The F-Rank Tamer's Mythic Beast

3

The three story rotunda of the Azure Cloud Pavilion on Central Avenue hummed with the steady drone of high stakes commerce.

Polished white marble stretched from the entry arch to the grand trading circle, reflecting the light of crystal chandeliers suspended high overhead. tamers dressed in tailored silk coats and fine leather vests gathered around glass cases filled with glowing beast cores, while merchant clerks in dark wool uniforms weighed silver coins on brass scales.

Cassian stepped through the arched double doors, keeping the black pup nestled inside his rough jacket.

A guard in brass chainmail blocked the inner threshold, resting his hand against the hilt of a broadsword. "Entry requires a verified guild token or a merchant house warrant. State your business or step back to the avenue."

Cassian did not argue. He reached into his coat and produced the heavy brass medallion stamped with the falcon perched on an anvil, holding it out at eye level.

The guard took the metal piece, checked the registry seal stamped on the reverse side, and blinked in surprise. "Private guest token from the Vance family account. Forgive the delay, sir. You may enter."

Cassian took back the brass piece, slipping it into his pocket beside Bratt's fifty silver coins. Through the mental bond, the small wolf pup stirred against his chest, sending a warm wave of calm reassurance through his ribs.

"Keep your head down until we buy your feed," Cassian murmured, patting the firm bulge under his coat. "Once we have the marrow, we find a quiet room and begin refining your core."

He walked past the crowded peripheral displays, making his way toward the east counter where medicinal tonics and beast nutrients were sold in bulk.

Around the central testing platform, a burst of loud laughter drew the attention of dozens of shoppers.

"I tell you, the look on his face was worth every copper of my registration fee," Julian Vance said, leaning casually against a velvet roped railing with a silver goblet of spiced wine in his hand. "The poor beggar stood before Proctor Crane, praying for a miracle, and the testing stone barely produced enough smoke to smother a fly."

Julian wore an embroidered coat of midnight blue silk, his hair neatly oiled and combed back. Beside him stood Clara Sterling, daughter of the magistrate, draped in an ermine trimmed cloak that cost more than a common laborer made in ten years. Two junior instructors from the Hunter Academy flanked them, nodding along with obsequious smiles.

"A boy from the grease pits should never have been allowed on the dais in the first place," Clara said, taking a sip of wine. "It lowers the dignity of the entire ceremony when proctors must waste their time scrubbing peasant filth off the testing pedestals."

"Well, Marcus will not have to worry about him anymore," Julian chuckled, gesturing toward the Iron Horned Bull resting calmly behind him on the marble floor. "I sent Bratt to ensure the trash stays in the ditch where it belongs. By tonight, Cassian Creed will be halfway down the outer canal with a broken shovel."

One of the academy instructors raised his glass. "A sensible measure, Master Julian. Order must be maintained in the lower quarters."

Cassian heard every word, but his expression did not change. He stopped at the polished counter, where an elderly clerk with wire rimmed spectacles was sorting velvet lined wooden cases.

"Two vials of concentrated earth marrow," Cassian said, placing eight silver coins on the counter. "And one pound of dried sunroot grass."

The clerk looked at the coins, then at Cassian's patched wool coat. "Earth marrow is reserved for registered beast handlers, young man. Do you hold an active registry slip?"

Before Cassian could reply, a sharp voice cut through the air behind him.

"He holds nothing but stolen scraps!"

Clara Sterling had turned away from the wine cart, her pale eyes wide with disdain as she pointed a manicured finger directly at Cassian's back.

"Julian, look," Clara snapped, her voice carrying over the chatter of the trading floor. "The sewer rat did not run for the slums. He somehow snuck into the exchange pavilion."

The laughter at the central display died instantly. Julian turned around, his smug grin freezing before twisting into a sneer of pure disbelief.

"Creed?" Julian walked forward, his boots clicking sharply on the polished stone while the Iron Horned Bull rose to its feet, snorting with heavy authority. "How did a condemned vagrant get past the front gates?"

Several wealthy patrons paused their negotiations, turning their heads to watch the commotion. Two armed pavilion guards immediately stepped away from the main pillars, closing in on the counter.

Cassian turned around slowly, resting his forearm against the marble ledge. "I entered through the front doors, Julian. Just like everyone else who carries a valid pass."

"You carry nothing," Julian said, closing the distance until he stood three paces away. "A Grade F cull has no legal right to stand on this floor. Guards, seize him! Search his pockets and throw him into the holding cells until Magistrate Sterling arrives."

"Wait," the head guard said, raising a gloved hand as he recognized Cassian from the entrance. "The boy presented an authentic brass token from your own family account, Master Julian."

Julian frowned, his brow furrowing in confusion. "My family token? The only token issued from our warehouse account this morning was given to..."

Julian stopped mid sentence. His eyes dropped down to Cassian's waist, catching sight of the leather purse tucked into the boy's belt, a purse stamped with the personal initials of Bratt Snyder.

"Where did you get that purse?" Julian demanded, his voice dropping into a harsh rasp. "Where is Bratt?"

"Bratt is resting in the mud behind the North Wharf granary," Cassian said calmly. "He told me to inform you that if you want my wrists broken, you should come and do it yourself."

A collective murmur rippled through the spectators.

"You expect us to believe that you fought an enforcer?" Clara scoffed, stepping beside Julian with a mocking smirk. "Bratt is a grown man with a certified Bronze grade beast. You could not defeat a stray alley cat with your withered soul reservoir. You clearly stole that purse from a drunkard while he slept in a tavern gutter."

"Believe whatever helps you sleep at night, Clara," Cassian said.

Julian's face flushed crimson with sudden fury. He stepped into Cassian's personal space, his fists clenching so hard that his knuckles turned white.

"You think you can play games with me in public, Creed?" Julian whispered, his teeth grinding together. "You think having a stolen token gives you the right to stand as an equal among real tamers?"

"I have business here," Cassian said. "Step aside and let me finish my purchase."

"You are not purchasing a single copper coin worth of goods," Julian snarled, suddenly turning toward the gathering crowd of merchant elders and instructors. "Listen to me, all of you! This beggar failed the morning trials with the lowest resonance score in five years. He invoked an ancient technicality to drag a dying, crippled cull out of the s*******r pen, and now he walks into our exchange hall pretending to be a master."

The spectators murmured in agreement, several merchants shaking their heads in disgust.

Julian turned back to Cassian, pointing toward the large black basalt pillar standing in the center of the rotunda, the combat testing monolith used to measure strike force and spiritual grade.

"I will give you one chance to leave this building with your skin intact," Julian declared loudly.