The morning air in the lower districts was thick with yellow sulfur and the smell of grease. Alaric stood before a makeshift wooden booth where a man with a scarred face was taking names for the Iron Tournament. Beside the booth, a large chalkboard displayed the bracket of fighters—names like 'The Butcher,' 'Iron-Claw,' and 'The Ghost.'
"Name?" the registrar asked, not looking up from his parchment.
Alaric hesitated. He couldn't use his real name, and he couldn't use anything that sounded too holy. "Cinder," he said, his voice a low rasp.
"Cinder, huh? Fitting for a man who looks like he crawled out of a fire," the man muttered, finally looking up. His eyes lingered on the heavy cloak Alaric wore to hide his wings. "Weapon of choice?"
"A blunt iron slab," Alaric replied, gesturing to the training sword Varkas had provided. "For now."
"Entry fee is ten silver marks. Winners move to the main arena in two days. Losers... well, losers usually end up in the scrap heap."
Evelyn stepped forward and dropped the silver onto the table. Her hands were still stained with the ink she had used to redraw the runes on Alaric's limiter earlier that morning. As they walked away, she pulled Alaric into the shadow of a massive gear-housing.
"The tournament is crawling with scouts," she whispered. "I saw two men in silver-trimmed leather near the registration booth. Gareth is smart—he knows that anyone with unusual strength will eventually show up in the pits."
"Then I'll have to be careful," Alaric said. "I won't use my sword style. I'll fight like a brawler. Dirty, slow, and brutal. They won't recognize a Paladin in a street dog."
"It's not just Gareth you should worry about," Evelyn added, her eyes darting toward the upper city. "Varkas told me that the shard of Star-Steel isn't just a prize. It's being used as bait. The Church wants to see who is desperate enough to fight for a mana-conductor of that magnitude."
Alaric looked at his right arm. Beneath the sleeve, the cold-iron chain felt like a frozen snake, biting into his skin. The hunger for the Star-Steel was no longer just about survival; it was a physical craving. His dragon-core needed that metal to vent the pressure that was slowly crushing his human heart.
"Let them watch," Alaric growled, his golden eyes flickering for a split second. "They want a monster. I'll give them one that they can't control."
As they headed toward the barracks, a group of Silver Rose knights rode past on armored horses. The lead knight paused, his silver helm turning toward the alleyway where Alaric stood. Alaric held his breath, pulling his hood deeper into the shadows. For a heartbeat, the world went still. Then, the knight spurred his horse and continued on.
The hunt was closing in, but the prey was finally ready to bite back.