Page 93 of Bonded To The Arena Master

The main hall once displayed captured weapons along that wall. I moved them to the training level and placed her apothecary where the trophies had been.

One month ago, several lords called the change an insult to House Obsidius.

There is no House Obsidius now.

There is the house we built from its remains.

I stand near the central pillar and receive formal greetings without the arena-master's mantle. Simple black armor covers my slate-grey carapace. My long hair is bound behind my broken right horn. The grounded-lightning vial has returned to my belt, released with the other household possessions when the new charter took effect.

The chipped human cup rests inside the apothecary on a shelf Beatrix cleared for it.

No one has asked why.

The head of House Varnek arrives with four Soz'garoth attendants and two dark elf servants carrying empty medicine cases.

He is taller than most of his caste, though his long silver ears still end below my shoulder. Blue chaos sigils move over his amber hands. The charms woven through his red hair hum whenever lightning crosses the windows.

He bows to me first.

Then he bows to Beatrix.

The second gesture is shallower, but it exists.

"Lord Draxon," he says. "Lady Ferryman."

Beatrix tolerates the title because correcting every demon would consume the gathering.

"Your aide requested six vespid doses at the neutral market," she says. "Your written order requests eighty."

"The first six proved effective."

"Then their price established the value."

House Varnek's head glances toward his attendants. One holds a sealed case marked with the green stones of his spire.

"Eighty doses each month," he says. "Eight ducats upon delivery."

Beatrix stands behind the apothecary trade desk in a dark green gown with plain cuffs. Mouse-brown hair is tied with leather rather than court metal. Her bone-handled knife rests beside the ledger, available whenever she pauses to think.

She touches the handle now.

"Eight ducats purchases fifty doses," she says.

"My house supplies its own vials."

"Your vials do not harvest goligan or prepare fylvek."

"Soz'garoth magic preserves both."

"Preservation is not preparation. Your healers can numb a vespid sting. They still cannot neutralize the venom."

The nearest attendant stiffens.

His house head raises one sigil-marked hand before pride interrupts profit.

"Ten ducats," he says. "Eighty doses."

"Twelve, with two measures of sun-starved nimond included in each delivery."