Silas carried Diog into the Winner’s Holding Area. He was still amped up after the fight, but seeing how limp Diog was in his arms reminded him that winning had a price and that battling had its share of risk.

Diog was usually quick to bounce back in training, but now he just clung against Silas's chest, his breathing labored and shallow. Scorched patches marred Diog's black fur, eaten away by the slug's corrosive acid.

In places, the skin had turned an ugly gray where the frost had attempted to freeze the damage, leaving deadened, brittle, and frostbitten patches. Silas could see just how severe the injury was.

Diog might have been a Fenrir pup, but none of that mattered if Silas couldn't get him healing. Gently, Silas laid Diog down on a bench. Diog trembled and whimpered as he assessed the damage, his eyes unfocused and dull.

More shallow breathing followed. It was bad. Silas grabbed the jar of healing salve from his pack and began to smear it over the wounds.

The salve bubbled on contact with the damaged skin, reacting to the lingering remnant of the acid. Silas muttered a curse under his breath. The burns were worse than he had thought.

They had pushed too hard. No, he had pushed too hard.

“You shouldn’t have had to fight like that,” he muttered, knowing full well Diog couldn’t respond. Yet, Diog’s tail thumped weakly against the bench, a small but persistent sign of life.

Silas wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. They had three more matches ahead, but as he worked the salve deeper into Diog’s wounds, something settled in his mind. Diog wasn’t ready for another fight, not in this state.

He looked out across the holding area, trying to get a feel for things. Half the competitors had already packed up, their creatures either healing, killed, or eliminated. Some were completely unharmed.

A few tamers shot him brief looks, some sympathetic, others less so. Silas pushed these thoughts aside, focusing solely on Diog, who struggled for every breath.

“What can you tell me about the next match? How much time do we have?” Silas asked a nearby staff member. The man didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Ah yes. Steveson's Bone Slave. You’re on in thirty minutes.”

Silas felt the weight of that name settle heavy in his chest. A Bone Slave was a type of skeletal undead, and one of the few monsters basically unharmed from the last round. In Diog’s current condition, the loss was all but guaranteed.

“Do you have anything stronger I can use to heal him?” Silas asked. The staffer shook his head and shrugged. “What you’ve got is all we have.”

Silas turned back to Diog. He needed a solution, and fast. The thought of sending Diog into another battle made his gut wrench.

He knelt beside the bench, gently stroking Diog’s head, feeling the tremors coursing through his small body. “Hey, buddy,” Silas muttered, “we’re not doing this. Not today.”

Diog’s eyes fluttered open in dazed confusion. The staffer was still nearby, clipboard in hand, barely paying attention. Silas stood up and walked over to him.

“I’m forfeiting,” he declared. The man finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’ll be out of the tournament."

Silas nodded without hesitation. “I’m sure. My companion’s more important than any prize.”

The staffer sighed and made a note on his clipboard. “Very well. You’re officially withdrawing from the Hexgear Cup.”

Silas returned to Diog’s side, lifting him gently into his arms. Diog gave a weak wag of his tail, and Silas couldn’t help but smile despite the circumstances. “Let’s get you home,” he murmured.

He had forfeited the match, but there was still one more hurdle to clear. He needed to leave the Winner’s Holding Area with Diog.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

As Silas began to gather their things, another figure approached him after coming back from a battle. Veon Gelory, his Iron Golem remained untouched after their own battles.

Veon looked over Diog and then turned toward Silas. “He’s not fit for the next round,” Veon said quietly.

Silas clenched his fists. “I know. I've already forfeited my next match."

Veon studied him for a moment, then reached into his pack and pulled out a small vial. The liquid inside shimmered faintly. “You made the right call. This will help with the healing until you can get some proper care.”

“There will be other tournaments, other cups. But Diog… he’s got limits. He’s tough, but he’s not unbreakable. No one is.”

Without a word, Silas took the vial from Veon’s hand, the liquid inside offering a glimmer of hope amidst the despair. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the turmoil within.

Veon gave a slight nod, a gesture of solidarity and understanding. “Take care of him.”

Silas turned his attention back to Diog. Carefully, he uncorked the vial and tilted it towards Diog’s mouth. The pup lapped at the shimmering liquid, his eyes fluttering open slightly more as he did.

“Easy there,” Silas whispered, guiding the last drops into Diog’s mouth. He could almost see the relief washing over Diog as the potion took effect, soothing some of the pain and mending the worst of his wounds.

Diog's breathing evened out, and some color returned to his pale gums. The trembling stopped, and Diog seemed to relax.

Silas sighed in relief, feeling some of his own tension ease as well. He gently stroked Diog’s fur, noting how it was already beginning to regrow over some of the burned patches. "You're going to be okay," he murmured.

Veon stood watching for a moment longer before turning to leave. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, kid,” he said over his shoulder. “Don’t lose it.”

Silas offered a faint smile in return, then focused entirely on Diog again. He picked up the cub carefully, cradling him against his chest as he made his way out of the Winner’s Holding Area.

As Silas exited the Winner’s Holding Area, he spotted Morgaine de Blaise standing by the entrance. Her arms crossed when she saw Silas, but softened when she saw Diog.

“Silas,” she said, her voice formal but softer than usual. “I’m sorry, but I have to keep your entry fee.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Happens, I guess. We'll survive it.”

She glared for a moment. “Come see me when Diog is ready. I have a few odd jobs I can send you on for some quick money.”

Silas raised an eyebrow, intrigued yet cautious. “Odd jobs?”

Morgaine smiled. “The Registry often has tasks that need doing—paperwork, delivery runs… things that pay well enough for someone willing to get their hands dirty.”

“Right,” Silas said, nodding as he considered the offer. "I'll think about it."

Silas trudged back to the Beckham estate, Diog cradled carefully in his arms. As he approached the main gates, he saw the Gemini standing guard, their faces fixed on him.

This time, there was no aggression in their posture. The red and blue auras flickered softly as they stepped aside, allowing Silas and Diog to pass without challenge. "Thanks," Silas muttered under his breath, feeling a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

He carried Diog through the grand foyer, the portraits of past Beckhams seeming to watch with silent judgment. He felt every step weigh heavier, not just from Diog’s limp form but from the responsibility that came with it.

As he entered the central hall, Bonereghard emerged from the shadows. The skeletal steward's eye sockets glowed with an intense, almost fiery light as he took in Diog’s condition.

"What happened, young master?" Bonereghard's voice boomed.

Silas flinched but kept his composure. "We had a rough match," he replied evenly. "I pulled him out as soon as I realized it was too much."

Bonereghard's bony fingers tapped against his hip bones in what could only be described as an angry beating. "Rough match? Diog looks worse for the wear!"

"I did what I could," Silas snapped back. "I didn’t know it would be this bad."

Bonereghard's eyes flared brighter. "You are the master. These are the decisions you must make. You cannot throw him into battles he's not ready for. That is something YOU must learn to know in advance!"

Silas opened his mouth to reply but found himself at a loss for words. He knew Bonereghard was right, and seeing Diog like this only twisted the knife of guilt deeper.

The skeletal steward moved closer, examining Diog’s wounds with a practiced eye. "He’ll recover," Bonereghard finally said, his tone softening slightly. "But this is a setback we can ill afford."

Silas nodded silently, feeling every bit of that responsibility settling back onto his shoulders. He watched as Bonereghard gently took Diog from his arms and began to carry him toward the summoning chamber where they had trained earlier.

"You're lucky," Bonereghard grumbled. "If anything permanent had happened to him..."

"I know," Silas interrupted quietly. "I know."

They continued down the corridor in silence until Bonereghard stopped abruptly and turned to face Silas again. "And you," Bonereghard added with a sharp glare, "are eating nothing but vinegar water and buttered bread for a week!"

Silas blinked in confusion. "Wait.. what? Why me?"

"Because you need to remember what it's like to be prepared for anything," Bonereghard replied curtly. "Like how to prepare when your butler does not care to prepare meals for you."

Silas shot him a glare. "This was your idea."

"No," Bonereghard corrected, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "My idea was tax fraud, as you so inelegantly put it, remember? But tell me, looking at Diog, which one of us is the monster?"