“Alistair.” Fergus’s voice trembled, the word caught between disbelief and formality. “My lord… is it truly you?”

  Alistair’s throat tightened, but he managed a crooked grin. “Last I checked. Unless I died somewhere along the way, in which case... Surprise!”

  Fergus stared at him as though he’d risen from the grave. His immaculate posture wavered for the first time in Alistair’s memory. The hand that always brushed dust from his coat, that eternal little ritual of composure, now twitched uselessly at his side.

  “I…” His voice faltered before he forced it back into shape. “I was there when you had been chosen. Chosen to step into the Arena of the Gods.” His eyes swept Alistair from head to toe, as if searching for proof, for cracks in the vision before him. “I thought I would never see you again. I thought…” His jaw tightened. “I thought you would die there.”

  Alistair’s mouth pulled into a crooked grin. “You and everyone else.”

  Fergus blinked hard, his composure threatening to fracture again. He glanced around briefly, stone, shadow, strange air thick with a power he didn’t recognize. No windows, no familiar scents, no hint of home. It was nowhere he had ever known. His eyes snapped back to Alistair. “And yet here you stand. Alive. Changed. I don’t… understand.”

  “You and me both,” Alistair muttered.

  Fergus took one stiff step forward, the disbelief plain in his face despite every attempt to wear propriety like armor. “Alistair,” he said, quieter now. “I saw you struggle for years. Locked out of power the rest of us took for granted. Always falling short, always ignored by the System. I...” He stopped, lips pressing into a thin line. His hands folded behind his back, forcing his tone back into formality. “Forgive me. But how? How did you return from the Arena alive?”

  Alistair smirked, though his voice carried the weight of exhaustion. “That’s a very long story.”

  Alistair blew out a breath and started talking before Fergus could even blink.

  “So there was this Arena, obviously, you know that part, but it wasn’t just fighting, oh no, it was divine theater, with gods watching from above like they were at some tavern brawl, betting and laughing. First it was beastkin, hyenas the size of wagons, then shamans hurling fire, then more and more, spirits, champions, one after another, like a parade of death, and I almost died more times than I can count. Oh, and I got stabbed, burned, frozen, crushed, bled out, but still somehow kept standing, don’t ask me how because I don’t know. Then there was Thess, gods, Thess…”

  His words faltered for the briefest heartbeat, the grief raw, before he shoved onward.

  “... and then Buddy, my hellhound, don’t look at me like that, yes, I have a hellhound now, he’s frozen at the moment but he’s adorable, in a monstrous sort of way. And Brimma, who’s basically a cranky grandmother who can turn into a spider, and Kael, who’s an elf with more secrets than sense. And the Herald, ha! You should’ve seen him. Three eyes, golden wings, like a drunk jester playing godling announcer. I swear half the Arena was just him mocking me. And the shades, thousands, Fergus, thousands pouring in like the dead themselves wanted a shot at me...”

  He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now.

  “... and then the necromancer, don’t get me started, and Vardis, that bastard killed Thess, but I killed him, burned him from the inside out, and then the Maw opened, and I thought that was it, I thought I was done, but I kept running, kept fighting, and somehow, I don’t even know how, I reached the Crystal. I touched it. And I won. Fergus, I won.”

  He stopped, chest heaving, his words spilling out faster than his breath could keep up.

  Fergus just stared at him. For once, the perfect mask of etiquette cracked wide open. His mouth opened and closed without a word, his eyes full of disbelief, shock, and something sharp and protective that Alistair hadn’t seen in years.

  “You…” Fergus swallowed. “You did all of this? You?”

  Alistair gave a helpless laugh, running a hand over his face. “Trust me, no one’s more surprised than I am.”

  Fergus’s lips trembled, the words catching in his throat. His eyes widened, every trace of courtly armor stripped bare. For once, he wasn’t the polished shadow of their father, wasn’t the careful, cold model of a perfect vampire retainer. He was just Fergus.

  “You reckless fool,” he breathed, voice breaking. “You were supposed to die in there. You should have died in there. And instead, you faced gods, and shades, and horrors I can hardly picture, and...”

  The words broke, strangled into silence. Fergus’s composure finally shattered.

  Before Alistair could smirk or make some self-deprecating quip, Fergus closed the distance in two strides and pulled him into a fierce embrace. His arms were iron, clutching Alistair like he might vanish if he let go.

  Alistair stiffened, startled, then huffed out a shaky laugh against his brother’s shoulder. “Careful, Fergus. Someone might see you acting human.”

  “Silence,” Fergus said, voice rougher than Alistair had ever heard it. His grip only tightened. “Do you have any idea what this does to me? To see you alive? To know you stood against all that and returned? I thought you were lost. I thought…”

  He pulled back just enough to look at him, and his perfect composure was nowhere to be found. Worry, pride, and fear warred across his pale features.

  “I thought I’d never see you again, little brother.”

  Alistair blinked hard, throat tightening. He forced a crooked grin, though his voice was quieter now. “Guess you’re stuck with me after all.”

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  Fergus’s laugh was shaky, but real. And for a rare, impossible moment, there was no etiquette, no mask, just family.

  The moment lingered, rare, fragile, almost warm, until a voice like silk over steel cut through it.

  “How touching,” the Bloodmistress said, her tone flat, almost bored. “Family reunions are such… quaint things.”

  Fergus stiffened as if struck. His head turned, and at last he saw her standing there, shadows coiling around her crimson form, ruby mask gleaming.

  The change in him was immediate. His spine bent low, his elegant hands pressed together as he dropped into a bow so deep it almost scraped the ground. “Goddess…” His voice was reverent, shaken. “Forgive me. I did not... I had not realized...”

  “Spare me,” the Bloodmistress said with a flick of her hand. “I have little patience for groveling.”

  Her masked gaze turned back to Alistair, her shadows curling tighter. “It is time for me to depart. Remember my words, Champion. Grow strong. Build on stone, not sand. Make foundations that cannot be torn down. Seek the best minds, the best blades, the best hearts to advance your kingdom. Every decision matters now.”

  Alistair swallowed, nodding once.

  “And one more thing,” she added, turning with idle grace. A single shadowed hand gestured toward the carved arch of the throne room’s entrance. The old stone doors loomed open, faint golden light spilling out. “I just transported seventy-three very confused Caelari into your hall. You may want to calm them before panic turns to chaos.”

  Alistair blinked. “Seventy-three? You couldn’t have rounded it to seventy?”

  Her mask tilted, and though her voice did not change, he could almost feel the smirk beneath it.

  “Do try not to squander them.”

  And with that, she dissolved into streams of blood and shadow, vanishing as though she had never been there.

  Silence rushed in to fill the space she’d left behind.

  Alistair let out a low groan. “Great. My first act as king... babysitting.”

  “King?” Fergus’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “King? Kingdom? Subjects? What in the gods’ names are you talking about?”

  Alistair coughed into his fist. “Oh. Did I forget to mention that by winning the Arena, I got a Founding Crystal and my very own kingdom?” He spread his arms with mock grandeur. “Surprise. Welcome to Neverkneel.”

  Fergus opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out, his perfect etiquette failing him for perhaps the first time in two centuries.

  Before he could find words, the three blood-flowers at their backs shivered. The crimson petals dissolved into mist, and Brimma, Kael, and Buddy stirred.

  “Buddy!” Alistair barely got the word out before a wall of black fur and fire barreled into him. The hellhound’s massive weight nearly toppled him flat. Hot slobber drenched his face as the beast barked, tail lashing like a whip, licking him from chin to hairline with molten enthusiasm.

  “Missed you too, boy,” Alistair wheezed, trying to shove the hound’s massive head aside while simultaneously patting him. “Yes, yes, good boy, very good boy, still the best murder machine this side of the void, gods, your tongue’s like lava.”

  Fergus took one horrified step back, hand hovering near his collar like he might faint. “What... what is that creature?”

  Buddy’s ember eyes rolled toward him, a low rumble building in his chest. His jaws parted, flames crackling between sharp teeth.

  “Buddy, no!” Alistair barked, snapping his fingers. The hellhound stilled, though his molten gaze stayed locked on Fergus. “That one’s family. Do not eat the family.”

  Buddy snorted, like he disagreed with the assessment.

  “WHAT in the nine hells is going on?” Brimma’s voice cracked. She planted her staff, glaring at Alistair with all the fury of a grandmother catching children stealing sweets. “I return to my peaceful hut after days of having to suffer you two,” she pointed her staff accusingly at Alistair and Kael, “and the next thing I know I’m back here staring at your ugly mug. Which can only mean one thing, you actually won.”

  Her wrinkled face scrunched tighter, somehow more furious. “How dare you survive, boy.”

  “Lovely to see you too,” Alistair said, still trying to peel Buddy’s tongue off his face.

  Kael blinked blearily, rubbing at his eyes. “Strange. I was just in the clan hall, celebrating my return with the proper rites.” He paused, frowning in thought. “Drinking goat’s blood out of a hollowed stag antler while dancing naked around a fire. Standard tradition.”

  Alistair froze mid-struggle, staring. “…What?”

  Kael waved him off. “Not important. Where are we?”

  Alistair tried to speak, but Buddy shoved his nose into his chest, licking harder. “We’re... pffft, hold on, Buddy, stop!” He pushed against the hound’s massive head, laughing despite himself. “We’re fine, alright? We made it out. I missed you, you oversized furnace. You’re a good boy. Yes you are.”

  Buddy barked happily, nearly bowling him over again.

  Meanwhile, Fergus stood stiff as stone, staring at the hellhound like it was the end of days. Brimma scowled. Kael blinked in utter confusion.

  And Alistair, half-buried under fire, fur, and slobber, threw his arms up. “Welcome to my kingdom, everyone. Try not to panic.”

  Brimma squinted at the plateau around them, staff tapping against the ground. Her wrinkled nose scrunched up. “This place stinks of rot. The land’s blighted. Dead under the skin.” She spat to the side. “Figures your kingdom would be half a corpse already.”

  Alistair sighed. “Yes, well… turns out it’s our job to heal it.”

  Kael’s lips curled, his green eyes narrowing as he scanned the twisted trees and the blackened ground. “This isn’t just decay. It’s wrong. Tainted. I can feel it. This isn’t a place to live, it’s a scar.” His hand tightened around his bow. “We’ll have to fix it.”

  Alistair tilted his head. “Funny, I was hoping you’d have the solution.”

  The gnome and the elf turned to look at each other. Brimma’s face twisted further, the picture of reluctant concession. “There are ways. Rituals. Old magic. But corruption of this magnitude?” She shook her head, scowling. “We’d have to study it first. See what we’re dealing with before we try to mend it.” Her sharp little eyes slid back to Alistair. “Speaking of rot, another leech? As if your sorry hide wasn’t enough?”

  Alistair raised a brow and gestured to Fergus. “Allow me to introduce my brother.”

  Fergus inclined his head, hands folded neatly before him, but Kael’s gaze lingered too long. His mouth twitched, uncertain. “He doesn’t look like you. He looks more like...”

  “Don’t,” Alistair cut in smoothly, voice iron.

  Kael bit back the rest, but the silence said it all. Both he and Brimma had noticed the signs: the too-long fangs that jutted no matter how Fergus closed his mouth, the blood-red eyes, the thin frame stretched taut over old power, the claws. A made vampire. A creature they’d seen before, feral, monstrous, mindless with hunger.

  Alistair forced a smile. “Fergus was sired by my father.”

  Fergus’s eyes flicked between the elf and the gnome, reading the tension instantly. With practiced grace, his mask slid firmly back into place. His back straightened like a rod, his tone polished and formal.

  “It is an honor,” he said, bowing lightly at the waist. “To make the acquaintance of those who stood with my brother in the Arena. You have my respect, and my thanks.”

  Brimma sniffed, unimpressed. Kael only inclined his head, his gaze still cautious.

  Alistair clapped his hands together. “Wonderful. Introductions complete, suspicions aired, everyone thoroughly unsettled. Now enough pleasantries. Let’s go meet my subjects. I’m sure they’re thrilled to be here.”

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