Alistair lounged in the armchair, doing his best impression of a man who hadn’t just signed his soul away.

  Across from him sat the Blood Mistress.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

  Just watched.

  The crimson motes drifting behind her pulsed faintly, swirling into strange, broken shapes, wings, crowns, claws, all made from the raw stuff of magic and madness.

  Alistair resisted the urge to squirm.

  Instead, he chuckled.

  A short, dry sound.

  Not out of bravery.

  Out of pure, helpless absurdity.

  The Blood Mistress tilted her head slightly.

  Her ruby mask caught the dim light and threw it back in a thousand fractured reflections.

  “What amuses you, little soul?” she asked.

  Her voice was soft. Dangerously soft.

  Like the moment before a blade kisses flesh.

  Alistair spread his hands.

  “Oh, nothing serious,” he said, grinning too wide. “Just picturing my father’s face if he knew I was having a cozy fireside chat with a goddess. He’d die on the spot. Might even do it politely.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched behind the mask.

  "Fate," she said, "is a curious weaver."

  Alistair shrugged. "Curious. Sadistic. Same thing, really."

  He glanced around the bleak, bleeding room. "All we’re missing is tea and biscuits."

  The Blood Mistress gave a low, throaty laugh that seemed to vibrate through the stone itself.

  "Tea," she mused, "is too bland for me."

  "Figures," Alistair said. "You seem more... vintage."

  Her laughter faded, and the silence that followed was deeper. Thicker.

  The air grew colder.

  The floor under his boots seemed to hum with tension.

  The Blood Mistress leaned forward.

  The motes behind her twitched like dying insects.

  "You are here for a reason," she said, her voice now stripped of amusement. "You will fight for me. You will bleed for me. You will win for me."

  Alistair sobered fast.

  The Blood Mistress’s gaze, hidden behind the ruby mask, seemed to pin him to his seat.

  “The Arena lies within the Gilded City,” she continued. “A grand coliseum in the heart of divinity itself. Mortals, demigods, even fallen angels are cast into the pit for the gods’ amusement.”

  Alistair felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his spine.

  He’d heard of the Gilded City. Everyone had. The crown jewel of the divine realms, home to miracles, monstrosities, and worse.

  “A celebration,” she said, voice thick with contempt. “A carnival of death. They watch. They wager. They scheme.”

  She leaned forward slightly, and Alistair felt his instincts screaming at him to bow his head, to crawl.

  “The godlings are growing bold,” she said. “Thirsty. Desperate. They want blood. They want to rise above their station, to carve their names into the bones of the heavens.”

  She sighed. “But they don’t matter. The Twelve dominate it," she continued, her tone sharpening like a knife being honed. "The ancients. The first of the Pantheon. Their champions win. Always."

  Alistair tightened his jaw.

  He knew of the Twelve. Everybody did. Living myths. Walking catastrophes. Beings so far above mortals that even other gods treated them carefully.

  “To them, it is sport,” the Blood Mistress said, her voice velvet and venom. “To us, it is opportunity.”

  Alistair frowned. “Opportunity?”

  She leaned forward, the motes of blood energy trailing her movements like spider silk.

  “To crush rivals,” she whispered. “To claim glory. To remind the Pantheon that old blood still runs deep.”

  He swallowed. “And here I thought I was just signing up for some light exercise.”

  A genuine laugh burst from her, rich and dark. “You amuse me, little soul.”

  Then her tone shifted again, faster this time, like the flick of a blade.

  “Usually, I enter a champion merely for formality. A token gesture. But this time…”

  The temperature seemed to drop another degree.

  “This time, I want the prize.”

  Alistair felt it then, the true weight of her presence. The power. The need. The bottomless hunger roiling just beneath her gilded mask.

  The room seemed to pulse with her words.

  The ground shook.

  The walls bled.

  Even the air buzzed with dark magic.

  Alistair gripped the armrests tightly enough that his knuckles went bone-white.

  "You will not be my pawn," she said. "You will be my dagger."

  She moved closer, every step heavier than the last, like a mountain bearing down.

  "You will carve a path through my enemies. You will break their champions. You will make them remember why they feared the old gods."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The Blood Mistress stood over him now, her ruby mask mere inches away.

  Behind her, the motes twisted into monstrous shapes.

  Alistair swallowed against the dry knot in his throat.

  The Blood Mistress’s next words burned straight into his soul.

  "I chose you," she said, "because you are bound to me by blood and oath. Because you have potential yet untapped. Because you will either rise... or die screaming."

  Her presence crushed against him.

  Alistair fought to keep breathing.

  His mind screamed: this is not a partnership. This is a noose.

  The Blood Mistress sat across from him again, casual, relaxed, like a queen watching a particularly amusing pet.

  He licked his lips.

  "Am I allowed to ask questions," he said finally, "or do I get smited for that?"

  The Blood Mistress chuckled, a dark, amused sound.

  "You may ask," she said. "Whether I answer... depends on my mood."

  Of course it did.

  Still, he had to try. His mind clawed at the one thought that wouldn’t leave him alone.

  "Why me?" he said, voice low. “I mean really, why? Why me?

  The question echoed, loud in the bleeding silence.

  The Blood Mistress tilted her head, as if studying an insect she was considering crushing or keeping.

  "Do I need a reason?" she asked sweetly.

  Alistair forced himself not to shift in his seat.

  "Mortals," she continued, "are always so eager to believe they are chosen. Special."

  Her voice twisted on that last word, dripping with mockery.

  "But you?" She stood again, graceful and lethal. "You are not special."

  The words cut sharper than he expected.

  She circled him slowly, the crimson motes drifting behind her in a slow, spiraling storm.

  "You are convenient," she said. "You fit the rules of the Arena. There are some limitations to our chosen champions. For example, they cannot be above level 20 or have more than one blessing, which I find quite bothersome, to be frank," the Goddess explained, her tone tinged with a hint of annoyance. "But those games are supposed to give rise to a new generation of champions."

  Alistair nodded thoughtfully, absorbing this new information. "In other words, it's a way to find which mortals they should keep an eye on," the Goddess continued, her voice tinged with amusement.

  Still, her explanation left him unsatisfied. "The truth is that I chose you because of your powers," the Goddess finally admitted.

  Alistair frowned, puzzled by her cryptic response. "Soulbinders are rare, and those under my influence are even rarer," she continued, her gaze piercing through him like a dagger. "Your Soulbinder nature, along with your noble lineage, are crucial to what I have planned for you. Those two powers will play an essential role during the God Arena competition and... after."

  Alistair clenched his fists.

  He remembered all the nights training until his arms shook.

  The endless drills. The sparring matches. The bloody tournaments.

  And for what?

  His skills had plateaued.

  He had hit the affinity caps.

  No more levels. No more progress.

  While others around him kept growing stronger, unlocking new abilities, new evolutions... He had been stuck.

  Frozen at the threshold.

  The Blood Mistress’s voice broke his spiraling thoughts.

  "And you are bound to me already," she said.

  Visions slammed into his mind, the younger version of his father, kneeling in a ring of blood, hands outstretched, desperate.

  "You see," she whispered, "your bloodline was pledged to me long ago. Body, soul... and offspring. Your father is not the self-made man he led you to believe. Tired of serving those above and feeling slighted at having to obey those he deemed unworthy, he was an infamous Soulbinder after all, made a pact with me. I offered him a small kingdom to play with, and in return, he pledged himself and his line to me!"

  Alistair swallowed hard.

  He wasn’t chosen because he was strong.

  He wasn’t chosen because he was clever.

  He was chosen because he was owed.

  A pawn passed down like a cursed heirloom.

  He forced a shaky grin.

  "Always nice to feel wanted."

  The Blood Mistress laughed again, a low, vibrating sound that made the very floor shudder.

  "And besides," she added, circling in front of him now, "you are useful."

  She lifted a hand, and red energy spiraled around her fingers.

  "You are a Soulbinder. A rare breed."

  The energy formed into shapes, all spinning faster and faster.

  "Your blood," she murmured, "is potent. Your lineage... pure. Your magic... malleable."

  She leaned in until her masked face was inches from his own.

  "You will adapt," she said. "Or you will break."

  Alistair closed his eyes for a heartbeat.

  This wasn’t the kind of fight he could win with charm.

  No sly smiles. No clever deflections.

  No sweet-talking his way through a pit full of demigod champions.

  In the Arena, it would just be blood and steel.

  And when the time came, he didn’t even know if his strength would be enough.

  He was strong, yes. Trained. But not growing.

  A dead end.

  He opened his eyes again, forcing the doubt back into its corner.

  "You will adapt," the Blood Mistress repeated, her voice curling around him like a noose.

  "Or you will die."

  The Blood Mistress circled him like a predator.

  The blood motes swirled tighter around them, the air growing so dense that every breath scraped against his lungs.

  Alistair gritted his teeth.

  He wanted to say something.

  Something clever.

  Something to break the crushing silence.

  But the words never made it past his throat.

  Because the Blood Mistress moved.

  One hand lifted lazily.

  And reality snapped.

  A wave of magic smashed into him. Not a push, not a strike, but a total invasion. His body seized. His limbs locked. His mana roared in protest.

  Pain lanced through him. Raw. Violent.

  Alistair gasped, his fingers twitching against the armrests.

  The Blood Mistress spoke, soft and final.

  “It is time to seal the bond.”

  He tried to move. To run. To fight.

  Too late.

  The crimson energy coiled around his arms, his chest, his throat tightening with every heartbeat he didn’t feel.

  Something tore inside him.

  Deep.

  Primordial.

  A pain unlike anything he’d ever known ripped through his core, making his vision shudder.

  [Warning! Severe Core Strain Detected!]

  [Warning! System Stability at 12%!]

  His body arched in the chair, mouth open in a silent scream.

  And then he saw it.

  His own hand, moving without his command.

  Reaching inward.

  Sinking past flesh and bone.

  Clutching something warm, wet, and struggling.

  His heart.

  Alistair watched, horror hollowing him out, as he pulled the still-beating organ free.

  It pulsed weakly between his bloodstained fingers, a grotesque offering.

  The Blood Mistress leaned closer, her voice a purr vibrating through his mangled senses.

  "Good," she murmured. "You understand."

  He wanted to vomit. To faint.

  Anything but stand there, bleeding, broken, heart in hand.

  [Critical Damage Sustained!]

  [HP Remaining: 1/104]

  [Status Effect: Blood Stasis — Invulnerability Active for 15 Minutes]

  The notifications flared, mechanical and useless, as his vision tilted.

  The Blood Mistress raised a hand.

  The blood motes condensed into a crown of razors above her head.

  "You are mine," she said.

  Alistair’s knees buckled.

  He dropped to one knee instinctively, heart still clutched in his outstretched hand.

  Bloody tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them back.

  He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

  "Say it," she whispered.

  The command lanced through him sharper than any blade.

  Alistair clenched his jaw.

  For one long, ragged breath, he fought it.

  And then...

  "I am yours," he rasped.

  The Blood Mistress exhaled like a lover satisfied.

  The blood motes exploded outward, washing over him in a tidal wave of burning magic.

  For a moment, there was nothing but heat.

  Pain.

  And the deafening silence of a soul being branded.

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