Tariq’s smile was a placid lake, hiding depths Zakhur knew were treacherous. “Slag so perfectly rendered?” The words hung in the stale air of the dormitory, a question that was also an accusation. Zakhur forced his shoulders to slump, a familiar posture of defeat. He’d perfected it in his first life, a shield against the endless expectations of others. “A furnace accident, most likely,” Zakhur mumbled, feigning an awkward shrug. “Some fool in the Lower Quarter must have misjudged a heat-feed. Happens all the time.” He hoped his voice conveyed the right amount of bored indifference. He’d bought the Fulgurite in the Lower Quarter, a plausible excuse for his presence there. The scent of ozone had been a lapse. Tariq’s eyes, however, didn’t leave the dark lump. He turned it over, his thumb tracing a smooth, obsidian curve. “Remarkable consistency for a mere accident. Almost… deliberate. As if the metal was *meant* to liquefy with such speed.” He looked up, his expression unreadable. “You have a knack for finding interesting things, Zakhur. Be careful out there. The Schola has eyes everywhere.” Zakhur’s gut twisted. Tariq wasn't asking; he was observing, warning, *testing*. The implied threat was clear. He kept his expression blank, forcing a weak smile. “Just lucky, I suppose. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it.” “Indeed.” Tariq finally stood, his gait fluid, unhurried. He placed the slag back on the small table. “Well, I merely wanted to return this curiosity. Don’t want you to lose anything of value.” He gave Zakhur a final, warm smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, then slipped out, leaving Zakhur alone with the chilling silence and the lingering heat of the slag. His cover was perforated. Tariq knew. Not *what*, but *that*. Zakhur felt the familiar tendrils of rage begin to coil in his chest. Soon. Soon, Tariq would understand what ‘unlucky’ truly meant. *** The acrid tang of sweat and fear permeated the arena air. The ‘Rift-Runner Drills’ were Vahram’s favored torture, a spectacle designed to entertain the moneyed nobility in the higher stands and break the spirits of the common-born conscripts below. Today, the main event was Zakhur. “Observe, you worthless grubs!” Vahram’s voice boomed, amplified by an alloy horn. His sneering gaze swept over the students, lingering on Zakhur. “This is what happens when you lack the noble blood, the innate acumen, the very *spirit* of true alchemists! You become fodder, like this one!” He gestured dramatically at Zakhur, who stood in the center of the dust-choked ring, unarmed, a canvas shirt clinging to his bony frame. “Our esteemed Zakhur, son of a gutter-sweeper, has proven himself a master of… incompetence!” Vahram continued, eliciting snickers from the privileged scions in the elevated tiers. “He struggles with even basic fume transmutations. So, we shall see how he fares against a challenge he cannot simply *fail* his way out of.” From a grated chute at the far end of the arena, a low growl rumbled. The gate clanged open, and a creature exploded into the ring. It was an Aethel-hound, its fur matted with dried blood, its eyes glowing with a feral, unsettling cerulean light – a beast corrupted by prolonged exposure to raw Aethel-vein energy. Foam flecked its jowls, and its bared teeth dripped saliva, sharp as obsidian shards. Its gait was jerky, unnatural, powered by raw, unstable magic. Nahid, perched on the edge of the commoners’ seating, felt a cold knot form in her stomach. Vahram was a monster. This wasn't a drill; it was an execution. Zakhur, for all his bumbling, was still an initiate. He was going to die. The hound lunged, a blur of muscle and malice. Zakhur stumbled back, a perfect picture of panic. He tripped, recovered, and barely dodged the snapping jaws. The crowd roared, a mix of cruel amusement and genuine terror. Zakhur ducked and weaved, his movements awkward, desperate. He fell, scrambled, rolled. He was performing a masterclass in ineptitude, yet somehow, the hound’s lethal bites always missed by a hair’s breadth. Nahid, her hand on the pommel of her training saber, watched, her brow furrowed. There was a rhythm to his feigned panic, a strange, almost choreographed sloppiness. The hound’s growls intensified, its glowing eyes fixed on Zakhur. It circled, then launched itself again, aiming for his throat. Zakhur let out a strangled cry, flailing his arms, and stumbled precisely into the hound’s charge. He was directly in its path, seemingly doomed. Without thinking, Nahid launched herself over the low wall. Her saber was out, a streak of polished steel. She moved with a practiced grace, a whirlwind of calculated aggression. The hound was focused on Zakhur, its guard down. Nahid used its own momentum against it, spinning into its flank. Her blade flashed, finding the thin gap between its shoulder plating and ribcage. A sickening thud. The Aethel-hound yelped, a high-pitched shriek, and collapsed, its unnatural glow flickering and dying. Its body twitched once, then lay still, a rapidly cooling lump of corrupted flesh. The arena fell silent. The commoners gaped. The nobles in the stands were stunned into quiet, then a murmur rose, growing into an indignant roar. “What is the meaning of this insubordination?!” Vahram shrieked, his face a mask of purple fury. “Get off the arena floor, girl! Guards!” Nahid ignored him. She stood over the fallen beast, saber still in hand, her gaze locked on Zakhur. He was picking himself up, rubbing his arm, looking utterly bewildered. But as their eyes met, a flicker of something in his own – not panic, not gratitude, but a quick, almost imperceptible *acknowledgment* – made her pause. Her mind replayed Zakhur’s ragged footwork, his desperate flailing. Each stumble, each roll, had subtly shifted his position. He hadn't just been dodging; he had been *herding* the beast, directing it, guiding its charge… straight into the path of her blade. “Unacceptable!” Roshan’s voice cut through the clamor from the VIP stands. The young aristocrat, impeccably dressed, stood with an imperious sneer. “To require a woman’s intervention! Such a display of weakness! This guttersnipe brings shame to the Marakand Schola! He should be expelled immediately!” Zakhur flinched on cue, looking suitably mortified. Nahid, however, felt a different kind of anger stir within her. Her eyes narrowed. She had seen the truth in his steps, the hidden precision beneath the pathetic facade. This was no ordinary scholar. He wasn't just incompetent; he was something far more dangerous. *** The armory reeked of oiled steel and old leather. Zakhur was attempting to patch a tear in his training tunic, his fingers still fumbling, when the door slammed shut behind him. Nahid stood there, saber drawn, its tip glinting in the dim light. “You’re hurt,” Zakhur mumbled, feigning concern, trying to diffuse the tension. He could smell the ozone on her, fainter now, but present. A residual charge from the beast. “Not as much as you *should* be,” Nahid retorted, advancing slowly. Her eyes were sharp, like a hawk's. “You moved with a ‘Rift-Runner’s Pivot.’ I’ve only seen that taught to Grandmasters in the Royal Guard. How do you know it?” Zakhur’s heart gave a cold lurch. The pivot was an obscure, almost forgotten technique, meant to guide monstrous charges with minimal movement, preparing them for a finishing blow. He had used it instinctively. His carefully constructed incompetence was crumbling. “I… I don’t know what you mean,” Zakhur stammered, backing away until his back hit a rack of dull practice swords. “I was just trying not to get eaten!” Nahid closed the distance, her saber pressing lightly against his throat. The chilled steel bit against his skin. Her grip was firm, her eyes unyielding. “Don’t lie to me. That wasn’t luck. That wasn’t an accident. You were leading it. You herded that Aethel-hound directly into my strike. Now, tell me, Zakhur. Who are you, really?”

The Hound's Teeth