavy in movement like his bones were made of iron. Or maybe he was just old and slow.

They didn't look much alike. His father's skin was pale like the men from Arthuria. Claude's was a dark bronze— closer to the men from the Sunlands or the Isle's of Indus. His hair was black and just long enough that his slicked back look was beginning to look stupid. Claude was bald. Both in face and head. His father had a wild crop of sideburns hugging the edges of his jawline. They did share the same long nose though.

He was an interesting looking man in his leather adventurers jacket and comically baggy pants.

Claude approached the two. He made sure not to make a b-line straight for the large dog seated at Gil's side. Instead he walked along its side with slow even paced steps.

All the while, other dogs ran over to scent and lick him with tails moving like swordslashes in a warzone. Quickly, the other workers called them off.

"Our newest is aggresive." Claude surmised— quite easily.

The hound was rough-looking. A male. Arthurian variant of the Mastiff based on its hanging jowls and stocky build— but it was definitely a crossbreed. It had naturally pointed ears. Well, ear. The other ear was gnawed off completely, leaving only a hole atop its bulky head. It also had golden fur— which wasn't a mastiff trait. Arthuria didn't have desert landscapes. It rained too much. The scars running along it's snout shook like lightning bolts as Claude neared.

"Easy…" He dug a handful of dried meats out of his pocket from breakfast. His voice even and quiet as he held his fist out to the dogs snout.

The goal wasn't to overstimulate.

The mastiff wasn't just smelling him. He was smelling the dozens of dogs around the kennel, the urine, the sweat and bowels— even the people Claude interacted with at the academy.

When approaching a skittish, aggressive dog in a new environment, it was best to imagine that you were coming with a weeks worth of company.

Would it not be better to at least do so quietly and calmly?

The mastiff's tail wagged as it licked his knuckles.

Claude opened his hand and let the beast have at his day old breakfast.

"Good job."

He took a seat beside his father, with the mastiff seated between their legs.

"Claude, meet Rocko." Gil announced.

"Hey Rocko, you look like you just got out of prison."

Rocko's tail thumped in reply.

Gil made a clicking sound with his teeth, "The dogs always like you."

"They hate you." Claude replied.

"They must smell the orc on me." Gil said.

"So that's why Frosty likes you so much?"

Gil forced down a laugh and let them sit in the silence for a moment before adding, "You look rough, kid."

"So do you, dad." Claude could see the beginnings of a few cuts along his chest and back at the collar of his sweater. Not to mention his eyebags were as deep as the Solantic ocean.

Gil lifted his arm and rolled up his sleeves, checking the three watches, "Last time I checked, I'm getting old. What's your excuse?"

"Samuel was Reborn in our sparring match." Claude huffed as he dug his hand into the fur of the Mastiff's neck.

"Ahh… hate when that happens." Gil said.

"But I almost had him." Claude was tired of being negative. Ms. Callisto wouldn't like it either.

"You know, I really don't appreciate how often that Mr. Raiden throws you to the wolves. Do I need to come to the acad—"

"No dad. And it's Mr. Raizen. He says he's doing it because I'm close to my own Rebirth." Claude said defensively. "I want to punch him in his face but he can teleport and scream lightning…. Like that giant lizard at the play you took me to last year."

He looked over at Gil expecting a returning joke or laugh but all he saw was fear…? Discomfort? Something gnawed at his inner psyche like the hounds in the kennel gnawed on kobold bones.

"Yea…. I guess you would be Reborn soon— at least statistically. Aren't you a little young? How old are you?"

"You're a terrible father, boss!" One of the trainers yelled as they threw a yarn ball across the kennel, causing six dogs to sprint after it.

Gil grinned, "You'll quickly find I'm a terrible boss too after this weeks paycheck, Martha."

"Just kidding, Gil— I love you and your dirty sideburns so much!"

Gil raised a middle finger to her—

Claude felt the mistake before his front brain recognized it. The sudden movement. The ruffle of clothing, sending scents of Tangent monsters and awful Gil anti-dog hormones. It was a disastrous anxiety inducing concoction to Rocko.

The mastiff's hairs stood on end, making him a fraction larger than he once was as he spun around and lunged for Gil's throat.

Claude lunged too.

With his arms outstretched, he worked to make do with what he had.

Which wasn't much.

As he landed on Rocko's back, he jammed his cast-covered forearm between Rocko's jaws. At the same time he wrapped his other arm around the beasts neck.

They crashed into Gil and flew off the bench, knocking up dust and dirt as they rolled.

Claude screamed in pain as Rocko clamped down on the cast and shattered it, sinking teeth like knives into his barely healed broken wrist and forearm.

The other trainers rounded up the dogs as Gil exploded to his feet to help.

"No!" Claude yelled and further locked himself around Rocko's backside as he shook. "Stay back, dad!"

His forearm shattered. Hideous hot saliva seeped into the wound.

"Hold on, Claude—"

"Go away!"

"Do you know what this I—"

"GO!" Claude couldn't feel his fingers. He knew he'd lose feeling in more parts of his body if Gil stayed around. He really rubbed dogs the wrong way at first meeting….

As Gil backed away and sent the other trainers out, Claude stuck his fingers in the dogs nose and pulled.

"WHERES THE FUCKING CHARMER FLUTES?!" Gil demanded.

"Digger broke into the supply closet last night and broke them!" Martha replied.

"What the fuc— is this a hit?!"

"He's joking and I'm going to die." Claude rolled his eyes and continued to pull on the beasts nostrils.

The lack of airflow and new awkward pain unlocked Rocko's iron jaws and he inhaled. His ribs expanded and Claude's arm came free.

Immediately he wrapped his good arm back around its neck.

Rocko shook and growled. Claude tightened. He knew the procedures.

"Brave the storm. Tire him out." Claude repeated. Both to keep himself from focusing on the pain and to avoid panicking about his wrist.

After a few seconds, he was surrounded by debris and the other dog trainers.

Martha, Bane, Juli, and Frank.

Martha held an OldWorld handgun in one hand, ready to euthanize the dog if it proved unable to fix.

They never had to do that. They even got an award from the New Glorian Beast-Tamers Association for it.

Claude wasn't about to be the reason they lost it. He didn't need to kill a dog to get through a work day. He didn't need to lose another fight.

"I'm good….. im good." Claude kept his voice even as they watched. He was more serious than ever this time around. Words echoing like ripples in a pond but never fading, "I can still win."

Rocko slowed.

Claude's elbow joint stung from how long his arm had been flexed at an angle. His shoulder was laced with fire. Dirt clotted in his eyes. When he shut them, all he saw was the color purple.

"Bane— treats, please." Claude said as Rocko slowed further.

"You think he's good??"

"He won't get any stronger." Claude grunted and pressed his head against the top of Rocko's head, forcing the mastiff to look directly at Bane.

Bane slowly approached and dropped a handful of dried meat and fats.

Rocko didn't notice it for a while— too lost in the fight or flight adrenaline response.

After a while longer, he couldn't stop his tongue from hanging. His aggression faded and he ate the food.

It felt like an eternity before Rocko stopped completely. He had impressive stamina for a mastiff. Whatever he was mixed with was a nightmare breed.

"You did it…." Bane said. The titanous hairy man sounded a little more amazed than.. ever, really.

Martha raised a slitted eyebrow and smiled as Rocko went docile.

"Good job, Rocko... you're a good dog… sometimes." Claude looked up at Bane. Bane dropped more treats.

Positive reinforcement was essential. Even when his forearm felt like roadkill.

Claude held onto Rocko for another minute before rolling over and letting go.

Rocko didn't even get up fully. He simply sat up and licked Claude's forehead.

Gil pushed past everyone. Rocko seemed perfectly fine in his presence then.

Claude could've laughed.

Then his dad spoke.

"By the gods, kid. You just submitted a bone-crushing dog…."