The road south winds through a landscape sharpened by war.
Gone are the soft, snow-dusted pines of the northern caves;
here, the trees are gnarled and bare, their branches twisted like broken spears, and the earth beneath Bess's hooves is packed hard with the tread of countless boots—soldiers, travelers, arena fighters, all bound for the heart of Duke Spartan's territory.
The air hums with a restless energy, thick with the smell of iron and wood smoke, and every signpost is carved with the duke's sigil: a fist clutching a sword, emblazoned in blood-red paint.
Hannah checks the crumpled map she'd scavenged from a dead scout months back, her fingers brushing the scales on her jaw—now a faint, permanent smudge of black that she hides beneath a frayed scarf.
Benington Territory is a two-week ride behind them, she estimates;
Duke Spartan's domain stretches out before her, a land where strength is the only currency that matters, and monster parts fetch a fair, hard-earned price.
Ren, invisible but never silent, buzzes around Bess's ears like a hyperactive wasp.
"Weak human, why is everything so gray here? Where are the flowers? The shiny bugs? And why does that sign say Fight or Flee? Is that a game? Can we play it?"
His voice echoes in her head, a trick she's learned comes with their bond—the golden glow that had knocked her unconscious had forged a link between them, one that lets her hear him even when he's cloaked.
Hannah sighs, adjusting the straps on Bess's saddle where the minotaur horns jut out, threatening to poke a hole in the moose pelt.
"It's not a game, Ren. It's a warning. Duke Spartan loves warriors. Fighters. People who can win. And here, the monster parts we hauled? They're worth enough to keep us fed for weeks."
Bess snorts, her ears flicking back as a group of burly men in leather armor trudge past, their hands calloused, their eyes hard as flint.
They leer at Hannah's saddle bags, and one of them cups his hands and shouts,
"Hey, girl—you got monster parts to sell? Head to the arena's trading hall! Duke Spartan's men pay solid coin for proof of kills—minotaur horns, imp tails, the works!" The others laugh, a rough, barking sound that makes Bess stamp her hooves.
Hannah tightens her grip on the reins, nodding curtly, and urges Bess forward, her heart thudding.
That's exactly where she's going.
The town at the center of the territory is called Ironhold, a squat, fortified place ringed by a wooden palisade, with the duke's keep rising like a fist at its core.
The market square is a chaos of noise and color—vendors shouting about enchanted weapons and spiced mead, blacksmiths hammering away at swords, and a line of adventurers snaking around a stone building with a sign that reads Spartan's Arena Trading Hall: Glory and Gold for the Bold.
Hannah dismounts, leading Bess to a hitching post at the edge of the square, and Ren materializes on her shoulder, his tiny claws digging gently into her cloak.
"Finally! Something interesting! What's that building? Why are all those people yelling? Is there cake inside?"
"Quiet, Ren," Hannah hisses, glancing around to make sure no one's staring.
"You need to stay invisible when we're in crowds. Remember?" Ren huffs, but his form shimmers and fades, his voice still loud in her head.
"Fine. But if someone tries to hurt you, I'll burn their hair off. And then we'll get food ."
Hannah smiles, a small, warm thing, before turning to the task at hand.
She drags the bundles of monster parts off Bess's back—minotaur horns, goblin ears, wolf eyes, imp tails—and carries them to the trading hall, where a grizzled old man with a scar across his cheek and a ledger in his hand inspects each piece with a critical eye.
He prods the minotaur horns, turning them over in his hands, and nods slowly.
"Decent set—young minotaur, not full-grown. One gold piece each." He taps the imp tail, the spines glinting in the torchlight.
"Forest imp tail, venomous spines intact—fifty silver pieces, fair price for potion ingredients." He holds up a pair of wolf eyes, their yellow glow faint but steady.
"Glowing wolf eyes—twenty silver a pair, good for scrying charms." He glances at the goblin ears, flipping one between his fingers.
"Goblin ears—ten copper each, common but useful for ward-making. You've got twelve? That's a silver and twenty copper." He pauses at the moose pelt and antlers, running a hand over the thick fur.
"Elk-moose pelt, no tears, antlers straight—two gold total, apothecaries will take the pelt for insulation, blacksmiths the antlers for tool handles."
Hannah's breath catches.
Two gold for the minotaur horns, half a gold for the imp tail, a fifth gold for the wolf eyes, a silver and change for goblin ears, two more gold for the moose goods—five gold, eighty silver, and twenty copper total.
It's not a fortune, but it's more than enough to buy supplies for the road, a warm bed for the night, and a few treats to boot.
Her fingers tremble as the man counts out the coins—heavy gold pieces clinking against silver, the copper jangling in a small pouch—and she tucks the lot into her belt pouch, her throat tight with relief.
This is enough.
Enough to stop sleeping on the ground, enough to stop skipping meals, enough to feel like she's surviving, not just clinging to life.
Her first stop is the market's bakery, a small, cozy shop that smells like honey and cinnamon, the scent drifting through the door and wrapping around her like a blanket.
The scent hits Ren like a physical blow, and he materializes on the windowsill, his red eyes wide with wonder.
"What is that? It smells like sunshine! Like the warmest part of the cave! I need it!" Hannah laughs, pushing the door open, and the baker—a plump woman with flour on her apron and a smile on her face—grins at her.
"What can I get you, dear? Loaves of crusty bread? Sweet rolls stuffed with apple? Fruit tarts glazed with honey? We've got the best honey cakes in Ironhold—fresh this morning, made with clover honey from the nearby meadows."
Hannah orders a loaf of crusty bread, a bag of dried fruit, a jar of honey, and four honey cakes—one for her, one for Bess (she'd earned a treat), and two for the curious dragon on the windowsill.
She hands Ren a cake, and he hesitates for a second before taking a tiny bite. His eyes roll back in his head, and he makes a sound somewhere between a purr and a roar, loud enough to make the baker glance over.
"THIS IS THE BEST THING I'VE EVER TASTED!" he shouts, devouring the cake in three bites, crumbs sticking to his black scales.
"MORE! I NEED MORE! WEAK HUMAN, BUY ALL THE CAKES! ALL OF THEM! BUY THE BAKERY! BURN THE BAKERY AND TAKE THE CAKES!"
Hannah clamps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh, paying the baker with a single silver piece—enough to cover the entire order and leave a small tip—and tucks the remaining cakes into her bag for later.
"Calm down, Ren. We can come back tomorrow. But first—we need to buy a few more things. Important things. Like a cloak that doesn't have holes in it."
She picks up a thick wool cloak, dark green to blend in with the forest, lined with soft rabbit fur that makes Ren sigh with contentment when he touches it, and a small leather-bound book of swordsmanship from the merchant's stall—its pages yellowed with age, but the diagrams are clear, and the words are written in a language she can read.
The book costs two silver pieces, a steal for something so useful.
She buys a new dagger, its blade sharp enough to slice through leather, for thirty silver, and a pouch of healing herbs from the apothecary—mint for pain, chamomile for sleep, and a rare root that stops bleeding—for twenty silver.
And when Ren begs—pleads, his voice turning soft and whiny—for more sweets, she caves and buys a bag of sugar cookies, a jar of jam tarts, and a slice of chocolate cake that costs ten silver pieces, a splurge but worth it for the way his eyes light up.
Ren eats one cookie after another, his tail flicking with joy, and Hannah feels a lightness in her chest she hasn't known since she escaped the count's manor.
The sadness creeps in later, when she's sitting on a bench in the market square, sharing the chocolate cake with Ren, the crumbs sticking to her fingers.
A group of children runs past, laughing, chasing a dog, and Hannah watches them, her throat tight.
She remembers the count's manor, the way the other servants' children would play in the gardens while she scrubbed floors until her knees ached, the way she'd longed to join them but never dared—afraid of the count's wrath, afraid of being seen as a nuisance.
She remembers the empty, cold bed in her tiny attic room, the way she'd go to sleep hungry most nights, the way she'd dreamed of freedom but never thought she'd have it.
Ren, sensing her mood, lands on her lap, his tiny body warm against her hands.
"Weak human? Why are you sad? Did the cake taste bad? I can burn the baker—"
Hannah shakes her head, brushing a tear from her eye before it can fall, and tucks him against her chest.
"No, Ren. The cake was perfect. I just… I just wish I'd had something like this when I was little. Something sweet. Something happy. Something that didn't taste like fear."
Ren tilts his head, then nuzzles her hand with his snout, his scales warm and smooth.
"Then we'll have lots of cookies now," he says, his voice softer than usual.
"For you. For me. For Bess. Lots and lots of cookies. And I'll burn anyone who tries to take them away." Hannah smiles, wiping her eyes, and presses a crumb of cake to his mouth.
For a moment, the weight of her journey lifts—no hunger, no fear, just the taste of chocolate on her tongue and the sound of Ren's happy chatter.
It's a small, perfect moment, one that she tucks away in her heart like a treasure.
The fight finds them before the sun sets.
It starts with a shout—a loud, angry roar that cuts through the market's buzz.
Hannah looks up to see two men grappling near the arena's entrance, their fists flying.
One is a burly arena fighter, his chest bare, his arms covered in scars, a trophy belt slung over his shoulder; the other is a scrawny boy, no older than sixteen, wearing a tattered tunic, his face bloodied, a single goblin ear clutched in his hand.
"Cheater!" the boy screams, swinging a fist that the fighter dodges easily.
"You stole my kill! That goblin was mine! I needed the silver to buy medicine for my sister!" The fighter laughs, slamming the boy to the ground, and raises a boot to kick him.
"Finders keepers, runt! And if you don't get out of my face, I'll feed you to the arena's wolves!"
Hannah doesn't think. She leaps to her feet, drawing her new dagger, and steps between them, her voice sharp as a blade.
"Leave him alone." The fighter turns, his eyes narrowing, and sneers at her.
"And who the hell are you, girl? This is none of your business."
"It is now," Hannah says, her hand tight on the dagger's hilt.
"He's just a kid. Pick on someone your own size."
The fighter blinks, then throws his head back and howls with laughter—loud, cruel, and loud enough to draw a crowd.
The man's name is Goliath, and he lives up to it: broad-shouldered, towering over the square, his biceps thicker than Hannah's waist.
He plants his hands on his hips, looming over her, and Hannah—barely 142 centimeters tall—barely reaches his chest.
Her frame has filled out a little since escaping the manor, no longer just skin and bones, but she's still small—tiny, compared to his brute bulk.
"Someone my own size?" Goliath cackles, jabbing a finger at her shoulder, hard enough to make her stumble back a step.
"Look at you, pipsqueak! You're shorter than the duke's stable boys! I could crush you like a bug under my boot—without breaking a sweat!" The onlookers snicker, murmurs rippling through the crowd, and Hannah's cheeks burn.
She hates being reminded of her height—hates the way people always underestimate her, the way they think small means weak.
But then she feels Ren's energy thrumming in her veins, warm and fierce, and her hands stop shaking. She lifts her chin, meeting Goliath's glare head-on.
"Try me."
Goliath's grin drops off his face.
He lunges, his fist swinging for her head, and Hannah dodges—moving faster than she ever has, her body guided by Ren's silent voice in her head.
She slams her elbow into his ribs, and he grunts, doubling over, winded.
Before he can recover, she spins, planting a foot on his calf, and yanks—hard.
He crashes to the ground, face-first in the dirt, and Hannah presses the tip of her dagger to the back of his neck, her voice cold as ice.
"Leave," she says.
"And don't come back." Goliath glares at her over his shoulder, but there's no more laughter in his eyes—only fear.
He scrambles to his feet, muttering curses, and flees into the crowd.
The boy stares at her, his mouth open.
"You… you're amazing. I've never seen anyone take down Goliath that fast." Hannah lowers the dagger, her hands shaking.
She's not amazing. She's just a girl who got lucky—lucky that Ren's magic had given her a boost, lucky that she'd moved faster than she thought possible.
But before she can explain, a voice booms from the arena's entrance.
"Well done! Well done indeed!"
Hannah turns to see a man in polished armor, his chest emblazoned with Duke Spartan's sigil, striding toward her.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, with a beard that glints with silver, and his eyes are bright with admiration.
"I'm Lord Kartofel, the duke's arena master," he says, bowing slightly.
"I've been watching you. That was a fine display of speed and strength—exactly the kind of fighter we need in the arena. The duke rewards those who can win, girl. F rank to start, but with skills like yours? You could climb the ranks. E rank. D rank. Maybe even higher."
Hannah's heart sinks.
She doesn't want to fight in an arena. She doesn't want to be a spectacle.
But Lord Kartofel's smile is sharp, his eyes hard, and she can see the guards flanking him, their hands on their swords.
She glances at the boy, who gives her a hopeful nod, and at Ren—still invisible—who buzzes in her ear, Fight! Fight! Win the shiny coins! And the cakes! She hesitates, then nods. "Okay. I'll fight."
The arena is a cauldron of noise and heat.
The stands are packed with screaming spectators, their faces painted with the duke's colors, and the sand beneath her feet is stained with old blood.
Hannah is given a simple leather armor and a wooden sword—no daggers, no tricks—and led to the center of the ring, where her first opponent waits: a burly woman with a scar across her cheek, wielding a spiked club.
The crowd roars, and Lord Kartofel's voice booms over the noise.
"F rank match! Fighter one: Mara! Fighter two: Hannah! Fight!"
Mara charges, her club swinging, and Hannah dodges, her body moving on instinct.
The dragon's energy thrums in her veins, making her faster, stronger, and she can hear Ren's voice in her head, Left! Right! Duck! She follows his instructions, weaving around Mara's blows, and when the woman stumbles, Hannah slams her wooden sword into her ribs.
Mara grunts, collapsing to the sand, and the crowd cheers. Hannah wins.
The second match is against a man with a spear, quick and cunning, but Ren whispers the perfect counter in her ear—Fake left, dart right, disarm!—and she disarms him with a single, precise strike.
The crowd goes wild, and Lord Kartofel announces her promotion to E rank—leaping two ranks in one night, a feat no one in Ironhold's arena has ever accomplished.
Hannah stands in the center of the ring, her body aching, her heart pounding, and she can feel Ren's pride radiating from the shadows—warm, bright, proud.
Later, as she walks back to the hitching post, Bess nickering softly when she sees her, Ren materializes on her shoulder, his red eyes glowing.
"Weak human? You were strong! You were like a dragon! Like me!" Hannah laughs, tired but happy, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I couldn't have done it without you, Ren." Ren preens, his wings fluttering. "Of course you couldn't! I'm the Son of Calamity! But… you're pretty strong too. For a tiny human."
Hannah mounts Bess, the coins from her wins clinking in her pouch, and they ride out of Ironhold as the moon rises, casting silver light over the twisted trees.
Ren curls up on her lap, his tiny body warm, and Hannah smiles, looking up at the stars.
The road ahead is long, and Duke Spartan's territory is dangerous, but for the first time in her life, Hannah doesn't feel alone.
She has Bess, she has Ren, she has enough money for food and cake and a roof over her head. She has a name—her own name, not the one the count gave her—and she has a bond that no one can break.
And as they ride looking for an inn to stay, Ren's voice echoes in her head, already planning their next adventure.
"Tomorrow, we go back for more honey cakes! And then we fight in the arena again! And then we burn all the boring trees! And then—"
Hannah laughs, urging Bess forward, the scales on her jaw tingling with warmth. Tomorrow can wait. For now, she's home.
.
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.
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To be continue...