The air inside Ironhold was thick, not with smoke or ash, but with pressure. The kind that came from a city barely holding itself together. No one said it aloud, but you could feel it in every glance, every guarded exchange, every weapon held just a second too close.
This was not a city built on trust. It was one built on survival.
At first, we kept to the side streets. The main roads were more open, but carried too many eyes. People didn't ask questions here unless they had something to gain from the answer. The streets pulsed with tension, even veterans flinching at every corner, as if the walls remembered a fight.
Specter moved silently beside me, flickering between shadows. Smoke paced ahead, alert and unblinking. If anyone noticed them, they didn't show it. Beast Tamers were common here, but rare enough that having two Altered beasts trailing you still drew respect and wariness.
I needed to figure out how this city worked—and fast.
We found a rundown info kiosk near a crumbling market square. The terminal flickered weakly but still responded when I swiped my badge. A basic map of Ironhold appeared, dividing the city into five sectors radiating outward from a central hub like spokes on a wheel. Each district was controlled—or claimed—by one of the city's three major factions.
The Ironbrand: warriors and brawlers who prized strength over subtlety, held the Industrial Sector.
The Ashvein Syndicate: smooth-talking opportunists with blood on their hands, ruled the Market Quarter.
The Bastion Wardens: self-proclaimed defenders of order, controlled most of the residential zones and checkpoints.
Neutral territory, as far as I could tell, was scarce and fleeting.
A second tab blinked open: Tamer Registration - Ironhold City Guild.
It outlined the legal ways a Tamer could operate within city limits:
Beast Culling Contracts – Hunt Altered beasts that had slipped past the perimeter or caused trouble in neglected zones. High risk, decent pay.
Arena Matches – Tamer vs. Tamer, sanctioned by the guild. The risk to your beast was real, but glory and money flowed here.
Escort Jobs – Protect supply caravans or personnel traveling between sectors or out into the wastelands.
Scavenging Runs – Delve into the ruined underground districts and retrieve salvage. Dangerous, sometimes lucrative.
Faction Commission Work – Join a faction and take jobs directly from them. Paid better, but came with strings.
A small, greyed-out "Unregistered Work" section blinked—likely illegal, and the kind of work you did when desperate.
I took a breath.
This wasn't just survival. It was a system.
A dirty, fractured, grind-you-down-until-you-break kind of system. But if we played it right, we could get the resources we needed: shelter, food, upgrades, and bond cores. Maybe even access to the deeper mysteries of beast evolution.
"You see this?" I asked, showing the screen to Smoke. He flicked his tail, uninterested.
Specter leaned in, its eyes glowing faintly in the screen's reflection.
We needed a plan.
The Tamer Guild was on the second tier, tucked between a parking garage and an old armory. The sign was half-burnt, the emblem of a beast's paw clutching a gear barely legible.
Inside, the place was buzzing with tense energy. Murmured conversations, the sharp scent of oil and blood. A dozen tamers lounged near the job boards, most armed and guarded by beasts of every shape and size.
The woman behind the desk barely looked up as we approached. A scar ran down one cheek, and her beast—some kind of broad-shouldered hyena with a steel-plated back—snored behind her chair.
"New?" she asked without emotion.
"Yeah."
"Badge ID?"
I passed it over. The scanner blinked red for a second, then turned green.
"Unregistered," she said. "No guild contracts, no kill count, no combat rank."
"Looking to change that."
"Uh-huh. So's everyone."
She tossed a pamphlet on the counter. "Want access to the basic cull board? Fine. But you're capped until you register a guild license. Thirty shard credits."
I frowned. That was more than we had.
"What about wager matches?" I asked.
Now she looked up, sizing us up.
"You got a beast that can handle a fight?"
I stepped aside, and Specter slipped from the shadows, its scythe-like limbs twitching. It reared up slightly, letting the mist swirl from its shell. Smoke stepped forward, flickering, fangs bared in a toothy grin.
The woman let out a low whistle.
"All right then," she said. "Maybe you've got something."
Later, I signed us up for our first official job: a small culling contract in the Industrial Sector. Nothing flashy—just a pair of low-tier Altered rodents. Fast, vicious, and prone to swarming if you didn't kill the first clean.
It felt beneath us, but it was a start. We needed shard credits. And a kill record.
As I prepared, the tension in my chest didn't ease. Smoke was already pacing, tail flicking in the shadows. Specter, ever silent, seemed to be waiting, too. Its eyes gleamed in the dim light.
"Ready for this?" I muttered to Smoke, who growled low, barely containing his excitement.
Specter glided forward, vanishing into the mist of the alley.
I turned to leave, the weight of what lay ahead settling on me.
I had no idea how things would unfold, but one thing was certain: Ironhold wouldn't let us leave untouched.
The fading light of evening cast long shadows across the Industrial Sector streets. I adjusted the strap on my pack, fingers brushing a cracked shard of credit. Nerves or the unknown of the mission—either way, something crawled up my spine.
The Tamer Guild had sent us out for a reason. And the city's underbelly would soon show us why.