The F-Rank Tamer's Mythic Beast

The noon heat beat down on the cobblestones of Calder Square, baking the crowd gathered around the high stone dais. "Next candidate, step forward," Proctor Brenton Crane shouted, his voice echoing across the open courtyard. "Cassian Creed. Final call." Cassian wiped the sweat from his brow and climbed the granite steps. Hundreds of pairs of eyes followed him from the viewing stands, where the merchant houses sat under silk canopies to watch the annual Awakening. Down in the open square, common laborers and shopkeepers jostled against iron barricades, waiting to see if anyone from the lower avenues would climb out of poverty. At the edge of the dais stood Julian Vance. A thick silver chain hung across Julian's embroidered vest, and right beside him rested a beast that commanded the space: an Iron Horned Bull. The creature stood six feet tall at the shoulder, its hide the color of slate and its curved horns gleaming like polished steel in the sun. Julian caught Cassian's eye and smirked. "Do not keep the magistrate waiting, Creed. Some of us actually have celebration feasts to attend." Cassian ignored him and stopped before the central altar. A hollowed pillar of basalt held a sphere of cloudy quartz, carved with activation runes around its rim. Proctor Crane looked up from his parchment ledger, his expression flat and tired. "Place both palms on the stone, boy. Direct your focus inward and draw your soul reservoir to the surface. You have thirty seconds to establish resonance." Cassian settled his hands onto the cold mineral surface. He shut his eyes, filtering out the murmur of the square, and searched for the warmth deep in his chest. When he found the spark, he pushed it through his arms into the stone. The quartz sphere shuddered. A thin wisp of pale gray smoke drifted up from the base, swirling inside the glass for a couple of seconds before sputtering out like a wet candle. The runes along the pedestal flickered once and went cold. Crane tapped the edge of the stone with a stylus. "Resonance level six. Grade F. Inactive dormant reservoir." A chuckle broke out from the reserved seats beneath the silk awnings. "Grade F?" someone shouted from the stands. "Why did the proctors even let him waste the testing incense?" Julian Vance stepped forward, resting a gloved hand against the heavy skull of his Iron Horned Bull. The beast let out a deep snort that blew dust across the stone steps. "Did you honestly think your bloodline had anything to offer this city, Cassian?" Julian asked, loud enough for the entire first row of elders to hear. "Look at you. You spent four years scraping coppers to buy admission to this ceremony, and the stone did not even produce a spark. A stray dog has more spiritual weight than your soul." Cassian kept his hands at his sides. "The trial gives every citizen the right to test, Julian. My coin was just as good as yours." "Your coin came from cleaning grease traps behind my family warehouse," Julian said. "You waste civic resources just standing on this stage. Beasts respond to lineage, wealth, and authority. A dirt digger cannot command a beetle, let alone a combat partner." Proctor Crane picked up a pair of bronze shears from the table. "Hand over your candidate token, Creed. The result is recorded." "Is there no secondary test on the auxiliary plates?" Cassian asked, looking directly at the proctor. "The civic charter states that candidates within the boundary line can request an echo reading." "You are not on the boundary line," Crane said, his voice flat and dismissive. "You produced gray vapor. Grade F denotes complete spiritual atrophy. Hand over the token before I call the garrison to remove you." Cassian reached into his tunic and drew out the round bronze medal stamped with his registry number. He laid it on the wooden table. Crane brought the shears down with a hard snap, cutting the bronze disk in two. "Your registry as a prospective tamer is formally revoked. Under city ordinance, citizens of testing age without an active bond or a passing grade fall under civil labor jurisdiction." "Which means you belong in the outer canal pits," Julian added, walking closer. His bull followed each step with heavy thuds that made the boards vibrate. "Or maybe hauling slag out of the deep quarries. You will look right at home covered in coal soot, Creed." "I know the municipal code better than you do, Julian," Cassian said quietly. "A rejected candidate still has the salvage right until the third bell tolls." Julian laughed, shaking his head. "The salvage right? You are actually going to invoke that ancient joke?" Proctor Crane frowned, his brow furrowing deep into his wrinkled forehead. "You want to take a cull?" "The law allows it," Cassian said. "Any candidate who fails the primary resonance may assume responsibility for a condemned specimen from the academy holding pens. If the contract holds, civic labor reassignment is deferred for ninety days." "Do not be an i***t," Crane said, leaning forward across the ledger. "The holding pens do not contain pets for broke dreamers. Those beasts are slated for s*******r because their spiritual cores are cracked or their bloodlines turned feral during transport. They kill unbonded handlers within a week. If you take one, the city will not pay for your burial." "Bring the cart out, Proctor," Cassian said. "Or sign my exemption slip and admit you are denying me the charter right in front of the city magistrate." High above in the VIP gallery, Magistrate Marcus Sterling sat with his arms crossed over a dark velvet coat. He did not speak, but his cold gaze dropped down onto the dais, watching the proctor with mild irritation. Crane gritted his teeth, glancing toward the magistrate before waving his hand toward the holding ramp behind the stage. "Bring out the disposal batch. Let this fool see what he is begging for." Two kennel attendants in thick leather aprons wheeled a low iron cart up the wooden ramp. A rusted cage sat strapped to the timber frame, covered by a tarp soaked in blood and disinfectants. The stench of vinegar and rotting marrow hit the front row of spectators, making several noble daughters hold silk handkerchiefs to their noses. The attendant yanked the tarp away. Inside the cage lay a single creature, curled tightly against the cold iron bars. It was a juvenile canine, no larger than a fox hound, its body covered in dull gray scales that were cracked and missing in wide patches along its spine. Both of its hind legs hung twisted at odd angles, clearly crushed during capture, and its left eye was sunken shut beneath a thick, jagged scar. Its ribs pushed against its skin with every shallow breath. "There is your salvage," Crane sneered, pointing the blunt end of his shears at the cage. "A deformed mountain hound retrieved from the southern crags. Core shattered, legs crippled, blind in one eye. The dispatchers were about to drown it behind the abattoir to save on feed." Julian Vance stepped up to the bars and tapped the iron with the heel of his leather boot. The hound did not even flinch; only a faint tremor ran down its tail. "Look at this magnificent beast," Julian mocked, turning back toward the laughing crowd. "A broken hound for a broken beggar. Truly a match blessed by the heavens. Tell me, Cassian, will you ride it into battle, or will you carry it in your shoulder bag while it dies?" Cassian did not answer. He stepped past Julian and walked directly to the cage door. As he stopped in front of the iron grate, his chest tightened. It was not fear. The dormant soul reservoir that had barely produced gray smoke on the grand pedestal suddenly stirred, vibrating against his ribs with a faint, rhythmic pulse. He looked down at the hound. Beneath the scarred, closed left eyelid, Cassian saw something nobody else was close enough to notice. It was not dead tissue. Deep under the cracked gray skin, a thread of crimson and gold light moved like liquid fire, forming a microscopic, geometric seal that matched the exact frequency hum of his own blood. The pup opened its single good eye, a pupil the color of cold gold, and stared directly into Cassian's face. There was no fear in that gaze, and no submission. It held the ancient, quiet malice of a sovereign trapped in a cage of bone. Cassian felt the hair on his arms stand up. "Well?" Crane barked from the table. "Are you taking the beast, or do I call the bailiffs to drag you to the canal work gang?" Julian crossed his arms, smiling with cold satisfaction. "Do it, Creed. Sign the parchment. Bind yourself to a dying carcass and carry it through the streets. I want everyone between here and the slums to see what happens when a peasant reaches above his station." Cassian did not hesitate. He drew the small pocket knife he used for cutting twine, sliced the pad of his right thumb, and pressed his bleeding hand directly against the cold iron bars. "I, Cassian Creed, claim this specimen under the salvage decree," he said, his voice carrying across the quiet stones of the dais. "Record the contract." He thrust his bloody thumb between the bars and pressed it against the hound's forehead, right above the dormant scar. A sudden, sharp spark snapped against his skin. The hound did not bark or pull away. It leaned into the contact, absorbing the drop of blood into its scales until the red stain vanished completely into the gray hide. On the registry table, the salvage ledger flashed with a faint yellow light as the civic rune registered the bond. "Contract finalized," Proctor Crane said, stamping the page with a loud thump. "The beast is yours. You have ninety days to present a functional labor rating or your status reverts to penal indenture. Now get that stinking cage off my platform." Julian Vance let out a loud, mocking laugh, gesturing for his attendants to clear a path. "Enjoy your prize, Creed. Make sure to clean up its dung before you leave the plaza, or the sweepers will fine you the last copper you have left." Cassian unlocked the rusted latch with the key the attendant threw at his feet. He bent down, scooped the scrawny, trembling hound into his arms, and pulled his rough wool coat over its cracked scales to shield it from the blazing sun. Holding the pup against his chest, Cassian turned his back on Julian, on the laughing crowd, and on the high canopy of the noble houses, walking down the long granite steps into the noisy press of the city.