The F-Rank Tamer's Mythic Beast

2

Rain threatened from the gray clouds rolling over the chimney stacks as Cassian hurried past the grain silos on Cooper Street.

He ducked beneath an iron fire escape and turned into the dead end alley behind the North Wharf granary, setting the shivering pup down on a stack of dry burlap sacks.

The pup curled into a tight ball, wheezing with every breath, while thin streams of yellow bile leaked from the corners of its mouth.

"Hold on for one more minute," Cassian said, kneeling in the wet gravel beside the sacks. "You pulled through the carriage ride from the southern crags, and you survived the disposal wagon. Do not quit on me now."

The pup opened its single good eye, fixing that golden stare on him with silent, unbroken intensity.

Cassian took out his pocket knife and sliced open the cut on his thumb, letting the dark blood bead over the raw flesh. He pressed his hand directly against the cracked scales on the animal's forehead, right over the faint geometric pattern hidden beneath the scar.

"Take it," Cassian whispered, letting his soul reservoir flood outward through his fingertips. "If Crane wants to call us dead weight, let us see what happens when two discards share the same pulse."

The cold gray hide did not reject the blood. The liquid soaked into the scales instantly, and the crimson glow beneath the pup's eye flared with the sudden brilliance of an open forge.

A low tremor vibrated through the stones beneath Cassian's boots. The soul bond snapped into place not as a gentle stream, but as a roaring torrent of heat that rushed through his veins, burning away the dull chill in his chest and setting his spiritual core on fire.

Cracks raced across the gray scales along the pup's spine, spreading like dried mud under a summer sun. Large flakes of dead calcified hide sloughed off, tumbling into the burlap, and underneath that brittle shell grew a dense pelt of midnight black fur that drank the daylight.

The twisted rear joints popped with wet, sharp cracks as the bone structure reset itself, lengthening into lean muscle and steel sinew. Between the creature's erect triangular ears, a glowing sigil shaped like a crowned golden sun burned bright against the black fur before settling into the skin like molten gold.

The pup sat up, no longer wheezing or trembling, and lifted its head. Both eyes were open now, two circles of pure radiant gold burning with ancient intelligence, its slender jaw resting quietly against Cassian's forearm.

"Solar Devouring Fenrir," Cassian murmured, feeling the name echo directly into the center of his mind through the golden thread connecting their souls. "A mythic sovereign hidden under a curse of stone."

The pup let out a quiet chuff, nuzzling its black snout against his thumb.

"Well, well. Look at the sewer rat playing with his dead dog."

Cassian turned his head toward the mouth of the alley.

Three figures blocked the exit onto Cooper Street, their broad shoulders cutting off the pale light from the thoroughfare. In the lead stood Bratt, a towering enforcer who collected protection fees for the Vance family warehouses, holding a heavy iron bludgeon against his leather vest. Beside him stood Cole and Gage, two dock brawlers with brass knuckles strapped across their swollen fingers.

"Julian told us you were quick on your feet, Creed," Bratt said, stepping over a puddle of murky ditch water. "He figured you might run straight for the low quarter before the sweepers could tag you."

Cassian stood up, keeping his body positioned between the men and the burlap sacks. "The contract is registered with the proctor. Under civic law, unassigned citizens under a ninety day salvage bond have freedom of movement."

Bratt chuckled, spitting a wad of tobacco juice against the brick wall. "You keep quoting municipal books like those papers mean something outside the grand plaza. Young Master Julian does not want you limping around Calder Square making the Vance family look soft."

"So Julian sent three harbor thugs to do his dirty work," Cassian said.

"Julian gave very clear instructions," Bratt said, taking another heavy step forward. "He said you like to point fingers and wave candidate charters. He wants both of your wrists smashed, Creed. Just enough to ensure you cannot hold a shovel or a plow when the labor draft picks you up tomorrow."

"And the beast?" Gage asked from the side, cracking his knuckles with a grin. "Do we skin it or toss it in the canal?"

"Toss it in the canal after you break its neck," Bratt replied. "Young Master Julian said the city smells bad enough without dead hounds rotting in the gutter."

Cassian clenched his fists, feeling the steady, rhythmic drum of the black pup's vitality beating against his own heart. "Turn around and walk back to the warehouse, Bratt. You do not want this fight."

Bratt threw his head back and roared with laughter, his two flunkies joining in with high, jeering barks.

"Listen to the beggar," Bratt said, wiping a tear of mirth from his piggish eye. "He spent four years cleaning grease traps, got graded F by the academy shears, and now he thinks he can give orders to the Vance syndicate. Let me show you what real power looks like in this district, boy."

Bratt lifted his left arm, where a crude bronze bracer was strapped across his forearm. He struck the metal with his fist, channeling his soul reservoir into the bronze seal.

A flash of murky brown light exploded onto the cobblestones. Out of the light stepped a massive, four tusked beast with skin like rough flagstone, standing four feet tall at the crest and weighing at least six hundred pounds. Its small red eyes glared through the gloom, snorting hot steam that smelled of crushed gravel.

"Stone Hide Boar," Cassian said, his eyes narrowing. "A Bronze grade vanguard beast."

"Bronze grade and certified to shatter city masonry," Bratt said, patting the creature's armored shoulder. "Cost me thirty silver coins and three years of work at the docks. One charge will turn your ribs into kindling. What does your little mutt have, Creed? Scabs and lice?"

The black pup stepped down from the burlap sacks, walking with soundless, deliberate steps until it sat squarely between Cassian's boots. It looked at the massive boar with cold indifference, its golden eyes unblinking.

"Last warning, Bratt," Cassian said quietly. "Call the beast off."

"Crush him, Gorer!" Bratt yelled, pointing his iron club straight at Cassian's chest. "Break his legs first, then stomp that rat under your hooves!"

The boar lowered its armored head, its four jagged tusks gleaming like jagged granite. It dug its heavy split hooves into the wet gravel, tore up chunks of stone, and launched itself down the narrow alley with the momentum of an iron freight car. The walls shook as its broad shoulders scraped against the bricks on either side.

Gage and Cole cheered from the alley entrance, leaning against the walls to watch the gore.

Cassian did not move. He felt no urge to run, because through the mental tether, the small black pup projected absolute, sovereign calm.

When the charging boar was five feet away, close enough that the hot steam from its snout hit Cassian's trousers, the pup raised its right front paw.

It did not growl. It merely tapped the cobblestone with a single black claw ringed in gold.

A silent, invisible wave of heavy pressure dropped out of the sky like an iron anvil. The air in the alley groaned, the sound resembling wet leather twisting under immense strain, and the space directly in front of the pup darkened as if the daylight itself had been swallowed whole.

The charging boar hit that invisible wall head first.

Crack!

The sound was like an iron hammer smashing through brittle slate. The four heavy granite tusks snapped off at the gum line, shattering into dozens of sharp fragments that ricocheted off the brick walls.

The boar's six hundred pound bulk did not slide forward; the downward gravitational pull smashed its face directly into the stone pavers, buckling its front legs and flattening its rib cage against the dirt. A fountain of black blood and broken teeth sprayed from its snout as the stone pavers beneath its belly splintered into powder.

The massive beast let out a pathetic, squealing wheeze and went entirely limp, its eyes rolling back into its heavy skull.

The cheering at the alley mouth died in an instant.

Bratt stood frozen, his mouth hanging slack, his bronze bracer smoking with backfired spiritual recoil. His skin turned the pale gray of curdled milk as he stared at his prized combat beast lying ruined on the pavers.

"Gorer?" Bratt choked out, taking a frantic half step back. "Get up! Gorer, get up right now!"

The boar did not twitch.

"Impossible," Gage stammered, his brass knuckles trembling against his side. "That thing broke the perimeter gate at the shipyard last month. Nothing in the lower tier hits that hard."

Cassian stepped over the unconscious boar, his boots crunching on the fragments of shattered tusk. The black pup trotted smoothly beside his left knee, its golden eyes tracking Bratt's throat with predatory focus.

"You wanted to break my wrists," Cassian said, his voice flat and even. "You wanted to toss this pup into the canal."

"Stay back," Bratt shouted, raising his iron bludgeon with two trembling hands. "I am an enforcer for the Vance house! If you lay a finger on me, Julian will have the city guards string you from the south gate by sunrise!"

"Julian is not in this alley," Cassian said.

Bratt swung the iron club in a frantic, wild arc aimed at Cassian's head.

Cassian did not duck. Enhanced by the fresh vitality coursing through his reinforced meridians, his hand moved faster than Bratt's terrified eyes could track. He caught the iron club mid swing, his fingers clamping around the cold metal with the grip of a vice.

Bratt pulled with all his weight, but the club did not budge an inch.

"My turn," Cassian said.

Cassian ripped the bludgeon out of Bratt's grip, dropped his shoulder, and drove his right fist straight into the enforcer's jaw.

Smack!

The impact sounded like a butcher chopping through beef bone. Bratt's head snapped back, three bloody molars flying from his lips as his heavy frame lifted clean off the wet gravel and slammed back down onto the pavers.

Bratt rolled onto his side, clutching his shattered jaw with both hands, groaning in agony while tears and snot poured down his stubbled face.

Gage and Cole took one look at Bratt writhing in the mud, then at the black pup whose golden crest began to hum with a low, threatening heat. Without a word, both lackeys turned on their heels and sprinted into the Cooper Street traffic, their boots splashing frantically through the rain puddles.

Cassian walked over to where Bratt lay weeping in the dirt. He bent down, unclipped the heavy leather purse hanging from the enforcer's belt, and weighed it in his palm.

Inside sat fifty silver crowns and a thick brass token stamped with the crest of a falcon perched on an anvil.

"An entry token for the Hunter Guild Pavilion," Cassian said, turning the brass piece in the gray light. "Julian gave you this to buy strengthening tonics for your boar, did he not?"

Bratt could only produce a muffled, gurgling whimper, his eyes wide with sheer terror as he pressed his bleeding face into the muck.

"Consider this payment for four years of unpaid wages behind the Vance warehouse," Cassian said, pocketing the purse and the token. "Tell Julian that if he wants my wrists, he should come and break them himself."

Cassian turned his back on the ruined thug. He reached down, scooped the sleek black pup into the crook of his arm, and stepped out of the alley into the bustling traffic of Cooper Street.

"First we eat," Cassian said, resting his hand against the warm fur of the Fenrir pup. "Then we take this guild pass straight to the municipal pavilion and show the magistrates what their discarded defect can do."