The room shifted.

  One second it was just the three of them, Alistair, his father, and Fergus. And the next, the shadows peeled open like wet paper.

  A figure stepped out.

  Cloaked in crimson from head to toe, she moved like fog. Even her hands were covered, gloved in the same blood-red fabric. No visible weapons. No smell. No heartbeat.

  Alistair’s instincts screamed.

  Alistair’s head whipped toward the source, fangs already pricking at his gums. His pupils thinned. So did Fergus’s. His father’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his sword.

  Blood mage.

  Fantastic.

  Alistair’s lip curled instinctively. A low hiss vibrated in his throat, unbidden.

  Blood mages.

  Twisting the sacred flow of life into something unclean. Tearing it out of their victims. Binding it to rituals and sigils and gods. Vampires were predators, they took blood with purpose. Blood mages defiled it.

  Their kind had always been despised by the covens, even feared. The fact that one now stood before them, unchallenged, made his skin crawl.

  He stepped back without meaning to.

  Just once, he thought, just once I’d like a night without creepy rituals or cursed jewelry.

  The woman didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The temperature in the chamber dropped a few degrees just from her presence. Alistair crossed his arms and muttered, “Well, that’s one way to ruin a perfectly decent evening.”

  The blood mage tilted her head at him, just enough to make his skin crawl. She stood perfectly still in the doorway, shrouded entirely in red, her face lost in shadow. The fabric of her cloak looked wet, as if it had never fully dried from its last cleansing.

  Fergus didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. His stance became unnaturally still, almost statuesque, an old instinct resurfacing. Servant before the divine.

  Alistair’s father... lowered his head.

  Alistair blinked.

  That had never happened before.

  The vampire king, apex of Ebonheart, butcher of the southern front, warlord of a dozen battlefields, bowed his head.

  Not in calculation.

  In deference.

  “Welcome,” he said softly, “agent of the Blood Mistress.”

  Alistair stared. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. His father’s voice didn’t carry the usual steel. It didn’t bark. It submitted.

  What in the hells is going on?

  The blood mage took a single step forward. Her robes whispered against the floor. No one moved to stop her. Not even Alistair’s father.

  The blood mage’s gaze passed from his father, to Fergus, then landed on Alistair.

  He didn’t like it.

  Her face was hidden beneath the hood, but he could feel her looking at him. Not like a person, either. More like a butcher sizing up a slab of meat.

  This is fine, he told himself. Completely fine. Just being stared at by a hooded eldritch butcher priestess.

  His spirit guide stirred.

  Not a voice. Not even a thought. Just a subtle shift, like something cold uncoiling from the corners of his mana core. Watching. Listening.

  Great. Even the spirit guide thing was creeped out.

  Finally, the blood mage spoke. Her voice was rough, like gravel grinding beneath frost.

  “You have been chosen.”

  Her words carried weight. Not metaphorical either. Alistair felt them press against his skin like heavy air before a storm.

  “To serve the Blood Mistress. To fulfill her will.”

  Alistair didn’t say anything. Mostly because he wasn’t sure what would come out. Probably sarcasm. Possibly vomit.

  His father stepped forward, ever the loyal dog. “We are ready to carry out her will. We are ready to obey,” he said.

  Speak for yourself.

  Obey? Alistair thought. What happened to “command,” “dominate,” “tear the world apart?”

  He didn’t recognize the man beside him.

  He couldn’t remember the last time his father addressed anyone with reverence. Not even the vampire lords from the Crimson Concord.

  The blood mage reached into her cloak and produced a gemstone, a ruby the size of a plum, pulsing with magic so dense it almost buzzed. Alistair’s eyes narrowed.

  The last time he saw a ruby like that, Lady Maribelle “accidentally” hexed half the Spring Ball with hers.

  Still. This one looked worse. And, naturally, it was being held out to him.

  “We must depart,” the blood mage said flatly.

  Alistair glanced at Fergus. The butler looked like he was either going to scream or faint, which for Fergus meant his left eyebrow twitched half a millimeter.

  His father met his gaze. Expression blank. As always.

  Of course.

  Alistair sighed. “Let me guess. I touch it, I disappear, and then the real fun begins?”

  No one answered.

  “Right. Of course.”

  He stepped forward. The ruby glowed brighter as his hand neared. A hum built in his ears, deep and rising.

  The blood mage gave a single word:

  “Touch.”

  Alistair glanced once, just once, at Fergus. The butler gave the barest nod.

  So he reached out and touched it.

  The world tore sideways.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  The world yanked sideways.

  Alistair’s stomach lurched, and for a heartbeat, maybe two, he felt detached from everything. His mana. His body. Gravity.

  Then his boots hit stone.

  He staggered, catching himself against the cold floor. The chamber he landed in was vast, dark, and… wrong. Not pitch black, thick. The shadows clung to everything like oil, swallowing detail, sound, and warmth.

  Even with darkvision, he couldn’t make out the far walls.

  The only light came from pillars of red crystal embedded in the floor and ceiling. They pulsed softly, casting long, blood-colored shadows.

  Alistair barely had time to get his bearings before a hand shoved him forward.

  The blood mage had arrived with him, naturally, and apparently, she'd brought her manners.

  “Watch it!” he snapped, jerking his arm free. “I may be bound to a blood goddess, but I still expect a certain level of professional courtesy.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Typical.

  She turned and walked deeper into the chamber, her footsteps silent. Alistair followed, reluctantly. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, some divine throne room? A temple?

  What he got was closer to a nightmare.

  The room opened into a ritual circle.

  At its center stood a woman, if you could still call her that. She towered above the floor, arms raised like a conductor mid-performance. Behind her, dozens, no, hundreds of figures writhed on the ground.

  They weren’t screaming. They couldn’t. Their mouths were open, their bodies twisted in frozen agony, but the only sound was the low hum of magic.

  Threads of red light floated through the air like strands of hair, connecting each of the suffering to the figure at the center.

  The Blood Mistress.

  Alistair let out a low whistle. “Well, isn’t this a lively bunch? Mental note: avoid dinner parties hosted by divine entities.”

  The blood mage didn’t laugh. Instead, she dropped to her knees and raised her arms in reverence.

  With a swift motion, she pulled a knife from her belt and sliced her palm. Blood welled up instantly, and the red motes responded, spiraling toward her and then drifting back toward the goddess like threads pulled into a loom.

  Alistair stood there, unsure if he was supposed to clap, scream, or throw up.

  He glanced at Fergus, remembered he was no longer in the room, and sighed.

  “Well, might as well get this over with.”

  He crouched beside the mage and hesitated. He didn’t have a knife. No sigil. No ceremonial dagger passed down through generations.

  Just... fangs.

  With a muttered curse, he bit into his wrist.

  The taste of his own blood was familiar, but wrong. Bitter. Charged. His offering floated upward, just two droplets, joining the rest in their silent drift toward the Blood Mistress.

  The moment they connected, something shifted.

  She inhaled sharply, and the entire chamber seemed to breathe with her. Her sigh was almost… pleased.

  Alistair shivered.

  Then she spoke.

  “Tirin, you have returned.”

  The blood mage, apparently Tirin, bowed low. “I have brought the champion as instructed.”

  Champion. Right.

  Alistair straightened, doing his best to look taller than he felt.

  The Blood Mistress turned toward him.

  She didn’t walk. She glided.

  With each step, her towering presence seemed to shrink, until she stood directly in front of him, no taller than he was. She wore a mask of rubies, faceted and gleaming, her expression unreadable.

  “So,” she said. “It seems.”

  Her voice was warm, almost amused. Somehow, that was worse.

  “You may go,” she said, dismissing Tirin with a flick of her fingers.

  The blood mage vanished into the shadows.

  Alistair was alone.

  Well. Alone with the divine avatar of blood and hunger. And a couple hundred whispering agony-wraiths.

  No pressure.

  The Blood Mistress chuckled. “You are afraid.”

  “I’m adaptable,” Alistair replied, forcing a smile. “Afraid is just a side effect.”

  She stepped closer. Red motes flared behind her, forming the shape of wings.

  “I am told you’re clever,” she said.

  “Painfully so.”

  “You will need it.”

  She raised a hand and placed her palm on his forehead. Cold magic flowed through him like ink.

  [Divine Selection Confirmed]

  Patron: The Blood Mistress, Goddess of Blood and Hunger

  Effect: Access to divine boons unlocked.

  [Blessing Acquired – Blood Sight]

  Effect: Perceive the flow of blood and life force within living beings. Detect hidden enemies. Identify weak points.

  Another message flickered faintly at the bottom of his vision:

  [Covenant Advisory]

  Divine bonds grant rapid growth and unique power.

  Warning: Gods are insatiable. Obey their covenants, or be unmade.

  Alistair blinked.

  “Well, that was unexpected.”

  The Blood Mistress tilted her head. “Why is that?”

  He shrugged, regaining some of his charm. “Not to sound ungrateful, but I was expecting something more... dramatic.”

  She laughed, a light, beautiful sound that didn’t match the suffering swirling behind her.

  “Oh, I can arrange that,” she said brightly.

  He raised both hands. “Tempting, but I think I’ll pass. I’m a simple man. Power, immortality, a few flashy perks, I don’t need the full torture-pit aesthetic.”

  She laughed again.

  With a flick of her wrist, two elegant chairs materialized from shadow and mist. She sat, crossing her legs like a queen ready to gossip.

  “Sit,” she said. “We have much to discuss. And little time to waste.”

  Alistair took the seat across from her with the grace of someone about to be interrogated… politely.

  The armchair was surprisingly comfortable. Soft, plush. Embroidered in some deep maroon silk that looked far too similar to congealed blood for his comfort.

  “You made quite the impression,” the Blood Mistress said, lounging with one leg draped elegantly over the other.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I do strive to disappoint as extravagantly as possible.”

  She smiled. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… interested.

  “You’re different from the others.”

  Alistair tilted his head. “I’d like to think so. Although I assume that’s something you say to all your sacrificial offerings.”

  “They usually scream,” she replied. “You joke.”

  “It’s a defense mechanism,” he admitted. “That and the fangs. Helps with awkward social interactions.”

  Her eyes, he still couldn’t see them through the ruby mask, but he felt them, narrowed slightly.

  “I chose you for a reason.”

  “I’m flattered. But I assume it wasn’t for my conversational skills.”

  “No,” she said, and her tone dipped slightly, becoming velvet around a knife. “It was because you are untested. Unclaimed. And... hungry.”

  That last word lingered.

  Alistair swallowed. Not from fear. From something colder. Deeper.

  “You want out of the cage they built for you,” she said. “Your blood sings with purpose, but your soul rots in place.”

  He didn’t answer.

  Not because she was wrong but because she was too close to the truth.

  “I can offer you purpose. Power. The chance to become something more than a forgotten noble and a disappointing son.”

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “You’ve done your homework.”

  “I do not make deals lightly,” she continued. “You are now my champion. You will compete in my name in the Arena. You will face others. Mortals, demigods, monsters.”

  “And if I win?” he asked.

  “You will become something the world has not seen in centuries,” she said, her voice glowing with divine promise. “A vessel of divinity. A god-blooded king.”

  Alistair leaned back.

  “And if I lose?”

  “You won’t,” she said simply. “You’re mine now.”

  Not a threat. A certainty.

  He looked at her for a long moment, then sighed.

  “Do I get a rulebook? List of forbidden spells? Maybe a divine hotline?”

  She smirked. “You’ll learn. One trial at a time.”

  A pulse of magic rolled across the room. Alistair felt his spirit guide stir again curious this time, not wary.

  [Divine Pact Initiated]

  You have entered into a Covenant with the Goddess of Blood.

  Progression unlocked. Divine Favor: +1

  Arena Access: [Locked] – Activation pending

  Alistair blinked as the message faded, the weight of it sinking into his core.

  This wasn’t just another title. Or another skill. This was real.

  He glanced once at the Blood Mistress, still seated across from him like a queen of velvet and knives.

  No more games.

  It was time to stop playing the charming fool. The reluctant heir. The too-clever-to-care party prince.

  He needed answers. And who better to provide them than a mysterious, bloodthirsty goddess who clearly had a plan and had just chosen him to carry it out?

  Why him?

  What did she want?

  What was her endgame?

  And more importantly what did he have to do to survive long enough to find out?

  To make her plan reality without dying... or worse, becoming one of the writhing, silent souls still chained behind her?

  He straightened in his chair, his smile gone. Just eyes now. Sharp. Watching.

  “I want to talk,” he said.

  The Blood Mistress smiled.

  “Good,” she replied. “Because now... I will tell you everything.”

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