The line curled on. Slowly, they moved toward the front. Others filed in behind them, mostly humans. Another pair of demons joined, and a pair whose race Twain couldn't immediately make out. One tall and slender, one roughly the size and shape of a human child, they clearly weren't human from their green and white hair, respectively, but neither did they stand out to him as any of the other races.

At last, Saemel and Mare presented their certificates and passed without trouble. Beyond the table, Saemel turned back and glared at Spar and Twain. Mare pulled on his arm. He hesitated a moment longer, then slowly followed her into the Arena, watching the two of them the whole time.

The man behind the table flicked his eyes at Twain and Spar. “Certificates?”

“I’m not a border race,” Spar said confidently.

Confused, the man’s brows furrowed. “Then what are you?”

“A uni—”

Twain elbowed Spar in the gut. Do you want to get poached? Unicorns are far too rare, worth far too much, to declare that here! “A human.”

“A human?” The man eyed Spar up and down, the pure white skin, the big blue eyes and equine face, the mohawk, the silver diamond marking on his forehead. “Looks like a demon to me.”

“Demon? Me?” Spar spluttered, taken aback.

Twain sighed. Guess there’s no helping it. He slid a hand into his pocket and nudged the cork out of the bottle. With a practiced gesture, he shook a tiny bit of powder into his hand.

“So? No certificate, no entry.” The man crossed his arms and sat back.

“Sir, if I may?” Twain gestured the man closer.

The man cast him a suspicious glance. After a moment, he sighed and reluctantly scooted closer. “What?”

Twain lifted his hand and blew the dust in the man’s face.

Startled, he flinched back, then relaxed. His eyes glazed over.

Moving like lightning, Twain snatched up a certificate off the top of the stack.

The man blinked and snapped back to life. “Eh? What… where am I?”

“Here’s our certificate, thanks,” Twain said, pushing the paper at him.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The man took it. Still dazed, he glanced over the certificate, face faintly twitching. After a moment, he yawned, rubbed his eyes, and tossed it onto the top of the stack. “Names?”

“Twain and Spar.”

“Surnames?”

“Tigre,” Spar said.

Twain narrowed his eyes at him.

“And you?”

“…Klemuffin,” Twain replied.

The man frowned. “Spar Tigre and Twain Klemuffin?”

“That’s correct.” Twain nodded.

Spar giggled to himself. He leaned down and whispered in Twain’s ear, “Twainklemuffin?”

Twain barely stifled a grin.

“Something funny?”

“No, sir,” Twain replied, straight-faced.

The man sighed. “Go on through.”

Twain half-curtseyed, caught himself, and hustled past the man. Spar followed at his heels.

“What’d that powder do?” Spar hissed.

Twain held up the little vial and gave it a shake. The powder sparkled, a swirling vortex of stars as light as the wind. “Think of it like a reset. Knocks someone out for a split second. If you throw something at them immediately afterward, it’s like they’re just waking up. They’re dazed, not really focusing. You can get away with almost anything.”

Spar raised his eyebrows. “I want some of that.”

“Fifty gold a pop.”

“Fifty—”

“And that’s wholesale pricing.” Twain put the vial back into his pocket.

“Damn.”

“We call it fairy’s breath.” He paused and frowned. “Not very kind to the fae, now that I’m thinking about it.”

Spar shrugged. “Eh, the fae deserve it.”

Twain shook his head disapprovingly at Spar.

They passed through a tunnel and came out into the Arena proper. Stone step seats rose in all four directions, climbing away from the center. An empty sand pit stretched before them, neatly raked. A middle-aged woman sat by the pit, casually reading a book. Scattered here and there, other pairs of contestants scattered across the arena, dwarfed by its emptiness. Beyond the contestants he’d seen earlier, several more pairs of humans, an elf and a dwarf, and a single fae, gossamer wings folded at his back, sat amidst the stone.

At least we aren’t the only mixed-race pair, he thought, nodding at the elf and dwarf. They ignored him.

The bear beastfolk from earlier caught Twain’s eye and waved.

He wandered over and sat down beside her and her partner, elbows propped on the stair above his. Spar sat beside him, yawning. Bored, the unicorn reached into a pocket and tossed a handful of dry oats into his mouth.

“First time?” the bear beastfolk asked.

Twain nodded. “You?”

She flexed, showing off pale, furless scars on her bare arms. “I’ve gone a few rounds. Jamie, by the way, bearfolk, and this is Kat, who’s not a cat at all, but ferretfolk.”

Her slender companion nodded.

Twain glanced over Kat. Pale toast fur, black and brown markings, the dark facial fur, it was obvious now that he knew. He smiled. “Twain, Spar.”

Jamie nodded at Spar. “Are you horsefolk?”

“No. I’m a unicorn,” Spar declared.

Twain glared. Are you trying to get poached? Do you know how rare unicorns are? I barely know anything about the streets, but I know better than to run around announcing that!

Jamie laughed. “Oh, sure. And I’m the Dark King.”

Spar snorted. He tossed back another handful of oats.

“And you’re a drow, I take it? You’ve come a long way.”

“Yourselves as well,” Twain said, nodding.

Jamie shook her head. “Born and raised in the city. Parents moved here to get away from the blight. Wanted a better life for me and my brother.”

Twain nodded. He opened his mouth to say something when a voice whispered in his ear. “Mouse! Mouse, are you there?”

Twain popped up. “Er, bathroom, sorry,” he excused himself, hustling off.

Jamie nodded and waved him away.