Ash curled through the night sky, glowing embers dancing against the blood-red clouds.

  Alistair stood just behind the front line, perched on a stone outcrop near the breached gate. His guards, eight of them, all armored in darkplate and cloaked in crimson, formed a tight ring around him. He could smell their tension. Their hands never left the hilts of their weapons.

  Ahead, chaos reigned.

  He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, black cape fluttering in the wind, and watched the chaos below with a scowl that bordered on boredom. Another night, another incursion. This one was uglier than usual.

  The hyena beastkin had come in force. Dozens of snarling warriors with crude axes, war paint smeared across their fur, and twisted smiles full of broken teeth. Their shamans lingered in the back ranks, howling chants that pulsed with primal energy. A green haze swirled around them, thick with corruption.

  “What a lovely place,” Alistair muttered.

  They were not here to win, they were here to weaken, to distract, to bleed dry what little strength the kingdom had left.

  "Fifth attack this month," Alistair muttered to no one in particular. "At this point, I’m almost flattered by the attention."

  He wasn’t supposed to be this close. But he wanted to see it. See what real power looked like.

  Below, a blur of crimson cloaks and gleaming steel carved a path through the beastkin tide. The Ebonfangs, his father’s elite vampire knights, moved like predators through a field of prey, their enchanted blades cleaving through bone and rot with almost casual grace. Skills flashed like fireworks in the gloom: [Blood Crescent], [Shadow Lunge], [Crimson Chain]. Each strike sent limbs flying and corpses shriveling into dust.

  Alistair clenched his fists.

  He knew those skills. Had studied them. Had sparred with half the Ebonfangs in the castle’s training yards. But when he’d finally reached the peak of his abilities, when his talents plateaued and refused to budge another inch, the system had simply stopped awarding him progress. His blades no longer earned experience. His footwork didn’t evolve. His potential had stalled like a locked door without a key.

  The system notifications had stopped all together, as if the system had finally given up on him.

  He didn’t even bother checking his logs anymore.

  A nearby guard flinched as a shrieking skull exploded against the warded wall. Alistair barely reacted. His eyes remained locked on the battle, burning with equal parts envy and longing.

  He saw a vampire knight vault over the front line and land in the middle of the beastkin vanguard. His twin sabers lit up with [Blood Crescent], a sweeping arc of crimson light that carved through fur and bone alike.

  His servant shifted beside him, clutching the crystal sphere that projected glowing runes into the air. Letters scrawled themselves across its surface for all to see:

  [Ebonfang Knight uses: Blood Crescent – Critical Hit!]

  Alistair ground his teeth. He didn’t even need to look. The damn thing never stopped reminding everyone of his failure. Every time the crystal flared, it was just another public announcement that he was broken.

  A second knight blinked behind a shaman, her form flickering with [Shadow Step]. Her blade punched through the beastkin’s spine before he could finish his incantation.

  [Status: Hex Field weakened.]

  Alistair’s eyes tracked every movement. The timing. The angles. The perfect execution.

  He used to fight beside them. Used to train with them.

  But while they’d kept leveling, kept unlocking flashy new skills, he’d hit the wall.

  He tightened his grip on the hilt of the blade sheathed at his side. Not drawn, not used. Not tonight. His health, stamina and mana were full. His pride was running on fumes.

  One of the guards turned slightly. “My lord, should we fall back?”

  “No,” Alistair said, watching as an Ebonfang unleashed a Crimson Chain, the blood-forged links whipping across three beastkin at once and tearing them apart like rag dolls. “I want to see how this ends.”

  Another wave of beastkin crashed forward, bigger this time, armored, howling war cries. But they were slower. Less coordinated.

  The Ebonfangs surged to meet them.

  Steel rang. Blood sprayed. Fangs tore. One vampire knight launched into the air, spinning in mid-leap, and brought down his glaive in a streak of red light that split the ground.

  More than a dozen beastkin were practically eviscerated, leaving behind nothing but torn flesh and scorched fur.

  Alistair could practically feel the experience notifications pinging behind their eyes. The satisfying ding of progress. The rush of growth.

  He hadn’t felt that in months.

  The beastkin began to break. A few scattered, yipping as they fled into the mists. Others died still swinging, defiant to the last. But they were outmatched. Outclassed.

  It was over.

  Alistair sighed. “Guess I’ll head to the party now.”

  Alistair turned away from the battlefield.

  The Ebonfangs had cleaned up. The hyena beastkin were dead or running, their shamans nothing but smoking corpses. His guards followed close behind as he walked back toward the castle.

  No one spoke.

  He didn’t feel proud. He felt useless.

  His sword hadn’t left its sheath. He hadn’t earned a single XP. Not that it mattered, his skills were stuck. He wasn’t going to level up without something big happening. A class change. A miracle. A god.

  He remembered what the tutors had drilled into him, what the crystal kept flashing whenever he trained: that a class evolution might break his plateau. He snorted. “Right. Because that’s super helpful.”

  He sighed.

  Most people unlocked their class after training or proving themselves when they were ready. Fighters, mages, scouts... hell, even merchants.

  He didn’t get that luxury.

  [Class: Vampire Lord]

  “Yeah. Got mine the day I was born. Lucky me,” he muttered.

  It sounded cool, sure. But the system hadn’t given him anything new in years. No evolutions, no subclass branches, no perks. Just a big fancy title and a growing list of abilities that were useless.

  The castle doors came into view, and with them, music.

  He let out a long sigh. “Great. Back to smiling and lying.”

  Because while the knights fought and the mortals starved, his job was to make sure the nobles didn’t panic. Throw them a party, pour them wine, toss them a few pretty mortals to drink from, and pretend everything was fine.

  Even when the kingdom was clearly falling apart.

  He pushed open the main hall doors.

  Laughter. Dancing. Blood. Music.

  Alistair straightened his coat, forced a smile, and stepped inside.

  Time to get to work.

  Alistair grabbed a goblet of bloodwine from a passing thrall and took a long sip. The main hall was a mess of music, flashing lights, and laughing vampires. What was supposed to be a quiet evening with a few “friends” had turned into a full-blown coven rave.

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  Vampires danced like they didn’t have a war on their doorstep. Noble heirs were guzzling wine like it gave XP. And the mortals half-drunk and half-naked were being treated like party favors.

  Partellos, one of Alistair’s more annoying friends, was already elbow-deep in a girl’s neck. He glanced up, blood dripping down his chin. “Want a taste? She’s fresh,” he said like he was offering snacks at a banquet.

  Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you already drain two tonight? Pacing yourself is a thing.”

  The girl let out a dazed moan. Partellos chuckled, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and tossed her at Alistair like she weighed nothing.

  He caught her, barely. Her eyes were wide, panicked.

  He gave her a small smile. No fangs. “Hey. I’ve been told I’m an acquired taste,” he said softly, then sank his teeth in.

  The moment the blood hit his tongue, the thirst clawing at the back of his mind eased. The perpetual craving, the almost agonizing thirst was finally being sated. His health bar was already full, but the energy hit was still real. Warmth spread through his limbs, sharp and addicting.

  The girl moaned again. Half fear, half... something else.

  “See? Told you,” he mumbled into her neck.

  He let the girl slump gently onto a nearby couch. She whimpered but didn’t resist.

  Across the room, Partellos wiped his mouth on his bloodstained blouse and raised his goblet like he was making a toast. “She’s a new acquisition! My father bought her from the orc slave lords. Took weeks. Trade’s nearly shut down, the roads are swarming with bandits, rebels, and worse.”

  That quieted the room.

  A few nobles shared uneasy glances. Someone muttered about missing shipments. Another mentioned a caravan that never made it past the ash dunes. Voices dropped low. Whispers spread like rot.

  Alistair felt it, the shift. Tension creeping in around the edges. Doubt settling in their minds like dust on old furniture.

  He sighed that his [Commanding Aura] skill from his class would actually do its job.

  He took a step forward, letting the weight of his presence settle over the crowd. Nothing dramatic, no glowing eyes or thunderclaps. Just a subtle shift. Shoulders straightened. Eyes turned. The room, once drifting toward panic, slowly refocused on him.

  He raised his goblet.

  “Friends! Let's not ruin a perfectly good night with doom and gloom. If the roads are dangerous, we simply throw better parties until they’re safe again.”

  A few chuckles. Not enough.

  He smiled wider. “And if trade routes are blocked, we’ll just drink all the wine we already have. We’re vampires, not accountants.”

  That one landed better. Laughter rippled through the crowd. Someone clapped.

  He went on, voice rising just enough to carry. “So tonight, we feast. Tomorrow, we worry. But for now...”

  He raised his goblet higher. “We dance like the world isn’t ending. Because if it is, I’d rather go out to music than silence.”

  Cheers this time. A few nobles toasted back. The mood lightened, tension bleeding out of the room like a popped vein.

  The whispers faded. The music picked up again.

  Alistair exhaled through his nose and took a long drink.

  The war seemed to be never-ending. Their enemies were multiplying, and there was always someone hiding in the shadows, waiting to strike. Their forces were stretched thin, and his father’s decisions were raising more and more voices of discontent. Their small kingdom was crumbling, a fact as obvious as a troll in a tutu, yet his father, with the singular focus of a dog chasing its own tail, remained blissfully unaware.

  The only one who could keep the nobles in line was him. The only one left in the castle.

  And one sure way to do that? Drown the hungry leeches in booze and blood. It worked... for now. But one day, someone would realize the truth, that this war would only end when his father was finally satisfied, or when one of their many enemies managed to kill them all.

  As the party roared back to life, Alistair sat down taking the human girl into his embrace and took another sip. That’s when he spotted movement near the far end of the hall.

  Fergus.

  The man moved like a shadow with a purpose, silent, sharp, and slightly pissed. His normally perfect posture was just a bit too stiff, and his silver-streaked hair was one strand out of place.

  Which, for Fergus, basically meant a full-blown crisis.

  He weaved through drunken nobles and half-conscious thralls with the agility of a panther and the enthusiasm of a tax collector. He sidestepped a thrall, who shuffled aimlessly until someone wanted a drink, and then with the grace only a vampire could possess avoided a couple dancing passionately to the tunes of the bard.

  When Fergus finally reached him, Alistair didn’t wait.

  “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he said. “Or worse, someone trying to have a heartfelt conversation.”

  Fergus didn’t even blink. He leaned in and spoke just loud enough to be heard over the music. “My lord, we need to speak. Privately.”

  That got Alistair’s attention.

  He stood without ceremony, letting the girl he'd fed from slump to the floor with a soft groan. A few nearby vampires turned to look.

  Alistair offered them a charming smile, blood still on his lips. “Duty calls, friends. Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”

  Someone laughed. Someone else hiccupped.

  He followed Fergus out of the hall, tossing a dramatic sigh toward the ceiling as they walked. “You know, I was actually enjoying myself. Blood, wine, social manipulation. It was starting to feel like a real party.”

  Fergus didn’t respond. His pace picked up.

  “Okay,” Alistair muttered. “Less fun now.”

  They moved through the castle’s high halls, steps echoing off obsidian stone. Alistair kept pace, more curious than worried, until he noticed how tight Fergus’s jaw was.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Are we under attack? Did the necromancers make a move? Are the trolls back with better hats?”

  Fergus glanced around and lowered his voice. “No. Something worse.”

  Alistair blinked. “Worse than trolls with hats?”

  The butler stopped walking. Turned to him with a look that killed the humor instantly.

  “Your father is here.”

  Alistair froze. “What?”

  “He arrived minutes ago. I was informed through the roostery.”

  Alistair nearly tripped on the next step. “Why? He’s supposed to be at the front. Fighting. Yelling. Getting impaled on things.”

  Fergus started walking again. “That is the part I don’t know.”

  Alistair groaned and rubbed his face. “Of course. Of course he shows up tonight. When everything’s a mess and I’ve just cleaned up the nobles with wine and charm.”

  “Some things never change,” Fergus said dryly.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the rooftop. He’s landing soon.”

  They climbed the winding stairs in silence.

  The higher they got, the colder the air became. Wind pushed through the narrow gaps in the stone like a warning whisper. The overwhelming stench of smoke and decay invaded his nostrils and ash coated his tongue.

  When they reached the final level, the door to the rooftop creaked open. Alistair stepped out into the night, his coat whipping in the wind.

  He winced.

  The sky was a sickly swirl of red and black, the usual shadowlands mix. Ash floated down like cursed snowflakes. Far below, the city flickered with dying torchlight along the floor of the canyon. Thick stone walls separated the vampire quarter from the rest of the city. On one side sharp spires, glowing windows, clean streets. On the other shacks, collapsed roofs, silence.

  Alistair stood next to Fergus, hands stuffed into his coat pockets.

  Screams echoed faintly from the streets below, carried by the wind.

  Alistair sighed, knowing that there was nothing to be done. They were considered monsters for a reason after all.

  “They’re starving again,” he muttered.

  Fergus gave a tight nod. “Mortals are locking their doors earlier every night. Too scared to be seen.”

  “They should be.” Alistair’s voice was quiet. “Father’s laws are killing them faster than the war is.”

  Their coven had always relied on mortals to keep the city running. Crafters, hunters, traders... all the jobs vampires considered beneath them. But the mortals were leaving. Quietly, one by one. The lucky ones vanished without a trace. The unlucky ones ended up as dinner.

  Even vampires were struggling to feed now.

  The whole city was suffocating and his father refused to see it.

  A deep rumble shook the stone beneath his feet. Alistair turned his head.

  One of the volcanoes in the distance, one of the Hungry Sisters was acting up again. Black smoke belched into the sky, thick and choking. Glowing lava spilled over the edge in slow, angry waves.

  The Hungry Sisters had made the shadowlands what it was dark, cursed, and perfect for vampires. No sunlight ever got through the clouds of ash, not even during the day the sun managed to breach the thick layer of black smoke. Their dark smoke had blanketed a vast expanse of the Altia continent and made it a fertile ground for dark creatures.

  It was a paradise for his kind.

  For him, it felt more like a prison.

  His eyes scanned the horizon, searching.

  He could survive sunlight. Barely. It would burn, and his skin would blister, but he’d live. A rare trait, a gift from His unique lineage. But here? In this fortress of shadows and lies?

  He was stuck.

  A sigh escaped him. Fergus turned to glance at him.

  “You don’t have to be nervous,” the butler said quietly. “You always know what to say to calm your father down.”

  Alistair gave a dry laugh. “Even when I’m the reason he’s furious?”

  Fergus smirked, the faintest tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

  A sudden shift in the air made them both look up.

  Wings. Massive ones.

  A fleet of war bats cut through the sky, armored riders gripping reins made of blood-forged chain. Wind howled across the rooftop as the first of them landed with a heavy thud.

  Then another. And another.

  Alistair’s father and brother landed last.

  They looked like they’d come from hell. Dented armor, dried blood, torn cloaks. Their eyes glowed faint red in the dark.

  And they were hungry.

  Really hungry.

  The kind of hunger that made lesser vampires lose control.

  Alistair stiffened.

  The knights behind them looked even worse. Crimson eyes, tense jaws, shaking hands.

  Bloodlust.

  They mustn’t have fed for days to have reached that point.

  They were close to bloodlust.

  He was sure that whoever mortal had the misfortune of crossing their path, they would pay with their lives.

  His father raised a gauntleted hand, and the rest of his guards flew away, heading for the roostery, leaving only Alistair, Fergus, his father and brother the only ones on the rooftop.

  Alistair stepped forward as the last bat pulled away and bowed in respect.

  Before he could speak, Fergus leaned in.

  “I would advise you to hide in your chambers,” he said, his voice barely audible over the wind. “The Blackmetal Guild is gone.”

  Alistair blinked. “What?”

  “They left the city at dawn. The Nightstrider Coven sent an offer. They accepted.”

  His stomach turned.

  The dwarves ran the forges. They supplied nearly all the weapons and armor the Ebonheart military used. Without them…

  “If my father finds out...”

  “He hasn’t. Not yet.”

  “You’re not going to tell him?”

  Fergus’s face didn’t change. “No.”

  That was impossible. Fergus was bloodbound, turned by his father, bound to obey him in everything. Alistair frowned.

  “How...?”

  “There’s a chance,” Fergus whispered, “he’ll leave before he finds out. And you’ll be spared.”

  Alistair stared at him.

  But Fergus was already looking away, eyes fixed on the figures walking toward them.

  The clank of metal rang through the wind as his father and brother stepped forward.

  Alistair stood straight and bowed. “Welcome home, Father.”

  For a second, it seemed like the man didn’t hear him.

  Then his father looked up and smiled.

  A wide, fanged grin split his bloodstained face.

  “My son!” he said, voice booming across the stone.

  Before Alistair could react, he was yanked into a crushing embrace that smelled like steel, ash, and death. The hug ended as quickly as it started. Alistair blinked, disoriented.

  Fergus, beside him, looked just as confused.

  His father clapped him on the shoulders, eyes glowing. “We’ve been blessed! The Goddess has chosen you!”

  “What?” Alistair asked, immediately on guard.

  “You’ve been chosen by the Blood Mistress!” his father said, nearly vibrating with excitement. “You’re her champion now. You’ll fight in the God Arena!”

  Alistair opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

  Champion?

  God Arena?

  Blood Mistress?

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