Session 37

The jagged ridges of Avernus parted like torn flesh, revealing a palace that had no business surviving in this plane. Silver filigree and gold inlay caught the dim light like the hoarded treasures of a dragon, and the great dome of red stained glass glowed from within, as though lit by that dragon’s inner fire. The rosy light spilled across the courtyard, staining everything in a soft, deceptive warmth.

A stone marker at the base of the rise proclaimed, in a chorus of languages:

THE RED BELVEDERE.

The Venatrix hissed to a halt before a staircase of immaculate white marble. The steps rose toward the entrance with the confidence of something that knew exactly how many souls had been lost inside.

“We’re here,” Kypris said. “As per our agreement.”

They disembarked, and the Venatrix sped away, leaving them in a swirl of red dust and the faint echo of infernal engines.

“How do we want to proceed?” Seknafret asked once the engine’s howl faded.

“I recommend we don’t all go in together,” Ebyn said. “If the false Mordenkainen is here, a group of mortals arriving at once might draw attention.”

“I wonder how many mortals even come here,” Xalen said. “If the answer is ‘almost none,’ then splitting up won’t help.”

“That is a good point,” Secondus said, watching the steady stream of fiends ascending the stairs. “Our presence will be noteworthy regardless.”

“What about if we wear disguises?” Brabara suggested. “That way fake Mordy might not recognise us.”

Ebyn shook his head. “Those are pit fiends guarding the doors. They have true sight. Any disguise, magical or otherwise, will be useless.”

“So what?” Brabara said. “It’s not them we’re trying to fool.”

“That’s true,” Ebyn said, “but attempting subterfuge may be seen as suspicious. They could deny us entry or subject us to scrutiny we cannot afford. Better to roll the dice.” He smirked. “Pun intended.”

Brabara shrugged. “Fine. I’ve never been much for subtlety anyway.”

“Before we go in,” Ebyn said, “let me link us telepathically. It lasts an hour. And one more thing – we must avoid conflict at all costs.” He fixed Brabara with a pointed look. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

The group huddled while Ebyn completed the ritual. Once the bond was formed, they ascended the marble stairs and joined the queue of fiendish patrons.

Their arrival drew immediate attention. Horns, fangs, and burning eyes turned their way. Several fiends muttered insults in guttural Infernal, but none dared act under the watchful gaze of the enormous pit fiend overseeing the line.

When their turn came, the pit fiend stepped forward, blocking the entrance. It barked a few harsh words – then, realizing they didn’t understand, its voice boomed inside their minds.

“No trouble, mortals. The Red Belvedere is neutral ground. Any who break that peace will be dealt with… firmly.”

Its smouldering gaze swept over them, and each felt the weight of barely restrained violence.

“We are not seeking trouble,” Seknafret said, her voice dry.

The fiend nodded and stepped aside.

Colour and light assaulted them.

Discordant music mingled with the murmur of countless conversations. Fountains arced water high into the air, catching the glow of enchanted lanterns. Plush seating lined the walls, creating intimate alcoves where revellers lounged with drinks and delicacies served by impossibly beautiful attendants.

Fiends of every kind filled the space. Devils in tailored finery, demons in mismatched armour, even a few yugoloths drifting through the crowd like sharks among schools of fish.

At the centre of the foyer stood a massive statue of a five‑headed dragon, each head carved from a different coloured stone. The bodies merged into a single form that was somehow all colours and none.

“Magnificent, isn’t she?” a voice said.

A blue‑skinned tiefling landed gracefully beside them, her wings folding like silk. She wore bright, flowing garments and a smile that was both warm and calculating.

“I am particularly proud of how it captures the majesty of Mighty Tiamat.”

“Indeed,” Seknafret said, taken aback by the woman’s sudden appearance.

“Welcome to the Red Belvedere,” the tiefling said with a deep bow. “I am Windfall, proprietor and host.”

“I am Seknafret,” she replied. “These are Brabara, Ebyn, Xalen, and Secondus.”

Windfall greeted each with a smile that felt almost genuine. “We don’t get many mortals, but it is always a pleasure. Everything here is safe for you to eat and drink,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “and delicious. The entertainment is second to none.”

“Begging your pardon,” Ebyn said. “When was the last time mortals visited?”

Windfall’s smile widened. “Perhaps I misspoke. We have several mortals here right now. We almost always do – just not many.”

“I see. Thank you,” Ebyn said.

“Of course.” She gestured toward a counter. “You may exchange gold or gems for talons over there. May Tiamat bless you with abundance.” With a flutter of wings, she launched into the air and flitted over the crowd.

“Talons?” Secondus asked.

“Probably chips,” Xalen said. “Casinos use them to track bets.”

Brabara narrowed her eyes. “You’ve been to places like this? In Neverwinter?”

“Nothing like this,” Xalen said. “But the guild ran high‑stakes games. I hear Lord Neverember is quite the card player.”

“I see,” Brabara said. “Let’s get some talons so we blend in while we look for fake Mordy.”

Xalen approached the cashier. He activated the magic of his helm, and the surrounding noise shifted into intelligible Infernal. A few patrons sneered at him, but none did more than mutter insults.

“How much?” the green‑skinned fiend behind the counter asked without looking up.

“What’s the rate?” Xalen said.

“One talon for ten gold, or three hundred talons for one soul coin.”

“I can buy soul coins here?” Xalen asked.

The cashier shook his head. “No. Only talons. But I can exchange talons for gold or soul coins.”

“I see.” Xalen reached into his bag of holding and withdrew three thousand gold pieces. “Here you go.”

The cashier swept the coins onto a set of scales and waited for the counterweight to settle. “That’ll get you three hundred talons.”

“Sounds good,” Xalen said. “Any recommendations while I’m here?”

The fiend finally looked up, giving him a wry smile. “First time, is it? Don’t start trouble and you’ll be fine. The Alabaster Racetrack is good for casual gamblers. If you prefer games of skill or chance, try the Cerulean Hall or the Viridian Den.”

Xalen nodded. “What if my tastes are a little more… visceral?”

“If it’s blood you’re after, the Scarlet Coliseum has you covered. But I personally enjoy the Stygian Maze. It’s fun watching punters get taken out by the traps.”

“Thanks,” Xalen said, picking up the tray of neatly stacked talons.

He found the others near the statue of Tiamat and relayed what he’d learned. “The five gaming rooms are through there. Where do we start?”

“Remember why we’re here,” Ebyn said with a frown. “The seventh rod piece is somewhere inside, and so is the thief.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Xalen said. “But if we don’t gamble at all, we’ll stand out.”

Ebyn sighed. “Fair point. Just don’t let it distract us.”

They left the foyer and followed a colonnaded walkway to an oval structure. Three stables lined the racetrack, each guarded by pit fiends. The thunder of hooves and the roar of spectators grew louder as they approached.

They entered just as a race ended. Fiends cheered, cursed, collected winnings, or tore up betting slips.

“Care to make a bet?” a voice called.

A thin devil approached, black horns curling from his head, a pointed tail flicking behind him.

“What are the odds?” Xalen asked.

“No odds,” the fiend said. “Pick the winner, you get triple your bet. Second place gets double. Anything else, you lose.”

“How do I choose without odds or a form guide?” Xalen said.

“Every horse has an equal chance,” the devil said proudly. “Pit Master Uvashar keeps everything in balance.”

“So, there’s no skill? Just luck?”

“Luck, yes. If you want skill, try the Cerulean Hall.”

“I’d like to place a bet,” Brabara said. “One talon on Powderkeg.”

The devil wrote the name on a slip of paper and held out his hand.

“Xalen, if you wouldn’t mind,” she said.

Xalen handed her a talon. Brabara passed it over, and the devil pocketed it with a flourish.

“Race starts in a few minutes. Stay close so I can pay your winnings.”

“Anyone else?” he asked.

They all shook their heads.

“Very well. Good luck.”

He melted into the crowd.

“Stand around me when the race starts,” Ebyn said. “I’ll cast a location spell like the one I used to locate Tiny. If the thief is within a thousand feet, I’ll find him.”

“Good idea,” Seknafret said. “But this is only one area.”

“The spell lasts an hour,” Ebyn said. “We can sweep the whole casino.”

A trumpet sounded. Six massive horses emerged from the stables – black as midnight with smoke curling from their nostrils and flames licking their hooves. Barbed devils in colourful silks sat astride them.

“Nightmares,” Brabara said. “Last time we saw those, they were chasing us in Barovia.”

“Which one is Powderkeg?” Xalen asked.

“That one,” Brabara said, pointing. “Red and black silks.”

The crowd hushed. A crack like lightning split the air, and the race began.

All eyes were on the track. Ebyn cast his spell unnoticed.

The nightmares thundered around the pill‑shaped track, evenly matched. Whips cracked. Reins snapped. The crowd roared. Brabara whooped and hollered with the rest, her excitement infectious.

Powderkeg finished second. Brabara cheered, bouncing on her heels.

“This is fun!” she said, grinning.

The thin devil reappeared and placed two talons in her hand. “Another bet?”

“Absolutely,” Brabara said. She scanned the names of the next six horses. “Three talons on Firestorm.”

The devil took her payment and handed her a slip. “Good luck.”

“He’s not here,” Ebyn said once they were alone. “We should check the other gaming areas.”

“But the next race is about to start,” Brabara said.

“You can stay,” Ebyn said. “The telepathic bond lasts another half hour. We’ll be back.”

“Sure,” Brabara said, eyes fixed on the track.

“Should one of us stay with her?” Seknafret asked.

Xalen shrugged. “I want to look around. She’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t do anything stupid.”

---

The others left Brabara just as the next race began. She didn’t even glance their way; her eyes fixed on the track as the nightmares thundered past.

A colonnaded walkway led them to a blue‑stone building ringed by a graceful portico. Pit fiends stood at each entrance, their unblinking eyes tracking every patron who passed beneath them.

Inside, the Cerulean Hall was a world apart from the racetrack’s raucous din. A soft murmur filled the air – the sound of concentration, calculation, and quiet triumph. Patrons sat at small tables, locked in games of skill. Spectators hovered nearby, whispering commentary. A tall blue‑skinned devil with sweeping wings drifted between the tables, pausing to study a move or observe a match.

“Recognise any of these?” Xalen whispered.

“That’s Dragon Chess,” Ebyn said, pointing. “And that’s Three Wyrm Ante. But that one… no idea.”

“It is called Scales,” a deep voice said beside them. “Quite popular. Up to six players, or three teams of two.”

They turned to see a handsome humanoid with deep red skin and small horns curling from his brow. His smile was warm, but his eyes were sharp.

“My name is Aristophenes,” he said with a courteous bow. “Welcome to the Cerulean Hall. May I interest you in a game?”

“Are you the master of this hall?” Seknafret asked.

“Alas, no. That honour belongs to Nyssa.” He gestured toward the blue devil gliding between the tables. “She watches for opponents worthy of her attention.”

“I doubt any of us qualify,” Ebyn said with unusual humility. “We’re not avid gamers.”

Aristophenes smiled, teeth bright against his crimson skin. “No matter. We have tables for all skill levels. Beginners near the entrances here and opposite, intermediate along the sides, experts in the centre. And even if you do not play, you may wager on the expert matches.”

“And that’s your job?” Xalen asked. “Taking bets?”

Aristophenes inclined his head. “Indeed. Or helping you find a table where your talents may… blossom.”

“Do you mind if we look around first?” Ebyn asked.

“Not at all,” Aristophenes said. “I will be nearby.”

He drifted away, already greeting another group of newcomers.

They wandered through the hall, feigning interest in the games while scanning the crowd. Ebyn’s spell revealed no sign of the false Mordenkainen, so they slipped out the far exit.

A well‑lit path wound through blossoming trees, their sweet perfume a welcome reprieve from Avernus’s sulphuric air. The path opened onto a grand fountain carved into five dragons, each spewing a different coloured liquid – red, white, green, blue, black – swirling together into that strange all‑colour/no‑colour shimmer they’d seen in the foyer.

Signposts pointed toward the remaining halls:

West to the Cerulean Hall, North to the Scarlet Coliseum, East to the Viridian Den, South to the Stygian Maze.

“Which way?” Xalen asked.

“It matters not,” Ebyn said. “We must check them all.”

“North, then,” Seknafret said, and led the way.

The path opened into a massive open‑air coliseum of deep red stone. Roars and clashing metal echoed across the arena. A booming announcer narrated the action with gleeful enthusiasm.

They climbed the stands and looked down. A lone dark‑haired warrior battled three hulking, gorilla‑like demons. The crowd cheered wildly as he decapitated one of them. Bet takers swarmed the stands.

“I can give you two to one on the demons!” a spiky little devil squeaked. “Best odds you’ll get!”

“What about the fighter?” Xalen asked.

“No odds,” the devil said. “No bets on him.”

“So, you expect him to win,” Xalen said with a laugh. “We’d be idiots to bet on the demons.”

The devil shrugged. “Worth a try,” it said, and scuttled off.

“I’m not sensing anything,” Ebyn said. “Let’s check the next one.”

They returned to the fountain and followed the eastern path to the Viridian Den. Wide stairs led to an ornate wooden door flanked by pit fiends. The massive devils barely glanced at them as they entered.

Inside, the walls and ceiling glowed with luminescent jade. Patrons crowded around tables, shouting at dice or cursing their cards. A green‑scaled, draconic devil moved between the games, chatting amiably with players. When he saw them, he approached with a broad, toothy grin.

“Mortals,” he said in guttural Common. “Welcome. I am Rezran, Pit Master of the Viridian Den. I trust I can indulge your desire for entertainment.”

“This is our first time here,” Seknafret said. “We’re exploring our options.”

“And you have found the best,” Rezran said proudly. “There is no finer hall for travellers such as yourselves.”

“We’ve been to the racetrack, the hall, and the arena,” Seknafret said. “Each has its charms.”

“Bah!” Rezran scoffed. “The racetrack is for children. Uvasha keeps everything balanced, no skill, no influence. Nyssa’s hall is dull. But here…” He swept an arm wide. “Here you can shape your fortune. Here you can win or lose everything by your own hand.”

“And the arena?” Seknafret asked.

Rezran snorted. “Bloodlust? In Avernus? How banal.”

“What about the Stygian Maze?” Xalen asked.

Rezran shrugged. “Fun once. Even Kaylan grows bored of it. Once you’ve run it or watched someone fall, you’ve seen all it offers.”

“You make a compelling case,” Seknafret said. “What games do you have?”

“Drake’s Auction and Triple Hydra,” Rezran said. “But the true game is wealth. Turn a little into a lot, and you may earn entry to the Dragon’s Pride.”

“What is that?” Seknafret asked.

“An exclusive retreat for our most privileged guests,” Rezran said. “Invitation only. Something you should aspire to.”

“How do we earn one?” Xalen asked.

“Here? Wealth,” Rezran said. “Win enough, and I will escort you myself. Nyssa invites those who defeat her at Dragon Chess. Khai rewards champions of the coliseum. Kaylan… who knows? And Uvasha’s games impress no one.”

“Well, I’m convinced,” Seknafret said. “Let’s play.”

Rezran clapped his hands. “Excellent!” He guided her to a nearby table. “Braklesh will take good care of you.”

The dealer nodded. “Next game begins shortly.”

Seknafret held out her hand. “Talons, please.”

Xalen passed her fifty. “I’ll take the two Ebyns and check the last hall.”

“Sure,” Seknafret said, already absorbed in the table.

Ebyn and Xalen wandered the Viridian Den but found no sign of the thief. They exited and followed the southern path.

The path to the Stygian Maze was darker than the others and far less travelled. Only a handful of fiends walked it, and none lingered. Even the air felt heavier here, as though the shadows themselves were watching.

They stepped into a foyer carved entirely from glistening obsidian. Floor‑to‑ceiling windows overlooked a sprawling stone labyrinth below, half‑shrouded in drifting fog. Beside the windows sat an austere, fanged man in a high‑collared cloak at an intricately carved desk. His pale face wore an expression of profound boredom, as though nothing in this place could surprise him anymore.

Two fiends stood at the windows: one tall and insect‑faced, the other squat and leathery with a barbed tail. A pair of pit fiend guards flanked the room, and a few serving staff drifted about like ghosts.

A thin devil approached, balancing a tray of tall glasses filled with clear liquid. “Refreshments?” it croaked.

Xalen took one and sniffed. “Thank you. What is this?”

“Lavion Spirit,” the devil said. “Quite refreshing.”

He took a cautious sip. “Oh. It’s… strong.”

“For some,” the server said with a nod.

Xalen swallowed again, trying not to grimace. “What goes on here?”

The devil pointed a bony finger toward the desk. “Speak to Kaylan if you wish to test yourself against the ever‑shifting maze. Or remain here and wager on the success or failure of the contestants.”

Xalen nodded and strode toward the desk.

“How do I earn an invitation to the Dragon’s Pride?” he asked without preamble.

The fanged man’s red eyes slid up to meet his. “I see etiquette is not among your talents, mortal,” he said in a refined, almost weary voice. “But I do appreciate someone who gets to the point. What is your name, boy?”

“Xalen. And you haven’t answered my question.”

Kaylan sucked at his teeth. “Survive the maze and bring me three soul coins. Do that, and I will grant you and a guest access.”

“Where do I find soul coins? The cashier doesn’t sell them.”

“I do not care how you obtain them,” Kaylan said. “But there are coins in the maze if you are lucky… and blood if you are not.” He bared his fangs in a smile that wasn’t a smile.

“You’re saying I could die down there?”

Kaylan shrugged. “Reward never comes without risk, dear boy.”

“Fine,” Xalen said. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.” Kaylan leaned back, steepling his fingers. “The maze is currently occupied. I will schedule you as the next contestant. Entry costs twenty talons.”

Xalen handed over the coins.

“How long will I need to wait?”

“Hard to say.” Kaylan peered out the window just as a lurking creature lunged from the fog at the current challenger. “Could be a couple of hours. Or less.”

Xalen’s mouth went dry. “I see.”

“The maze requires an hour to reset between contestants,” Kaylan continued. “You may wait here, or I can have your name announced. What name shall I use?”

“No need,” Xalen said quickly. “I’ll wait.”

“As you wish. Help yourself to refreshments.”

Xalen rejoined Ebyn and Secondus at the window.

“There’s no sign of our target,” Ebyn said. “Not that I expected it to be that easy. But we are due some good fortune.”

“I’m going into the maze,” Xalen said. “If I can find three soul coins and bring them back, Kaylan will give me an invitation to the Dragon’s Pride.”

Ebyn inhaled sharply. “Are you sure? I’ve been watching the current contestant. They were nearly killed by some kind of giant lizard.”

Xalen swallowed. “I’ll manage. What about you?”

“I’m heading back to the Alabaster Racetrack to find Brabara,” Ebyn said. “The telepathic bond expired while we were in the Viridian Den. I hope she hasn’t gotten into trouble.”

“And then you’ll come back?”

“No. We need three invitations to get all of us into the Dragon’s Pride. I have an idea that might attract the racetrack pit master’s attention. I’ll try that first. But I’ll need talons.”

Xalen handed him the tray. “Take it all. No sense me losing it down there.”

---

Seknafret drifted through the Viridian Den with the same quiet caution she used when exploring a dungeon. The air shimmered green, thick with incense and the clink of talons changing hands. Gamblers shouted at dice, cursed at cards, or stared hollow‑eyed at their losses. She felt all of it pressing against her – the hope, the fear, the hunger.

She wasn’t looking for a game. She wasn’t even sure why she’d decided to stay here, away from the others. But a soft glow caught her eye: a circular table tucked beneath a canopy of emerald silk, its felt surface lit from within. The croupier, a devil with polished horns and a smile that never reached his eyes, tapped the table.

“Drake’s Auction,” he said. “A game of nerve and intuition. Care to join?”

Seknafret hesitated. The players already seated radiated tension like heat from a forge. A jittery tiefling with trembling fingers. A mortal woman whose smile was stretched too thin. A barbed devil sitting perfectly still, his expression carved from stone. She felt their emotions before she even sat down.

She took the empty seat.

The croupier dealt two cards to each player. Seknafret lifted hers. Mediocre. Fine. She wasn’t here to win yet. Three glowing auction cards appeared on the felt.

“Bidding begins.”

The tiefling jumped in first, voice cracking as he raised the pot. The mortal woman followed with a hesitant bid. The barbed devil waited until the last moment, then raised by a single talon. Seknafret folded and watched.

The tiefling’s panic spiked whenever he thought he was behind. The mortal woman’s hope flickered like a candle. The barbed devil… nothing. A blank wall.

The next hand played out the same way. And the next. Seknafret placed small, harmless bids, just enough to stay in, never enough to matter. She let the pot grow without her. She let the others reveal themselves.

Patterns emerged. The tiefling overbid when nervous. The mortal woman underbid when confident. The barbed devil only moved when someone else wanted the card, but Seknafret didn’t see that immediately. It took three hands, maybe four, before she noticed the subtle flick of his tail whenever a card he valued hit the felt. She filed it away.

By the fifth hand, she understood the table. She placed a modest bid and won an auction card with a whisper. Lost the next on purpose. Took the third with a calm that unsettled the tiefling. Her stack thinned. The pot swelled. The barbed devil’s tail twitched again, the same tiny movement she’d seen before. Now she was ready.

The croupier tapped the table. “Hands, please.”

The tiefling slammed his cards down triumphantly. The mortal woman revealed hers with trembling pride. The barbed devil laid his down with a smirk.

Seknafret placed her cards gently on the felt.

A hush fell.

Her total wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t lucky. It was simply higher – the exact combination she’d built through intuition, timing, and her ability to read people better than they read themselves.

The croupier’s smile tightened. “The pot is yours.”

Talons spilled toward her in a glittering cascade. The tiefling stared in disbelief. The mortal woman looked relieved. The barbed devil’s tail lashed once, betraying his annoyance.

Seknafret gathered the winnings with steady hands. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t smile. She simply stood, nodded politely to the table, and walked away.

She had barely taken three steps when a figure detached itself from a nearby archway. Rezran, the green‑skinned devil they’d spoken to earlier.

“Seknafret,” he said, pronouncing her name with careful precision. “Walk with me.”

They moved through the Viridian Den together, past the clatter of dice and the low murmur of wagers. The devil’s presence parted the crowd without effort. Only when they reached a quieter alcove did he stop and turn to face her fully.

“You did well,” he said. “I was impressed by your skill.”

Seknafret inclined her head. “You were watching.”

“I watch everything,” Rezran replied. “But I pay attention only to the ones who deserve it.”

He studied her for a long moment, not with hunger or malice, but with the cool appraisal of someone accustomed to measuring worth in more than coin. “Most mortals who sit at Drake’s Auction lose themselves in the noise. You didn’t. You read the table. You read the players. You kept your head when others lost theirs.”

Seknafret wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she said nothing.

Rezran’s mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The Viridian Den rewards skill. And discretion. You showed both.”

“Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.

“Another few wins like that and you will have proved worthy of an invitation to the Dragon’s Pride,” he said.

“I don’t know,” Seknafret said. “I think I should return to my friends.”

Rezran inclined his head once, sharply. “Very well, mortal. Though I do hope you return and experience all the Viridian Den has to offer.”

He melted back into the crowd as silently as he’d appeared, leaving Seknafret standing alone with her winnings, her thoughts, and a faint tugging in her mind urging her to gamble more.

She rubbed her forearm absently and went to find the others.

---

Firestorm won its race, earning Brabara nine talons.

“This gambling game is easy,” she muttered, placing another bet – five talons on a horse named Lava Flow.

Lava Flow finished fourth.

Her next horse lost as well, and Brabara’s confidence curdled into quiet desperation. She stared at the small handful of ceramic coins she had left and decided horse racing might not be her calling after all.

She left the Alabaster Racetrack and made her way to the Cerulean Hall.

She hated it instantly.

Brabara didn’t slow as she strode past the silent gamers and their equally silent spectators, ignoring servers and bet takers who tried to catch her eye. She reached the five‑dragon fountain, spotted the sign pointing toward the Scarlet Coliseum, and felt something inside her click.

That was where she belonged.

Drawn by the roar of the crowd, Brabara felt her heart pound as she approached the star‑shaped arena.

“This is more like it,” she said, climbing the stairs.

“Care to place a bet?” chirped the same spiky little devil from earlier. “But for one such as you, there’s more money to be made on the sand.”

Brabara followed its pointing finger to where a team of devils battled a winged demon.

“You mean I can fight to win money?” she asked.

“Yes,” the devil said. “One hundred talons for a first‑round win, two hundred for the second, five hundred for the championship.”

The thought of that much wealth made her feel warm all over. “Where do I sign up?”

“I’ll take you to Khai. Entry fee is fifteen talons.”

Brabara looked down at her remaining coins. “I only have three.”

The devil plucked them from her hand and grinned. “I’ll take the rest from your winnings. I have a feeling you’ll do well.”

He led her down the stairs and around the side of the building to an opening at its base. Inside, a massive red‑skinned draconic devil barked orders at minions in a guttural tongue. The creature turned as they entered.

“I’ve got a new fighter for you, Khai,” the spiky devil said.

Khai gave Brabara a long, appraising look. “You look like you can handle yourself. You’re doing this willingly?”

Brabara nodded. “What are the rules?”

“Just one. No healing. You get an hour between rounds to recover, but no healing magic in the arena. Win the round, you get paid.”

“And if I lose?”

“Lose, and you get banned.”

“Kinda redundant banning someone who’s dead,” Brabara said.

Khai snorted. “Mortals.”

“You don’t like mortals?” she asked.

“Not that,” Khai said. “I forget death is permanent for you. We don’t get many mortals willing to fight here, but today we have two. If you die, we’ll bring you back if we can – but you’ll never fight here again. The Scarlet Coliseum is no place for losers.”

“Sounds good,” Brabara said, cracking her knuckles. “When do I go on?”

Khai cocked his head as the crowd above erupted in a thunderous roar. “Soon,” he said with a wide grin. “Very soon. What do I call you?”

Brabara thought for a moment. “Succula, the Brabarian.”

She watched as defeated demons were dragged from the sand by muscular little devils. The victorious team swaggered into the waiting area moments later, giving her mocking stares as they passed.

Above, the commentator’s voice whipped the crowd into a frenzy. When Brabara heard her name, she strode onto the sand with her hammer raised high.

The roar that greeted her hit like a physical force.

A feeling unlike anything she’d ever known washed over her – the adulation, the hunger, the bloodlust. Some screamed for her victory, others for her death, but all of it was hers.

And she loved it.

Brabara threw her head back and screamed with the crowd until her throat burned.

On opposite sides of the arena, cage doors lifted. Two heavily muscled demons lumbered out, tusks jutting from their gorilla‑like faces. They pounded their chests and charged.

The first leapt twenty feet into the air. Brabara met it with her hammer, smashing it out of the air. She sidestepped the second’s charge and slammed her hammer into its chest as it barrelled past.

The first demon rose and hammered its fists into her. The blows hurt, but she’d taken worse.

Brabara moved between them with ruthless precision, her hammer cracking elbows, knees, and hips, denying them any advantage.

The first demon died with a loud crack as her hammer crushed its skull. The second fell moments later, both legs broken. It tried to lift an arm, but Brabara ended it with a dramatic overhand strike that brought the crowd to its feet.

Breathing hard, she stood in the sand as the announcer praised her victory.

When the bodies were dragged away and the cheers began to fade, she returned to the fighters’ entrance where Khai waited.

“You did well,” the red devil said, handing her a pouch heavy with coins. “I’ll make sure the next challenge suits your… talents.”

“What now?” Brabara asked.

“You may rest there,” Khai said, pointing to a row of small chambers built into the arena wall. “Your next bout won’t be for at least an hour. Rest while you can.”

“Can I leave?”

Khai made a sound that might have been a laugh. “You are not my prisoner. You may leave at any time, but you forfeit any remaining bouts.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Only if you seek the championship. Win that, and you earn entry to the Dragon’s Pride – the jewel of the Red Belvedere.”

Brabara nodded. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

She stepped into one of the rest chambers, heart still pounding with the echo of the crowd.

---

Ebyn returned to the Alabaster Racetrack and immediately saw that Brabara was gone.

“Damned fool woman,” he muttered, circling the elongated oval structure with Secondus at his side. After two full laps, there was still no sign of her.

“Should we try to find her?” Secondus asked.

“Perhaps,” Ebyn said, “but doing that means not being here where Xalen expects us.”

“I could go,” Secondus offered. “Or you go while I stay.”

Ebyn shook his head. “I’d rather we didn’t split up any further. She gave no indication anything was wrong while the bond was active. Let’s assume she’s exploring the casino like we did. She’ll find her way back. Besides…” he gave Secondus a pointed look “I need your help with what I have planned.”

Secondus shrugged. “Fair enough. What is this plan?”

“I’m going to rig one of the races,” Ebyn said. “Uvashar prides himself on balance. Every race perfectly fair. If we disrupt that balance, dramatically, it might impress him enough to grant us entry to the Dragon’s Pride.”

Secondus considered this. “Perhaps. Or it could get us into the kind of trouble we’ve been trying to avoid. Wouldn’t it be easier to win a few games in the Cerulean Hall?”

“That can be the backup plan,” Ebyn said. “Besides, this is far more interesting than beating a bunch of ignorant fools at Dragon Chess.”

“Very well. What do you need me to do?”

“You’re going to sneak into the stables and cast haste on the horse of our choosing.”

“I’m going to what?” Secondus said. “Surely Xalen would be better suited to this.”

Ebyn smiled. “Relax. I’ll transform you into something innocuous. You’ll slip in easily, hide until the right moment, cast the spell, and then…”

“And then what?” Secondus said.

“Teleportation,” Ebyn said. “Use the spell to return to our starting point.”

Secondus nodded slowly. “That… might actually work.”

“It really might,” Ebyn said. “But first we need to observe a few races. Timing is everything.”

They watched for nearly half an hour, noting how the nightmares were brought in and out of the stables, which sets were used for which races, and the intervals between events. When they were satisfied, they compared notes until they felt sure they understood the racetrack’s rhythm.

Seknafret found them just as they were choosing which race to influence. She approached with a wide grin and a velvet bag heavy with talons.

“Did you win all that?” Ebyn asked.

“I did,” she said. “About three hundred talons.”

“You doubled our money,” Secondus said.

“I was surprised how easy it was,” she said. “Now, what are you two plotting? Xalen said you had an idea.”

Ebyn outlined his scheme.

“I like it,” Seknafret said. “But I have a suggestion.”

“Of course,” Ebyn said.

She removed the talisman from around her neck and placed it over Secondus’s. “Use this. No need to waste a powerful spell. When you’re ready, teleport straight to me.”

Secondus smiled. “An excellent idea. Thank you.”

“And,” Seknafret added, “we can use these winnings to place bets on the horse you’re boosting.”

Ebyn nodded. “I hadn’t planned on gambling, but you’re right. We could use the extra gold to replace what was stolen.”

“We could,” Seknafret said, “but we should involve at least one bet taker, so we don’t put them all offside. I assume it will be obvious the race was fixed.”

“That’s the point,” Ebyn said.

“There,” Secondus said, pointing. “That’s the one we met earlier. Why not choose him?”

Ebyn shrugged. “He’ll do.”

They approached the thin, black‑horned devil, who smiled warmly.

“You’re back,” it said.

“We are,” Ebyn replied. “And we have a proposal.”

“A what?”

“What if I could guarantee that one specific horse will win a race?” Ebyn said.

The devil frowned. “Guarantee? How?”

“The specifics aren’t important,” Ebyn said. “Just assume it can be done. We tell you which horse, which race.”

“I don’t think the pit master would like that,” the devil said.

“But for you,” Ebyn continued, “it could be a boon. You steer punters away from that horse, and you pocket the winnings.”

“Sure,” the devil said. “But I reckon you’ll want to sweeten the pot. You’ll be placing bets with other takers, yeah?”

“We will,” Seknafret said.

The devil’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll take twenty‑five percent of the winnings.”

“Twenty‑five?” Seknafret said. “Outrageous. Ten percent, and not a talon more.”

“Twenty,” the devil countered. “Or I tell Uvashar, and you get nothing.”

“Fifteen,” Seknafret said. “And we don’t mention you if we get caught.”

The devil considered, eyes flicking between them.

“Deal,” it said, extending its hand.

Ebyn shook it firmly.

“So,” the devil said with a wicked grin, “when’s this thing going down?”

---

“Succula! Succula! Succula!”

The crowd’s chant rolled over Brabara like a physical force. The announcer’s theatrics had whipped the spectators into a frenzy, and the speed and savagery of her first victory had made her an instant favourite. She basked in their worship, standing tall in the centre of the sandy arena, lucerne hammer raised high. Eyes closed, she turned in a slow circle, letting the roar wash over her.

Khai had warned her the next bout would be more challenging, but Brabara felt ready for anything the Scarlet Coliseum pit master could throw at her.

The cheers faded to a tense hush. Brabara opened her eyes and focused on the two gates across the arena, bracing for whatever monster would emerge.

Nothing happened.

Instead, the ground trembled beneath her feet.

A massive purple worm erupted from the sand less than a step away.

Brabara dove aside as its enormous, tooth‑ringed maw crashed down where she’d stood. She avoided the bite, but the creature’s barbed tail whipped around with terrifying speed and drove its stinger into her chest.

White‑hot poison burned through her veins. Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred. She staggered, fighting to stay upright, and swung her hammer in a desperate arc. The blow glanced off the worm’s hide before it burrowed beneath the sand again.

The crowd murmured in anticipation. The announcer’s tone, even without understanding the words, made it clear he thought she was outmatched.

The worm erupted again.

This time Brabara was ready. She rolled right, avoiding both the snapping jaws and the lashing tail, and hammered three solid blows into its flank. The worm thrashed violently. A good sign.

Then it coiled around her.

Brabara tried to slip free, but the creature’s body tightened, and its maw engulfed her. Razor teeth scraped her skin as she was dragged into its gullet.

The world went silent.

Acid stung her eyes. The air burned her lungs. But she kept hold of her hammer, jabbing and stabbing with the pronged end. Blood and bile splashed across her face and arms, searing her skin, but she could feel the worm convulsing around her.

Driven by raw desperation, she kept stabbing.

The worm spasmed violently and spat her out.

Brabara hit the sand hard, sliding ten feet away. Her skin was raw and blistered, her limbs trembling, but she forced herself upright. The worm writhed nearby, its movements sluggish and uneven.

Its tail lashed out. Brabara sidestepped and smashed her hammer into the bone at the base of the stinger. A satisfying crunch. She struck again, higher up the body.

Blood dribbled from the worm’s mouth as it lunged.

Brabara dodged, mostly. The creature slammed into her, knocking her down, and clamped its jaws around her leg. Pain tore through her. Instead of swallowing her, it hurled her into the arena wall.

The impact drove the air from her lungs.

“Didn’t want to swallow me again, eh?” she spat, forcing herself upright.

Despite its injuries, the worm still had speed. It surged forward, tail raised, and slammed the broken appendage down, once, twice, three times.

Brabara blocked the first blow, but her forearm smashed into her nose with a crack. She rolled to avoid the second but misjudged and took the hit on her already injured leg. She dodged the third, only to find herself directly beneath the worm’s descending jaws.

“Oh, shit.”

The maw clamped around her waist and lifted her. Teeth pierced her flesh. She screamed, but she kept hold of her hammer.

Brabara twisted the weapon, aiming the spike upward. She leaned back and drove it into the worm’s skull with a raw, agonised cry.

For a terrible moment, the jaws tightened.

Then the worm shuddered and collapsed, lifeless.

Brabara pried the jaws open and rolled free, using her hammer to push herself upright.

The crowd erupted. The sound hit her like a wave - wild, ecstatic, hungry. She raised her hammer, trembling, and the cheers grew even louder.

Barely able to stand, she limped toward the fighters’ entrance.

Khai waited for her. “Good fight.”

“Was it?” Brabara rasped, spitting blood.

“You won, didn’t you?” Khai said. “Any battle you walk away from is a good one.”

“I suppose.”

Khai handed her a velvet pouch. “Two hundred talons. Win one more, and you can indulge in the pleasures of the Dragon’s Pride.”

“That one was hard,” she said. “I hate to imagine what you’ll throw at me next.”

Khai chuckled. “I’m sure I can find something worthy of the great Succula. Rest. Your next bout will be in an hour. You mortals have provided excellent entertainment today.”

Brabara took the pouch and headed toward the small private chamber she’d chosen.

As she walked, a tall warrior in black plate armour strode past. Their eyes met. He gave her a single, respectful nod before continuing toward the arena, red cloak billowing behind him.

---

The pounding of hooves thundered around the Alabaster Racetrack.

“Ready?” Ebyn asked, glancing down at Secondus, who lay on the ground at his feet.

Secondus scanned the stands. With the race underway, no one was paying him any attention, hopefully that meant no one would notice what was about to happen. “Ready,” he replied through the telepathic bond.

Ebyn held the caterpillar cocoon and whispered the arcane words.

Secondus felt the magic take hold. His body shrank, limbs folding inward, clothing and gear melting into his form until he was no larger than a fingernail, a tiny spider clinging to the stone.

“It worked,” he said telepathically. “I’m moving into position.”

“Stay out of sight of the pit fiends,” Ebyn warned. “They’ll see through the spell.”

Secondus scuttled over the edge of the stand, down the wall, and across the white stone toward the stables. No one noticed the tiny spider as he crept along the racetrack.

He reached the doorway and peered inside.

A pit fiend stood guard at the opposite entrance, its back turned for the moment, but Secondus knew from their earlier observations that it occasionally prowled the stables. He spotted crates and barrels stacked in the corners beside the six stalls, three on each side, where the nightmares waited between races.

He checked the pit fiend’s position one more time, then scurried across the ceiling and down the far wall, tucking himself behind the barrels.

“I’m here,” he shared over the link.

In the stands, Ebyn waited for the names of the next runners to appear on the central screen. The bet taker fiend hovered beside him, eyes gleaming with greed.

“Alright,” Ebyn said when the names appeared. “Retribution gets the advantage.”

“Got it,” the bet taker said. “Retribution to win.” He nodded once and slipped into the crowd to steer wagers.

“Cast the spell on Retribution,” Ebyn sent to Secondus. “Yellow silks, white circle.”

“Understood,” Secondus replied. “Tell me when to drop concentration.”

“I should place a few bets myself,” Seknafret said. “No point wasting the opportunity.”

Secondus waited as the jockeys prepared their mounts. From his hiding place he could only see the first stall, but he only needed a moment.

A commotion rippled through the stables. Doors slammed open as the six nightmares burst out with their riders.

“Now,” Secondus sent.

The transformation ended instantly.

His body expanded to full size, knocking a barrel aside with a loud scrape. One of the riders snapped his barbed head toward the noise.

Secondus shoved the liquorice root under his tongue and cast haste on the nightmare beneath the jockey in yellow silks. Before the rider could shout, Secondus activated Seknafret’s talisman and vanished.

He reappeared beside her in the stands.

“It’s done,” he said, grinning. “But one of the jockeys saw me.”

A few nearby spectators flinched at his sudden appearance, but none reacted beyond that. Seknafret placed a few more bets, then she and Secondus returned to Ebyn’s side.

The horn sounded.

The six nightmares exploded from their stalls.

Retribution surged ahead immediately.

Gasps and angry shouts rippled through the crowd. This was not how the races were supposed to go. But the trio knew the spell would last only another thirty seconds, and that was more than enough. The nightmares were too evenly matched for any of the others to catch up.

Retribution won.

Grumbling spread through the stands, but no one seemed to connect the anomaly to them.

Seknafret collected her winnings, nearly two hundred talons, from the other bet takers. But the one they’d conspired with was nowhere to be seen.

“Do you think he ran off with our money?” Seknafret asked.

“Why would he?” Secondus said. “He’s owed fifteen percent. That’s thirty talons.”

Before Ebyn could reply, a voice boomed across the racetrack in multiple languages:

“Attention all patrons. There will be a short delay before the next race. Normal service will resume shortly. In the meantime, management asks that no one leave the gaming area.”

Ebyn spotted a pit fiend pushing through the crowd toward them.

“I have a feeling,” he said quietly, “I know exactly where we’ll find him.”

---

A knock on the door jolted Brabara awake.

“May I enter?” Khai’s deep voice rumbled from the other side.

Brabara pushed herself upright and opened the door to her private cubicle. “Is something wrong?”

Khai shook his head. “Not at all. I am here to make a proposal.”

“A proposal?”

“Normally, for the final bout, you would face a challenging creature from our stables,” Khai said. “But I have received a request from the other mortal. He wishes his final bout to be against you.”

Brabara blinked. “He wants to fight me? Why?”

“I cannot speak to his motivations,” Khai said. “But as master of this arena, I believe such a contest would be a spectacle worthy of a final bout.”

Brabara considered this. Her body ached. Her skin still burned. Her leg throbbed. But the roar of the crowd still echoed in her bones, and the idea of stepping back into the sand – of hearing them scream her name again – sent a thrill through her.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m game if he is.”

“Excellent.” Khai inclined his head. “I shall convey your acceptance. This will delay your next fight by thirty minutes. It is only fair he completes his rest before combat.”

Brabara shrugged. “Of course.”

“I will announce you both when the time comes,” Khai said, and withdrew.

---

The pit fiend ushered Ebyn, Secondus, and Seknafret into a covered section of the stands. From here they could see the missing bet taker, held in an iron grip by another guard, and the yellow‑clad jockey from Retribution’s race.

A white‑furred rakshasa lounged amid plush cushions; an array of delicacies spread across a low table beside him. His clothing was immaculate, his posture regal, his expression unreadable.

“That’s him,” the jockey said, pointing at Secondus as they approached.

The rakshasa nodded. “Very good,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. “Please see to your mount.”

The barbed devil bowed and withdrew, leaving the three mortals alone with the pit master.

“I am Uvashar,” the rakshasa said. “And I am told that you three are responsible for the farcical running of the previous race. Is this true?”

“It is,” Ebyn said. “But if there is to be punishment, it rests solely with me. The scheme was mine. I executed it.”

Uvashar sat up slightly. “You seem unashamed. You made a mockery of my game. Why should I not have my guards tear you limb from limb and feed your corpse to my mounts?”

Ebyn swallowed. “It was my understanding that you take great pride in the sanctity of your races. That the balance you maintain here is paramount.”

Uvashar nodded slowly. “That is accurate. And yet you chose to disrupt that balance anyway. All for what? A handful of talons?”

“Not for coin,” Ebyn said. “My purpose was far higher.”

“Speak plainly, mortal,” Uvashar said, lips peeling back to reveal gleaming fangs.

“My aim was to highlight a flaw in your precautions,” Ebyn said. “And thereby earn your favour. The money was irrelevant.”

Uvashar stared at him.

The silence stretched. Ebyn’s gaze flicked to the pit fiends flanking the rakshasa, then to the dozens of fiends watching from the stands. There would be no fighting their way out of this.

Uvashar made a strange choking sound. His chest jerked. His shoulders shook.

It took Ebyn a moment to realise the pit master was laughing.

“You did this,” Uvashar said once the laughter subsided, “for me?”

“That is correct,” Ebyn said, inclining his head. “And to prevent a repeat of what happened, I recommend placing additional guards at the interior entrance to the stables.”

Uvashar glanced at the guard holding the bet taker and nodded.

The guard’s muscles tensed. There was a brief, high‑pitched squeak – then the bet taker’s body collapsed in a spray of dark blood.

“What is your name, mortal?” Uvashar asked.

Ebyn’s eyes remained fixed on the dripping talons. “Ebyn.”

“Well, Ebyn,” Uvashar said, leaning forward, “I thank you for the service you have provided. You have given me a rare gift – a new experience. I will reward you with entry to the Dragon’s Pride, where you may spend your ill‑gotten winnings.”

Uvashar rose and extended his hand.

Ebyn took it.

The rakshasa’s grip tightened, pulling him close. “But be warned. From this moment forward, you and your companions are banned from the Alabaster Racetrack.”

Ebyn nodded. “I understand.”

---

A door slid into place behind Xalen as he entered the Stygian Maze.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. Occasional floating motes of flame provided the only illumination, their faint glow reflecting off polished black stone. A persistent layer of swirling fog hovered a foot or two above his head, so dense he couldn’t see through it.

Curious whether the passages were covered, he activated the magic of his winged boots and rose slowly, one hand extended. When his forearm disappeared into the fog, his fingers brushed the same smooth surface as the floor and walls.

“No escape that way,” he muttered, drifting back down.

The passage ended at a T‑intersection barely a dozen steps from the entrance. Xalen peered left, then right. Nothing suggested one direction was safer than the other, so he turned right.

Another intersection. This time, one of the paths opened into a room, so he chose that one.

He stepped into a well‑lit circular chamber containing five wooden chests arranged evenly around the room.

A stone door slammed down behind him, sealing the entrance. The only exit lay opposite. Overhead, the fog had cleared, revealing the distant viewing platform. He could make out silhouettes, hopefully at least some belonged to his companions.

His hand drifted to Seknafret’s talisman. She’d given it to him before he entered, and the familiar weight reassured him he had a way out if things went badly.

He turned his attention to the chests. All were similar in size, but each was secured differently: one with a padlock, one with a combination lock, one with a built‑in keyhole. Only the central chest appeared unsecured, held shut by a simple latch.

Xalen smiled and summoned his mage hand, sending the spectral appendage to flip the latch.

The moment it moved, the chest shuddered. A wide, tooth‑filled mouth split open along its side. The other four chests warped as well, collapsing into shapeless blobs, each sprouting a terrible maw.

“Yes,” his sword whispered hungrily in his mind. “Bury my steel in their flesh, Xalen. We can take them.”

“Not worth the trouble,” Xalen replied. “There’s no treasure here, only pain.”

He picked his way between the mimics and slipped into the opposite passage, running several paces before turning to look back.

All five blobs had turned toward him, but none gave chase.

Xalen backed away until the corridor bent and the room vanished from sight.

“Why not fight them?” his sword asked.

“What for?” Xalen said. “I’m here to find three soul coins, not get myself killed wrestling mimics.”

He continued through the maze, choosing directions on instinct whenever he reached an intersection.

The next chamber was circular like the first, but its floor was filled with clear water about a foot deep. A flimsy wooden plank stretched from the small landing at the entrance to a matching landing at the exit.

Again, the fog above this room was absent.

Xalen stepped onto the landing. The door behind him slid shut.

He peered into the water. The black stone floor made it difficult to see whether anything lay beneath the surface.

He examined the plank. Barely four inches wide, perhaps three inches thick, and resting loosely on the stone – no nails, no supports. It spanned nearly twenty feet and would flex even under his light weight.

He could cross it easily enough, but why risk it? His winged boots made the choice obvious.

He activated them and drifted across, memories of Acererak’s tomb flickering through his mind. He hoped whoever designed this place wasn’t as devious as that lich.

He reached the far side without incident and continued deeper into the maze.

The next chamber reeked.

He smelled the sickly floral perfume before he even entered, but once he stepped inside the cloying scent was so overpowering he had to cover his nose and mouth to avoid gagging.

Planters filled with lurid flowers lined the room. Bright petals rose from thick green leaves. Bees and other insects buzzed lazily through the perfumed air.

A small wooden chest sat atop a pedestal in the centre, its lid unlatched.

Xalen paused at the sealed entrance and listened. Nothing but the hum of insects.

He summoned his mage hand again and sent it to lift the lid. The chest opened silently.

He waited. Nothing changed.

He approached and looked inside. The chest was filled with talons.

He used the mage hand to scoop the ceramic disks into his magical bag. After a dozen handfuls, the chest was empty and he was seventy‑five talons richer.

He exited the chamber and continued through the twisting passages.

At the next intersection, something slumped against the wall caught Xalen’s eye. A humanoid shape, motionless.

He drew his sword and approached.

The creature was vaguely humanoid, its skin a mottled purple. Long barbed tentacles hung limply from the lower half of its face, several torn or freshly wounded. One hand still gripped a wicked glaive, though the weapon now rested loosely against one spiked shoulder.

Xalen prodded the figure with his blade. “Hey. You alive?”

The touch sent the corpse sliding down the wall to collapse on the polished black stone, the glaive clattering beside it.

Crouching, Xalen examined the body. Deep gashes marred its arms and legs, and dark bruises blotched its flesh. He used the tip of his sword to tilt the creature’s head, revealing a sizable dent near the right eye socket. Whatever had killed it had done so violently, and its body had simply been left here.

A shudder ran through him. The danger of the maze was no longer theoretical; it was real, immediate, and deadly. His heart hammered, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He reached up and touched Seknafret’s talisman. The reminder that he had a way out steadied him.

After a few deep breaths, he stepped over the corpse and continued.

Several twists and turns later, he entered the next chamber.

A massive serpent lay coiled in the centre, seemingly asleep, its long body wrapped protectively around a wooden chest. Five pairs of stubby legs twitched as it dreamed. Its sharply pointed face was smeared with dried blood, evidence of a recent meal.

Xalen rose into the air and drifted toward the chest. Moving with painstaking care, he eased the lid open. Inside lay a pile of talons. One by one he lifted them out with his mage hand, careful not to let them clink, all while keeping a wary eye on the slumbering serpent below.

After removing twenty or so talons, he spotted a larger disc among the ceramic tokens – five inches across, forged from dark reddish‑brown metal and etched with a strange glyph.

A soul coin. One of the three Kaylan required.

Xalen reached for it and nearly groaned aloud as the weight of it pressed against his spirit. The name was no metaphor. He could feel the trapped soul inside the coin, its presence brushing against his own.

Help me, the soul seemed to plead, not in words but in raw emotion. Free me. Please.

He forced himself to drop the coin into his magical bag. The moment it left his hand, the pressure eased, but the knowledge of what he carried lingered like a stain.

He finished collecting the talons and drifted toward the exit. The serpent stirred as he passed but did not wake, and Xalen slipped out of the room.

More passages. More turns. Then another chamber.

Water cascaded from the ceiling into a serene pool surrounded by smooth rocks and low greenery. Xalen approached the edge and peered into the crystal‑clear water, searching for anything of value.

Finding nothing, he dipped a hand into the pool. Warmth tingled pleasantly up his fingers, and for a moment he was tempted to sink into the water and let it wash away the tension.

Then he glanced up and saw silhouettes watching from the viewing gallery.

His cheeks flushed. Perhaps not the best time for a bath.

He left the chamber and continued on.

The next room held a simple table with two vials and a small pouch resting atop it. Xalen approached cautiously, scanning for threats. The vials appeared to be healing potions. He pocketed both, then checked the pouch, thirty talons.

Another series of turns brought him to a room with a tall vase at its centre. The exit passage opposite sloped upward into a staircase.

He’d reached the end.

Xalen crossed to the vase and peered inside. It was filled with talons. He reached in and scooped up a handful, and something struck him hard from behind.

He spun, sword raised but saw nothing.

Another blow hit him from the front. Still nothing.

“Invisible stalkers,” he muttered. They’d fought these creatures before. Relentless, unseen, and vicious.

“We should fight them,” his sword urged.

“Not if I can’t see them,” Xalen snapped, backing toward the exit.

But the way out was blocked by an invisible wall of force.

“Shit!”

Another blow slammed into his ribs. Xalen lashed out blindly, and this time his blade met resistance.

“See?” his sword said smugly. “What did I tell you?”

Xalen ducked and weaved, refusing to stand still and be pummelled. That might be Brabara’s style, but he had no desire to experience pain for its own sake. Each time a blow landed, he struck back toward the source, and occasionally his blade found its mark.

The fight lasted barely a minute, though it felt much longer. Xalen took several heavy hits, but eventually the attacks ceased.

He stood still, waiting. Thirty seconds passed. Nothing.

He sheathed his sword and exhaled shakily.

Returning to the vase, he tipped it over. Talons spilled across the floor, along with three soul coins.

He scooped the talons into his bag, then picked up the first coin. The spiritual weight nearly buckled him, but he forced it into the bag with the other.

He reached for the second. A wave of nausea dropped him to one knee, but he pushed through and added it to the collection.

One coin remained.

He stared at it. Even looking at it made his stomach churn.

He already had the three coins Kaylan required. He could leave this one behind. But the knowledge that a soul was trapped inside that disc gnawed at him.

Could he free it? Should he?

Xalen reached out, but his hand froze inches above the metal. His body refused to obey.

After several long seconds, he withdrew. He couldn’t do it.

He left the final coin where it lay.

Xalen exited the maze and climbed the stairs to where Kaylan waited.

“I see you survived my little maze,” the vampire said, lounging behind his desk. “Do you have something for me?”

“I do,” Xalen said. “But before I hand them over, I found a body in one of the tunnels.”

“What of it?” Kaylan replied. “I did say there would be danger.”

“I wasn’t expecting it to be… truly fatal.”

Kaylan shrugged. “For some, it would not be. For others…” He let the sentence trail off.

Xalen swallowed. “I see.”

Kaylan extended a hand. “The coins?”

Xalen retrieved the three soul coins from his bag. Hunger flickered in Kaylan’s eyes, quickly suppressed, and he pocketed them with a satisfied sigh.

“My thanks.”

“What will you do with them?” Xalen asked, though he already regretted the question.

Kaylan smiled. “They… sustain me.”

Xalen’s stomach twisted. “I see.”

“Now, give me your arm,” Kaylan said. “I will provide your reward.”

Xalen extended his right arm. Kaylan’s cold fingers traced a symbol across his forearm.

“There you are,” the vampire said. “Entrance for you and a guest into the Dragon’s Pride.”

Xalen snatched his arm back a little too quickly and cleared his throat. “Where is the entrance?”

“Return to the foyer,” Kaylan said. “It lies within the statue of Tiamat.”

Xalen nodded and left the vampire behind, returning to Ebyn, Secondus, and Seknafret in the viewing room.

“Done,” he said. “Now we need to find Brabara.”

A strident voice rang out over the crowd:

“The Scarlet Coliseum’s main event will commence in thirty minutes! Witness an impressive display of martial skill between two mortal challengers. Casimor the Destroyer and Succula the Brabarian!”

The four of them stared at one another in stunned silence.

Ebyn covered his face with both hands.

“I have a feeling I know where she is,” Secondus said.

---

Brabara waited at the fighter’s entrance while the announcer whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

Beside her, the tall man in polished black armour stared out over the sand. His face was unreadable. No nerves. No shifting weight. He stood like obsidian carved into the shape of a man.

She, meanwhile, couldn’t keep still. Her fingers tapped her hammer. Her jaw clenched and unclenched. The fact that he had requested this fight… that meant he believed he could beat her. The thought twisted in her gut.

“I’m Succula,” Brabara said. She blinked, almost surprised to hear herself speaking.

The man turned his head a fraction. “I know who you are.”

“Have you fought here before?”

He held her gaze for a few heartbeats, then looked back toward the arena. “This is my first time.”

“Oh,” Brabara said. “Mine too. What brought you here?”

“I am waiting for something.”

“Oh, cool. What’s that? Maybe I could help.”

Casimor turned fully toward her. “The only thing I want from you is that you don’t die so quickly that the fight becomes uninteresting.”

Brabara huffed a laugh. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m bigger than you think.”

His eyes travelled up and down her frame. A wicked smile curled his lips. “I hope that’s true,” he said. “Because I plan to drown the sand of the arena with your blood.”

The announcer called his name. The crowd erupted, wild and hungry.

Casimor strode into the centre of the arena, raising his wicked blade as the cheers swelled around him.

Brabara’s name followed. Whatever nerves still clung to her evaporated. Determination surged in their place. She’d fought monsters bigger and far more dangerous than one smug man with a sword. She wouldn’t let a few calmly delivered threats shake her.

She stepped into the arena, hammer held high.

The crowd whooped and roared, the sound every bit as loud as the welcome Casimor received. Brabara spun her hammer in a flourish – impressive, unnecessary, but perfect for the crowd – then took her stance near the arena wall.

“Let him come to me,” she muttered, repeating it like a mantra.

The gong sounded.

The crowd fell silent.

Casimor moved.

He shot forward with impossible speed. Brabara barely registered the blur before he was on her. His blade flashed three times – leg, side, forearm – each cut precise, each drawing blood.

He smiled as she tried to circle him. Her first counterstrike was parried effortlessly, and his riposte opened another wound on her opposite leg.

“Damn this fucking guy!” Brabara spat, activating a rune on her skin to dull the pain.

She hammered back with several solid blows, crunching into his armour and driving the air from his lungs. But Casimor rolled with every strike, absorbing the impact, blade still moving almost faster than she could follow.

His sword swept down and slammed into her shoulder. Her armour turned what should have been a devastating cut into a jarring, bone‑deep shock.

Brabara spun away, creating space. She triggered her growth rune, doubling in size, and swung with renewed force – three massive blows that staggered him.

Now she had his attention.

Casimor shifted tactics. He moved left, struck, spun right, struck again, then lunged with a savage thrust that would have skewered her had she not twisted at the last instant, the blade sliding along her armour instead of through it.

He was more cautious now, and somehow that made him even more dangerous. The wild swings were gone. Every attack was measured, precise, relentless. Brabara felt the truth settle in her gut.

She was outmatched.

She blocked, dodged, countered, snatching a hit whenever a sliver of opportunity appeared, but he absorbed everything she threw at him. Not even a hitch in his breath.

Brabara’s eyes narrowed.

There. A gap in his armour. A bruise blooming beneath the black metal. She locked onto it.

Casimor’s gaze flicked to the same spot.

She lunged in the heartbeat of distraction – but he was already there, blade sweeping her attack aside. He crashed forward, overwhelming her guard. Steel punched into her side just above the hip and tore out through her lower back.

Brabara screamed, stumbling into the arena wall as he ripped the sword free.

Her legs buckled. One more mistake and she’d be finished.

His next thrust opened her arm, but she slapped a rune and hurled the pain into a devil in the stands. The fiend shrieked, clutching its side, and the crowd erupted, delighted by the borrowed agony.

Casimor pulled back for another strike. Brabara caught sight of the same gap in his armour.

The bruise was gone.

“He’s healing!” she yelled, but the crowd’s roar devoured her voice.

Casimor still heard. His smile was slow and cruel. “Time to finish this.”

He crashed into her with renewed ferocity. Every swing carved a new line of fire across her flesh. She triggered her rune one last time, dumping the pain into another devil, its howl lost in the frenzy.

Her strength faltered. The world narrowed to sand, steel, and the taste of blood.

Brabara swung her hammer in a wide, desperate arc, trying to keep him back. Casimor ducked under it with terrifying ease and sliced across the backs of her legs.

Her knees buckled. She toppled face‑first into the sand.

Casimor seized her armour at the shoulder and hauled her onto her back. He planted a boot on her right arm, pinning it so she couldn’t lift her weapon. He leaned close, his mouth at her ear.

“Say hi to Tiny for me,” he whispered.

Then he drove his sword into her throat.

The crowd erupted in wild, ecstatic howls as Casimor rose, triumphant. He stood over her for a moment, basking in their adulation, then stepped over Brabara’s body without a backward glance.