King and Ignis left the Burnt Horn as night fell heavily on Quegoes. The noise of the tavern faded—loud laughter, breaking glasses, someone shouting bets for the next morning's fight.
Outside, the streets of the capital pulsed differently: oil lamps hanging from iron chains swayed in the wind, illuminating long shadows and tired faces returning home. The air smelled of coal smoke, roasted meat from street carts, and the faint aroma of dried herbs that merchants burned to ward off evil spirits.
"We need a place to sleep that doesn't have cockroaches the size of my fist," said Ignis, looking around. "And that doesn't charge double just because we're 'exotic'."
King pointed with his chin to a narrower side street, where the buildings were of older red stone and the signs seemed less flashy.
"There. 'The Iron Raven.' Seems discreet. And the name suits us."
They turned onto the street. The inn was a three-story building, its facade marked by old cracks that looked like scars from earthquakes or old fights. The wooden sign creaked and rattled: a crude drawing of a raven with red eyes, holding a key broken in half, with the inscription in peeling paint.
King and Ignis entered the Iron Raven as night had already fallen on Quegoes. The lobby was simple: a low fireplace in the corner, worn wooden tables occupied by travelers drinking in silence, the smell of warm bread mixed with lamp oil. The man behind the counter—bald, with a braided gray beard, a glass eye reflecting the flame—sized them up without blinking.
"Room for two?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"Yes," said King. "One large bed or two. Hot shower if available."
"Shower costs extra. Room 7, second floor, window overlooking the alley. Ten silver coins. Eleven with a decent breakfast."
Ignis tossed the coins onto the counter with a casual gesture, the coppery-red sheen of her scales catching the fireplace light for an instant, like polished metal that had seen centuries of sun and dust.
"Eleven. And if there are cockroaches, I'll burn the ceiling down," she said, her tone light, almost playful, but with that old edge that made people laugh without knowing exactly why.
The man counted the coins, handed over the iron key.
"No big cockroaches. Names?"
"King and Ignis."
He wrote it down in his worn notebook.
"Stairs to the right. If you want an arena tomorrow, the owner will arrange an invitation. He'll bet on whoever looks like they can handle it."
King snorted.
"Maybe. I just want to sleep tonight."
They climbed the narrow stairs—the wood creaked under King's weight. Short corridor, dim lantern on the wall. Room 7: heavy door, simple lock. Inside, a double bed wide enough for both of them without being cramped, a small table, two chairs, a basin of water, and a bucket. A window overlooking the alley: silence, only wind and the distant meowing of a cat.
Ignis locked the door. King dropped the axe against the wall—a heavy thud echoed. He sat on the edge of the bed; she groaned, but endured it.
"A ceiling that doesn't sway," he murmured.
Ignis removed her cloak, revealing scales that, under the low light, showed that characteristic tone of aged copper: reddish in the center, with greenish reflections on the edges, like an ancient statue that no one has ever polished. She approached the window, opened a crack, and let the cold night air in, tilting her head as if listening to something only she could hear.
"Quegoes is noisy. Alive. No elven runes or shadows in her wake. I like that," she said, adding with a crooked smile, "It reminds me a little of the dry hills where I used to spend my afternoons telling bad jokes to shepherds who didn't understand a thing. They laughed anyway. Mortals are funny like that."
King lay on his back, arms behind his head, staring at the cracked ceiling.
"Have you told me a bad joke today?"
"Not yet. But the night is young," she replied, sitting in the opposite chair, feet on the edge of the bed. "Tomorrow, if we go to the arena, I bet I can make the announcer laugh before you break the first bone of your opponent."
King snorted a short laugh.
"You and your bets. Tomorrow in the arena. Maybe you'll fight. Maybe you'll watch. Or just tell riddles to the blacksmiths until they pay you to shut up."
Ignis chuckled softly—a warm, hoarse sound that echoed like wind passing through ancient caves.
"Or we'll stay a few days. We'll drink. We'll eat. We'll sleep. Without chasing any ghosts."
King nodded, his eyes on the ceiling.
"Without chasing anything. Sounds good."
She stood up, went to the window, and let the cool air in a little more.
"Rest. I'll keep an eye on the alley. Old habits of someone who's seen many nights turn into dawn."
King closed his eyes.
"If there's any noise, wake up. Otherwise, leave it alone." She continued.
The room fell silent. Only the distant crackling of the fireplace downstairs and the wind tapping against the window.
Neither of them thought of romance. They were road partners: the goliath who lived in the present and the copper dragon who carried millennia of stories, enigmas, and dry laughs. The age difference was just a detail—like an old joke she told now and then, to which he responded with a grunt.
For the first time in months, they slept without expecting the next blow.
Tomorrow would be arena, forge, beer, or whatever came.
Today was just rest.
And that was enough.
The Quegoes sun was already blazing when King and Ignis left the Iron Raven. The dry morning air carried red dust and the distant echo of drums—the steady pulse of the Great Arena, beating like a black stone heart in the center of the city.
They walked through the wide streets, dodging carts laden with iron and spices, children running around selling water in clay pots, and merchants shouting morning bets. Ignis, her coppery-red scales gleaming in the sun, drew glances—not of fear, but of curiosity. She smiled back, showing sharp teeth, and sometimes let out a low comment:
"I bet half of them think I'm a walking statue that'll melt in the heat."
King snorted, his axe swinging on his back.
"Let them think that. The more they underestimate me, the better the surprise."
The Great Arena loomed ahead: an oval coliseum of black stone and red sandstone, high walls marked by centuries of patched cracks, and red and black flags fluttering like open wounds. Wide, open gates swallowed crowds—workers, finely veiled nobles, gamblers with wooden boards covered in scribbled numbers. The inner roar was already rising, mixed with the clang of weapons being tested and the smell of sweat, oil, and old blood.
At the fighters' gate—a more discreet side entrance—a lean man in a leather vest with snake tattoos on his arms stopped them.
"Paid entry or invitation?"
Ignis handed over a piece of parchment the innkeeper had given them on their way out.
"An invitation from the Iron Raven. Two. A goliath and a dragonborn. He said the owner likes to bet on who can last."
The man looked at the parchment, then looked up—very high—at King.
"Goliaths break bones in the first round. Dragonborn…" He sized Ignis up, noticing the metallic sheen of his scales. "You two will bring in good money for the bettors. Come in. Fighting sandals in the changing room. Simple rules: no intentional killing, no external magic, no weapons beyond what the arena provides." But if the crowd demands it, the referee lets it go.
Inside, the locker room was a damp stone tunnel, lit by torches. Fighters prepared themselves: an orc with fresh scars tying bandages around his wrists, two human twins testing light shields, an elven woman with curved daggers twirling between her fingers. Everyone looked when King entered—the low ceiling made him have to hunch his shoulders slightly.
Ignis grabbed a leather strap and tied it around his wrists, chuckling softly.
"Look at that. They're calculating how long you last before you become a carpet."
King took off his shirt, revealing his gray torso covered in old and new scars. He picked up a pair of simple iron gauntlets from the pile.
"Bring them on. It's been a while since I broke anything just because I felt like it."
The sun beat down mercilessly on the sand of the Great Arena, transforming the ground into a carpet of golden fire speckled with dark stains of dried blood from previous fights. The roar of the crowd was a living wave, thousands of voices merging into a constant thunder that vibrated in the bones. Deep drums marked the rhythm, and the herald—a lean man with an iron voice—raised his arm to announce the special exhibition.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Quegoes! Two strangers who have crossed forbidden seas and forests! The Grey Goliath, King, and the Copper-Scale Dragonborn, Ignis! May the arena receive them with the respect they deserve… or with the blood they deserve to spill!"
The crowd erupted in cheers, whistles, and mixed insults—half cheering for them, half against them.
— First fight: King vs. Iron Hammer —
King stepped onto the sand first. His bare feet sank slightly, feeling the heat rising from the ground. He was shirtless, his grey torso marked by his red tribal tattoos. The simple iron gauntlets he picked up in the locker room seemed small on his enormous hands, but he gripped them until the metal creaked.
On the other side, Iron Hammer entered like a unleashed bull. Nearly two meters of tattooed muscle, shoulders as broad as a door, gauntlets reinforced with steel plates studded with short nails. His smile was wide, confident, yellowed teeth showing. He slammed his gauntlets together, the clangor echoing like a war bell.
"Let's see if goliaths bleed red or gray!" he shouted, and the crowd laughed.
"Try your luck, shorty," King retorted.
The judge lowered his arm.
"Fight!"
Hammer charged forward like an avalanche. The first punch was a real hammer—direct, heavy, aimed at King's face. The displaced air hissed. King dodged at the last instant, his fist passing inches from his ear, and countered with a short, brutal uppercut. The impact struck Hammer's chin, sending his head flying backward. Blood spurted in an arc, dripping onto the sand.
But Hammer didn't fall. He laughed, spat out some blood, and spun, landing a hook on King's flank. The blow was like an anvil—ribs creaked, air rushed from the goliath's lungs. King grunted, took a step back, but didn't bend. Instead, he grabbed Hammer's outstretched arm, twisted the wrist, and pulled with brute force, using his opponent's own momentum against him.
Hammer flew over King's shoulder, landing on his back in the sand with a thud that kicked up a cloud of dust. The crowd roared. Hammer rolled, got up quickly—faster than his size suggested—and attacked again, a flurry of short, ferocious punches. King blocked most with his forearms, each impact sending vibrations to his bones, but one struck his temple. His vision blurred for a second. Blood trickled from his brow. His eyes burned with fury.
He blinked, grinned crookedly—teeth stained red. "—Good punch," he said quietly. "My turn."
Then he stepped forward.
What followed was a storm of brute force. King grabbed Hammer by the foot, lifted him off the ground like a child, and slammed him from side to side on the ground, then threw him against the arena wall. Stone cracked. Hammer slid down, but recovered slightly, jumping to his feet and landing a kick to King's knee.
The goliath's leg buckled, but he didn't fall—instead, he countered with a downward punch that struck Hammer's chest like thunder. Ribs cracked audibly. The local champion spat blood and fell to his knees. King lifted him by the neck and delivered a downward punch to his temple, knocking him out.
The crowd went wild—half cheering, half cursing the losing bettors.
King breathed heavily, wiping the blood from his face with his forearm.
— Second fight: Ignis vs. Dancing Blade —
Ignis entered the arena with light, almost dancing steps. Her coppery-red scales gleamed like molten metal under the sun, greenish edges capturing reflections that made it seem as if she carried fragments of aurora on her back. Unarmed—only hands and feet, as ordered. She smiled at the crowd, a slow, sharp smile that showed fangs.
From the other side came Dancing Blade: a tall, slender human rogue, skin tanned by the Aloscalian sun, black hair braided with red ribbons. Two curved daggers in her hands, movements fluid as water. She twirled the blades once, the metal singing in the air.
The judge lowered his arm.
—Fight!
Dancing Blade attacked like lightning. The daggers cut the air in precise arcs—one aimed at the neck, another at the abdomen. Ignis dodged with a minimal spin, her body moving with an ancient grace, as if she had danced this dance a thousand times before. The blade grazed past, cutting a loose scale that fell to the sand, glistening like an old coin.
Ignis laughed—a warm, hoarse sound that echoed through the arena.
"Nice dance. But I've seen this in a tavern about three hundred years ago. The pervert lost his touch."
Blade didn't respond with words. She responded with speed. She leaped, spun in the air, and descended with both daggers crossed. Ignis blocked with her forearms—metal against scale, sparks flew. The impact made the ground tremble slightly. The rogue recoiled, surprised by the strength of the defense.
Then Ignis advanced.
She wasn't as fast as the rogue, but she was relentless. A straight punch was blocked; Ignis spun her body and landed an elbow strike on her opponent's shoulder, causing her arm to fall numb. Blade attempted a low blow—Ignis stepped on her wrist, trapping the dagger in the sand, and pulled the elf closer with his other hand. Face to face.
"Give up?" Ignis asked, his voice low, almost friendly.
Blade spat in her face and attempted a headbutt.
Ignis dodged and used his draconic breath, burning half of her face. The rogue screamed in pain and managed to break free, falling to the ground and writhing in agony.
"Last chance," Ignis said, smiling.
Blade raised her free hand in surrender.
The judge announced the victory.
The crowd erupted in applause and shouts. Coins clinked in the stands. King and Ignis met in the center of the arena, sweaty, bruised, but standing.
King wiped the blood from his mouth.
"Good day's work."
Ignis gave him a light tap on the shoulder—the heat of the scales left a red mark on his gray skin.
"Good morning indeed. Now let's go get the prize, eat something decent… or find someone to tell riddles to the blacksmiths until they pay me to stop."
They emerged from the sand to the roar of the crowd, names echoing: "Gray! Copper! Gray! Copper!"
Quegoes had tasted them.
And they had tasted Quegoes.