The outer ring's narrow streets weren't easy to navigate, but Silas followed the flow of foot traffic, noting how certain alleys drew more attention. By late afternoon, the sounds of shouting and jingling coins led him to what he sought.
Makeshift fighting rings dotted the cramped spaces between buildings. Frayed ropes marked boundaries while spectators pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, money changing hands as creatures clashed.
Silas paused at one ring where a teenager strutted about, leading a scarred wildcat on a short chain. The beast's muscles rippled under patchy fur, fresh scratches marking recent victories.
"Who's got silver to spare?" The teen shouted out.
Silas stepped forward. "I'll bet two silver."
The crowd went quiet. Several eyes fixed on the dark stains coating his leather armor, remnants of the morning's fight with the arachne.
The teen's confidence wavered as he took in Silas's battle-worn appearance. "Hope you don't mind crawling home."
Silas drew out the magistrate's orb. The unfamiliar tool pulsed against his palm as he fed it a thin stream of mana. Light swirled and took shape above the arena.
A Grey Owl materialized, wings spread wide. Its curved talons flexed as it settled onto a wooden post.
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone called out about easy money. But Silas had learned in his hunting days to judge nothing in advance.
“Begin!” someone shouted.
The wildcat's muscles bunched. Silas recognized the telltale signs from countless hunts, weight shifting back, shoulders lowering. His grip tightened on the orb.
The cat exploded forward, a blur of fur and extended claws. But Silas had already issued his command. The owl's wings hammered down, kicking up loose dirt and debris from the packed earth. The cat's charge faltered as dust filled its eyes and nose.
"Grip and drop," Silas ordered.
The owl's talons locked around the wildcat's torso. In one smooth motion, it lifted its thrashing prey skyward. The cat twisted and spat, but couldn't reach the iron grip that held it.
Twenty feet up, the owl released. The cat plummeted and yolwed. The sound was cut short as it hit the ground. The impact drove the air from its lungs with a wet crack. Its legs splayed at unnatural angles, chest heaving in short, desperate gasps.
The teen's face drained of color. His hands shook as he pulled two silver coins from his pocket and tossed them at Silas's feet.
Silas collected his winnings without looking at the broken creature in the dirt. The owl dissolved into mist, flowing back into the orb and left the teen to tend to his cat.
Silas moved to the next ring, where a bulky man guided a snarling wolverine. The crowd parted, recognizing his blood-stained armor.
Silas tucked the silver into his pocket and studied the wolverine. Its thick brown fur bristled, muscles coiled beneath. Not a typical arena pet - this was a creature built for killing.
The handler caught Silas's gaze. "Five silver minimum. Unless you're having second thoughts?"
Silas pulled out his coins. "I'll match five."
The man's thick lips curled. "Fresh meat, eh? Name's Garn." He patted the wolverine's head. "This here's Ripper. Earned that name fair and square."
"Silas." He kept his introduction short, focused on analyzing his opponent. The wolverine's movements showed training - it stayed close to Garn's leg without a leash, watching for signals. Its claws had been sharpened recently, catching the late afternoon light.
"Rules are simple," Garn said. "Fight ends when one beast yields or dies. No interference from handlers once it starts."
Silas nodded and stepped back to his position. The crowd pressed closer, coins already changing hands as bets were placed.
"Ten silver says your bird doesn't last two minutes," someone called out.
"Done," Silas answered without turning. He'd learned long ago that confidence drew better odds.
Garn dropped a hand onto Ripper's head. "Ready when you are, fresh meat."
Silas raised the summoning orb, feeling its familiar pulse. "Let's begin."
He raised the orb again, but this time different energies pulsed through it. A Lesser Salamander materialized in a burst of orange light, its scaled hide flickering with inner heat. Embers dripped from its mouth onto the packed dirt.
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The wolverine charged.
Silas had faced enough monsters to know a few weak points. As the wolverine charged, he kept his voice steady. "Target the paws."
The salamander's throat expanded, releasing a spray of burning sparks across the ground. The wolverine's paws hit the smoldering earth, making it yelp and stumble.
"Left flank, short burst."
Another jet of flame caught the wolverine's side. It spun away from the heat, fur smoking.
"Circle behind, force it forward."
The salamander darted around, spitting precise streams of fire that herded the wolverine toward Garn's legs. The beast's movements grew frantic, its earlier confidence shattered by burns it couldn't counter.
"Box it in."
Four quick bursts created a wall of flames. The wolverine pressed against Garn's legs, whimpering as embers drifted too close to its singed fur.
Garn's face twisted. "Ripper, get back out there!"
But the wolverine wouldn't budge.
"That's a yield," Silas called out. He'd seen enough animals pushed past their limits in Dolan. No point doing more damage just to prove a point.
More coins joined Silas's growing purse. He switched rings again, summoning the owl to face a desert fox. The fox's speed meant nothing when talons gripped it from above.
Ring after ring, victory after victory. But Silas noticed the changing atmosphere. Fewer smiles greeted his approach. Mutters about "borrowed power" and "street rat luck" followed his steps.
A group of men blocked his path to the next ring. Their clothes marked them as regular tamers - permanent residents who relied on these fights for income. The leader, a scarred man with a crooked nose, stepped forward.
"Think you're clever, boy? Coming here with magistrate's magic to steal our coin?"
Five others flanked him, hands drifting to belt knives. Their eyes held the flat anger Silas recognized from Dolan's streets - men who'd lost too much, looking to take it back with interest.
"One last fight," Crooked Nose said. "All your winnings against ours. Fair enough?"
Silas studied the men surrounding him. Six against one, and these weren't the drunken brawlers he'd faced in Dolan's back alleys. Their muscles and scars spoke of regular fighting. Even if he summoned something powerful, they'd gut him before the creature could act and even if he pulled off a win, they'd gut him just the same.
There was one option.
He recognized the greed in their eyes. The same look he'd seen in marks who thought they had the upper hand.
"All our winnings?" Silas pulled out his coin purse, letting it jingle. "Sounds fair. My summon against all of yours at once."
Crooked Nose blinked, caught off guard by the eager response. "You're that confident?"
"Why not?" Silas grinned, "Been winning all day, haven't I? Unless you're worried about somehow losing 6 to 1?"
The insult hit its mark.
Red crept up Crooked Nose's neck. "Get in the ring then, boy."
The crowd grew as word spread of the high-stakes match. Silas made a show of counting out his coins, stacking them where everyone could see then put them back in his pouch.
"Those are yours, if you win!" He grinned.
The other handlers did the same, their pile growing impressively large.
"Hope you've got something special in that orb," someone called out. "They've got two timber wolves and a mountain lion between them."
Silas stretched his arms, taking his time. "Oh, you haven't seen anything yet." He raised the orb high, making sure all eyes locked onto it. "Ready when you are."
The handlers spread out, reaching for their own summoning tools. Silas drew back his arm in an exaggerated wind-up, as if preparing to throw the orb.
"Hope you assholes are ready for something special," Silas called out, his muscles tensing.
The crowd pressed closer, eager to see what powerful creature he'd summon against six opponents.
He drew his arm back, orb ready in hand. The handlers spread out, readying their own tools. Their eyes fixed on the glowing sphere in his hand, waiting for the throw.
Silas twisted his body, putting his whole weight into the wind-up. Then he turned the motion into a dead sprint, darting between two surprised handlers before they could react. Their curses cut off as he shot past, boots pounding dirt as he dove into the nearest alley.
Shouts of rage erupted behind him. "Stop him!" "Thief!" "Get that bastard!"
But Silas was already three turns ahead, the orb and his original coins tucked safely in his belt pouch.
He'd learned long ago in Dolan that sometimes the best move was knowing when to run. Better to keep your winnings and your life than try to prove something to men who'd kill you either way.
Silas's boots hit cobblestones as he cut through winding alleys. Angry shouts echoed behind him, but distance wasn't his only advantage. He'd spent years learning every escape route in Dolan's maze-like streets, these outer ring paths weren't much different.
A cart blocked the next turn. Silas planted one hand on its edge and vaulted over, sending a stack of empty crates crashing. The noise would draw attention, but it also blocked pursuit.
He burst through a cluster of market stalls, ducking under openings and weaving between startled shoppers. A flash of movement caught his eye, one of the handlers had circled ahead, knife already drawn.
Silas grabbed a hanging rope of dried peppers and yanked it loose. The spices burst across his pursuer's face in a red cloud. The man's curse turned into choking coughs.
An old drainage pipe ran up the nearest building. Silas jumped, caught the edge, and scrambled upward. His boots found purchase on crumbling brick. At the top, he rolled onto clay tiles, staying low as more shouts rose from below.
The rooftop path offered a clear view of his hunters spreading out through the streets. Silas stayed in a crouch, moving from shadow to shadow. When one looked up, he pressed flat against a chimney until the threat passed.
Three buildings over, he spotted his escape route - a pile of hay bales stacked against a stable wall. Silas took a running start and leaped across the final gap. The hay broke his fall, though bits of straw stuck in his hair and armor.
He slipped through the stable's back door, past drowsy horses, and out into a different quarter of the outer ring.
The sounds of pursuit had faded to nothing.
Silas ducked into a shadowy doorway, catching his breath after the sprint through Bastian's outer ring. He pulled out the summoning orb, its surface still warm from use. Time to check what he had to work with.
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TAMED/SUMMONED MONSTER ROSTER (6 SLOTS)
[Grey Owl - E - Common]
Status: Available
Notes: Aerial superiority, excellent grip strength. Best used for quick strikes from above.
[Lesser Salamander - E - Common]
Status: Available
Notes: Fire breath effective for area control. Burns easily tire larger opponents.
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