The blue light of teleportation faded, and the sulfur-stink of the magma fields vanished.

  We were back in the Grand Arena.

  But it wasn't a battlefield anymore.

  The Anunnaki ships above hummed a low, melodic vibration that vibrated in the marrow of our bones. The massive bay doors of the flagship opened, but instead of death rays, they dropped... glitter.

  Millions of motes of golden light drifted down like snow. As they touched the hard-light floor, they materialized into tables. Long, banquet tables draped in silk that shimmered like starlight.

  And then came the food.

  It didn't come from a kitchen. It descended in beams of soft light. Platters of roasted meats that smelled of spices lost to history. Towers of fruit that glowed with bioluminescence. Goblets that filled themselves with wine that sparkled like liquid rubies.

  "Impressive," I grinned, flipping my Helm of the Ash-Seer up. The old, reckless arrogance rushed back into my veins as I beheld the spread. "Now this is an efficient use of divine power. Gentlemen, I believe the Gods are buying dinner!"

  I grabbed a turkey leg the size of a shield and took a massive bite.

  "Ambrosia," I moaned. "Absolute ambrosia. Malachia, get over here, there’s a chocolate fountain!"

  Around us, the other Houses were materializing. They looked battered, bruised, and confused by the sudden shift from slaughter to banquet.

  The Ironvines sat at a table to the East. Dankmar was already eating efficiently. Lydia was glaring at everyone. Vera was cutting meat for Volpert.

  The Whitefields sat far away, wiping the blood of their "art" off their white clothes, looking bored by the divine catering.

  We the Stormsong-Falken Alliance took a central table.

  "I don't trust it," Baldur muttered, staring at a grape. "It could be poisoned."

  "It's Anunnaki tech, Brother," I slurred, waving my turkey leg. "If they wanted us dead, they'd just delete the floor. Eat up. We need the calories for Round Two."

  As we settled in, shadows fell across our table.

  Ser Alexander Shadowgrove stood there. He looked like the platonic ideal of a knight too perfect to be real. His golden armor was unblemished.He was radiant, but it was the cold radiance of a statue, not a man.

  Beside him was his brother, Konstantin, leaning heavily on a cane topped with a silver skull. He was a twisted contrast to his brother's perfection.

  And behind them, shuffling like a vulture in silk, was their father.

  Duke Silas Shadowgrove.

  Silas was ancient. He had a face like a dried apple and eyes that darted around like a rodent in a grain bin. He smiled, revealing yellow teeth. He radiated the aura of a man who had survived not by being strong, but by being ruthless.

  "My Lords," Silas croaked, spreading his hands. "A magnificent performance in the lava fields. Truly. Brandan, you swing that hammer like a young man."

  Brandan grunted, tearing a piece of bread. "Silas. What do you want?"

  I stood up, wiping grease from my mouth. My playful grin vanished for a second, replaced by the Ash-Knight's glare.

  "I want to know," I said, pointing a finger at Konstantin, "how the Cripple enjoyed his little chat in the dark."

  Konstantin tilted his head. "I beg your pardon, Bastard?"

  "Don't play coy," I hissed. "I saw you. In the Dark zone. You and the Reptilian. Talking about poisons. Talking about the Tears of the Basilisk."

  I looked at Alexander.

  "He's planning to poison the King so you can win, Golden Boy. Is that how the Apex fights now?"

  Alexander frowned. He looked genuinely confused. He turned to his brother. "Konstantin? Were you in the Dark zone?"

  Konstantin let out a wheezing, painful laugh.

  "Wilhelm," Konstantin rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves on stone. "I have one functional leg. I move with the grace of a dying crab. I was with Alexander and Father the entire time. In the Crystal Caverns. Ask the Nobels. Ask the Gods."

  "He speaks the truth," Silas chuckled, patting Konstantin’s shoulder. "My poor boy can barely walk to the privy without help. How could he conspire with lizards in a different zone?"

  I narrowed my eyes. My [Perception: 25] scanned Konstantin.

  His heartbeat was steady. His body temperature was normal.

  He wasn't lying. Or he was the greatest liar in existence.

  "I saw what I saw," I muttered.

  "Stress," Alexander said smoothly, taking a sip of wine. "The darkness plays tricks on the mind, Master Storm. Paranoia is a symptom of low Spirit Power."

  "Enough of this," Silas interrupted, waving a hand. "We did not come to argue about hallucinations. We came to... unite."

  He stepped aside.

  From behind him, a young woman stepped forward.

  Lady Kordula Shadowgrove.

  She was stunning. Pale skin, dark lips, and hair the color of midnight. She wore a dress that was cut dangerously low, revealing skin that looked as soft as milk.

  But her eyes... her eyes were bright, wide, and unsettlingly intense.

  She had the gaze of a child pulling wings off a fly. There was a madness there, barely contained behind a veil of nobility.

  She looked directly at Gerald Falken.

  "Hello, Ranger," Kordula purred. She didn't curtsy. She looked him up and down like a butcher eyeing a prime cut of steak. "I saw you in the mirrors. You looked... delicious."

  Gerald stiffened. He glanced toward the Ironvine table, where Vera was sitting, head bowed.

  "Lady Kordula," Gerald nodded stiffly.

  "A union!" Silas announced, clapping his withered hands. "Between the North and the Shadows! My Kordula. Your Gerald. Think of the power! Think of the land!"

  He leaned over the table, grinning at Gutrum.

  "We need allies against the Ironvines, Gutrum. You know this. My daughter is ripe. Your son is strong. Let us seal a pact."

  Gutrum Falken looked at Silas. Then he looked at Konstantin. A flicker of old pain crossed Gutrum’s face a history they hadn't spoken of in years.

  "My son chooses his own path, Silas," Gutrum said coldly. "And House Falken does not marry for power. We marry for honor."

  "Honor," Silas spat the word like a peach pit. "Honor is a shield that gets heavy, Wolf. But... think on it. The girl is eager. Aren't you, my dear?"

  Kordula licked her lips, still staring at Gerald.

  "I could teach him so many things," Kordula whispered. "I know how to skin a rabbit without breaking the pelt. Do you like rabbits, Gerald?"

  Gerald looked horrified. "I... prefer them alive, My Lady."

  "Pity," Kordula smiled, and the smile didn't reach her dead eyes. "They scream so prettily."

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "We will consider your offer," Brandan interrupted loudly, sensing the danger. "Now let us eat. The Gods are watching."

  Silas bowed, a mocking, jerky motion.

  "As you wish, Your Grace. Come, children. Let us leave the heroes to their 'honor'."

  The Shadowgroves walked away. Alexander looked back once, with a look that might have been pity, or might have been calculation.

  I sat back down, picking up my turkey leg.

  "They are lying," I whispered to the group. "Konstantin was there. I know it."

  "He has an alibi," Baldur noted, checking his ledger. "If the system logs place him in the Crystal Caverns, then your eyes deceived you, Wilhelm. Or..."

  "Or?" I asked.

  "Or there is more than one Konstantin," Olenka whispered, staring at the Shadowgroves.

  I shivered.

  "Great," I muttered, taking a drink of the divine wine. "Clones. Shapeshifters. And a psychopath in a silk dress trying to marry Gerald. This tournament is going great."

  I raised my goblet.

  "To survival," I toasted. "And to hoping Gerald runs fast."

  We ate under the golden glitter of the false stars, knowing the real war was just beginning.

  The Feast of Falling Stars was a spectacle of divine gluttony, but the taste of ambrosia turned to ash in my mouth when I looked across the hall.

  At the Ironvine table, Vera Stormsong was pouring wine for Prince Volpert. She missed the goblet by a fraction of an inch, spilling a single drop on the tablecloth.

  "Stupid!" Volpert shrieked.

  He didn't just yell. He backhanded her.

  A sharp, stinging slap across the face of the Princess.

  Vera didn't cry out. She just flinched, lowered her head, and whispered an apology.

  At our table, Gerald Falken stood up so fast his chair fell over. His hand went to his sword.

  Gutrum grabbed his son's wrist, holding him back with a look of pained warning.

  But King Brandan... Brandan didn't stand up. He went perfectly, terrifyingly still. He stared at his son hitting his daughter.

  Brandan turned to me. His eyes were no longer the eyes of a drunkard. They were the eyes of a King who had decided to burn his own house down to save the furniture.

  "Wilhelm," Brandan said, his voice a low rumble.

  "Aye, Your Grace?" I asked, leaning in.

  "The papers," Brandan whispered. "The Act of Succession. Draft them."

  I blinked. "You mean..."

  "I mean disinheritance," Brandan growled. "Volpert is out. Vera is in. I want the documents ready for my signature before the sun rises. I am done letting that monster wear my name."

  I grinned.

  "Consider it done, King," I whispered. "I'll navigate the treacherous waters of bureaucracy. You just keep the ship afloat."

  I chugged my wine, tipped an imaginary hat to the table, and swaggered out of the feast.

  I found York Bladeblood slumped inside the golden ticket booth.

  He looked like he had been through a war. His velvet tunic was stained with ink. His fingers were black from counting coins. His eyes were bloodshot.

  "Ticket..." York mumbled in his sleep, his head resting on a stack of ledgers. "No refunds... peasant..."

  "Wakey wakey, sunshine!" I announced, slamming my hand on the counter.

  York jolted awake, grabbing a quill like a dagger. "I am a Prince! Do not touch the merchandise!"

  "Ease up, Your Highness," I laughed, doing a little spin. "I’m here to collect the plunder. How did we do?"

  York rubbed his face, trying to regain his arrogant composure. "It was... exhausting. The smell of the commoners. The endless counting. But..."

  He patted the reinforced chest behind him.

  "We sold out, Wilhelm. Completely."

  I opened the chest.

  Gold.

  Mountains of it.

  The sheer volume of wealth was staggering.

  "Bloody hell," I whistled. "That's a lot of cheddar."

  "I did this," York said, puffing out his chest. "I, Prince York, managed the economy! I demand... I demand a nap."

  "You can sleep when you're dead, mate!" I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the booth. "We have a Kingdom to build! Come on, I need a pack mule for the shopping trip."

  "I am not a mule!" York protested, stumbling after me. "I am the Treasurer's Assistant!"

  We hit the Ironvine Emporium like a hurricane.

  "Shopkeep!" I yelled at the Golem. "I'm building an empire, and I need bricks!"

  I slapped the gold on the counter.

  "Give me the wood that never rots! Give me the stone that eats light! And give me enough cold iron to cage a wizard!"

  "Load it up, York!" I ordered, tossing a heavy sack of ingots at the Prince.

  "This is heavy!" York whined, buckling under the weight. "My spine is royal!"

  "And your spine is mine to bend," I corrected. "Heave ho!"

  We arrived at the Angelic Manse. It stood violet and glowing in the twilight.

  But I wasn't interested in the house. I walked to the empty lot right next to it. A prime piece of real estate overlooking the smoggy city.

  "Here," I said, planting my boot in the dirt. "This is where we cut the strings."

  "Cut what strings?" York panted, dropping the ingots.

  "Dependence, mate," I said, my voice turning serious. "The King needs an army. But an army needs swords. And right now? Every sword in this city is made by Dankmar. If we fight him, he cuts off the supply."

  I opened my [Merchant / Builder Interface].

  "So we make our own."

  I selected the blueprints.

  "Do it," I whispered.

  BOOM.

  It wasn't a slow process. It was magic.

  The air twisted. The Black Stone flew from the sacks and assembled itself into thick, impenetrable walls. The Ironvine Planks wove themselves into a reinforced roof. The Cold Iron Ingots melted and reformed into anvils, furnaces, and weapon racks.

  In ten seconds, a massive, gothic armory stood before us. Chimneys belched purple smoke. The sound of hammers on steel rang out, even though it was empty.

  "Magnificent," York breathed, staring at the structure. "It looks... mean."

  "It is mean," I agreed. "But a forge needs hands."

  I looked down the street. A group of Clayborns unemployed laborers, beggars, the invisible people of the city were watching us with fearful eyes.

  "You lot!" I shouted, waving a bag of gold. "Do you want to stop carrying rocks and start hammering destiny?"

  They looked at each other. One stepped forward. "We... we don't know how to smith, My Lord."

  "Not yet," I grinned.

  I opened the [Training Interface].

  "Class is in session!"

  I snapped my fingers.

  Golden light shot from my hand and hit the Clayborns. They gasped as knowledge flooded their brains. Their muscles swelled. Their posture straightened. They looked at their hands, suddenly understanding the secrets of metallurgy.

  "I... I know how to fold steel," one of them whispered.

  "Get in there!" I ordered, pointing at the forge. "Make me armor fit for a King! And make it black!"

  They rushed into the building. The furnaces roared to life.

  I turned to York, dusting off my hands.

  "There you have it, Prince," I said, swaying slightly. "We have the money. We have the Armory. Now... we just need the soldiers."

  York looked at the smoking chimney, then at me. For the first time, he didn't look like a whining brat. He looked impressed.

  "You are insane, Wilhelm," York muttered.

  "I'm a Master of Coin, love," I winked, flipping a gold piece in the air. "Insanity is just a part of the portfolio."

  I looked back toward the Arena.

  "Now, let's go draft a will and ruin a Prince's life. Savvy?"