CHAPTER 43: SECOND MATCH

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On the far end of the pit, his opponent awaited.

Dorian Slate was already out, standing tall in the flickering red gloom. His frame was bulky, scar crossed arms folded across a dented chainmail vest that looked too snug for comfort. His jaw was squared like a carved brick, eyes narrow and lifeless like stones shoved into a skull that had forgotten how to blink.

But it wasn’t the man that made Zephyr’s stomach twist but it was what crawled beside him.

The Gravelback Pangolin.

Two meters long from its burly snout to a tail covered in iron colored plates, the beast hunched low on squat legs, its body rippling with heavy muscle beneath scaled armor that looked like interlocked cobblestones fused with iron ore. A long pink tongue flicked from its beaked mouth, tasting the sand. Its claws dug trenches as it paced, leaving behind furrows like shallow graves.

Zephyr narrowed his eyes. Burrow type. Defensive. Hard to injure. It would take precision and strategy not raw power to win.

"Try not to scorch my pet, runt," Dorian called across the pit, voice loud enough for the crowd overhead to hear. "Stonework costs more than your life."

The audience chuckled in reply. Jeering. Dozens of voices echoing from the bleachers, many of them here for blood or coin, not honor.

Zephyr ignored them. Ignored Dorian. His focus was on Star. He crouched, gently touching the drake’s muzzle. "You good?"

Star didn’t answer with a trill. Instead, he lifted his head with quiet determination. His claws flexed in the sand, leaving shallow scorch marks. The bandage on his flank charred at the edges from their last fight. It twitched with his movement, revealing a raw, healing scale underneath. Heat shimmered faintly at the corners of his jaw, but not like usual.

The fire was there but muted. Less a furnace, more a flickering lantern. Still, Star growled low, smoke curling from his nostrils.

"It would be enough."

Zephyr rose. His hand dropped to his hip, not for a weapon, but for posture. For confidence. His body relaxed into the stance he’d trained for, legs loose, mind coiled.

The Gravelback hissed, claws digging deeper. Dorian barked a command. It was too low for the crowd to hear, but sharp enough that his beast instantly coiled into motion.

The match was about to begin. Zephyr inhaled once. Star’s tail snapped like a small whip. And the sand exploded beneath them.

Heat rolled off the vents in shimmering curtains as spectators settled, roaring for blood before a single claw struck sand. From his dais, the Arena Marshal, a granite bearded dwarf like man named Rurik Ironjaw, lifted his brass bell once, twice, three times. The great gongs rang in sequence, and magic-forged runes along the pit’s rim ignited, sealing the combat zone.

The pit fell silent. Then... the bells clanged.

A pair of hard gongs. The sound bounced off the arena walls like a steel heartbeat.

Fight on!

On opposite ends, Zephyr and Dorian Slate locked eyes. The Gravelback Pangolin tensed beside its master, legs digging in like stakes. On Zephyr’s shoulder, Star unfurled one trembling wing, bandages cracking with dried salve.

High above, a pair of scriveners illuminated enchanted slates that displayed betting odds. A betting broker yelled, "Yesterday’s miracle Hollowback is paying out nine-to-one against the arena veteran. Come place your bet." Coins clinked, groans rose; bookies wrote furious new lines as gamblers elbowed for space.

Outside the pit wall, Magistrate Rhun

of Forge Arena Ranking Supervisor stood on a mezzanine balcony flanked by three robed Rank Judges:

Judge Varis — a silver haired elf famous for rewarding bold tactics.

Judge Nola — a middle aged human scholar who prized technique over flash.

Judge Bragg — a burly dwarven ex-trainer notorious for brutal standards and a grudge against ’reckless’ rookies.

They leaned forward as the final gong shook cinders from the rafters.

The pangolin exploded into motion first, stone rippling beneath it. With a seismic grunt, it burrow-burst from one spot in the sand to another, re-emerging under Star’s flight path like a living ballista.

Zephyr felt the stone shrapnel slice across his shin like a hot knife dragging fire under his skin. His leg buckled for a heartbeat, but he gritted his teeth and stayed upright. Sand crunched beneath his boots, already tinged with soot and old blood. Above, the crowd’s cheers turned to a dull roar—fight fight, like surf pounding behind glass.

Star stumbled sideways, his bandaged flank flexing with strain, smoke trailing from his nostrils. The young drake’s claws dragged sparks as he tried to pivot.

No time.

"Spark Dash!" Zephyr roared, the command laced with urgency, focus. His voice cut through the noise like a dagger.

Star flared his wings, not fully, not cleanly, but just enough. A burst of heated air cracked beneath his talons. He surged forward, streaking across the sand like a comet leaving only a razor-thin trail of glowing embers behind him. The Spark Dash wasn’t perfect. It was ragged, slow on one side but it was fast enough to avoid the crushing swipe of the pangolin’s armored forelimbs.

Behind them, the Gravelback’s claws punched through the sand with a muffled thud, followed by the telltale grind of its burrow-plate spine adjusting. It missed by less than a meter. One more heartbeat, and Star would’ve been pinned to the slag-crust like a broken bird.

Zephyr exhaled, teeth clenched. He didn’t need flawlessness, he needed just enough strength to get to the ranking. But his hands were shaking. Not from fear. From fury.

He would win this. He had to.

Gravelback’s attack again.

Star’s injured wing shuddered. Instead of his usual comet trail, only a thin ember smear seared the air as he zig-zagged aside. The pangolin’s spiked tail still caught the drake’s haunch. Sparks, blood, and a raw cry shot skyward.

On the bleachers, two gamblers, First one a lanky gnome named Tib Grel in a moth eaten waistcoat and another one a rotund halfling woman Talla Plumpett wearing a neon scarf leapt up at the same time