The sanctum groaned around him, stone screaming as the Maw ate its foundations. Dust rained in sheets, the portal flickering violently at the center of the room. Every instinct screamed at Alistair to move, to run, to dive through before the ceiling buried him alive.
But he didn’t move.
He couldn’t.
Thess lay crumpled on the marble, her braid twisted beneath her head, her golden-green eyes glassy and distant. Her bark-patterned skin was pale, blood pooling beneath her like a spreading shadow.
Dead.
She was dead.
The words repeated inside him like a hammer, each one heavier than the last.
A sea of notifications swarmed across his vision, flashing red, pulsing blue, lines of text that didn't make any sense. They blurred together, meaningless static. He didn’t see any of it.
All he saw was her face.
Her mouth slack, parted in that half-formed word that would never come. Her eyes, once so sharp and alive, staring past him, unfocused forever.
“Thess,” he whispered. His voice cracked on her name, breaking against the dust-thick air.
Something inside him cracked too.
It wasn’t like wounds he’d taken in battle. It wasn’t like bleeding, or broken ribs, or burnt flesh. This pain wasn’t clean.
It shattered.
Like glass dropped from a tower, whatever fragile thing he had kept safe inside himself broke into a million pieces. Shards of it stabbed through him, jagged and merciless, leaving only a hollow ache in their wake.
It began in his spirit, sharp and cold. A wound no blade could cause. But then it spread, sinking into his body until it felt real. Until it hurt so much it stole his breath.
Alistair clutched at his chest, fingers curling hard against his armor, his knees buckling. The pressure was crushing, like a hand squeezing his heart, like his ribs were about to crack inward. He staggered, the room tilting, his vision burning red.
He had fought champions, gods, and monsters. He had been burned by holy light and bled nearly dry. None of it compared to this.
This was worse.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as though he were drowning. His heart screamed against his ribs, every pulse hammering the truth deeper into him. Thessaly was gone.
Gone.
And the bond that tied him to her, the bright, warm tether that had flared in him during every fight, every moment of danger, was dark now. Snuffed out.
Tears stung his eyes, hot and unwanted, carving streaks through the grime on his face. He pressed a shaking hand against the floor to steady himself, but the stone cracked beneath his grip. His whole body trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer force of grief.
The sanctum collapsed around him. Whole slabs of ceiling fell, the floor cracked open, the portal flared and buckled. But none of it mattered.
He was kneeling in the ruins, holding on to the sight of her pale face, and the hollow scream inside him was louder than the end of the world.
The sanctum cracked and groaned, its bones giving way. The Maw chewed its edges, the floor splitting wider with every heartbeat.
Alistair knelt in the middle of it, Thess’s lifeless body cradled in his arms. The grief clawed deeper, drowning him, until something inside him snapped.
The Bloodsong roared to life.
It screamed in his veins, demanding release, demanding blood. Everything in his vision shifted to a deep, furious tint of red. The collapsing stone, the falling columns, the portal’s glow, they all drowned beneath that crimson haze.
The song wanted slaughter. It wanted to tear, to rend, to hunt Vardis across realms and bleed him dry.
But something held him back.
A tether. A fragile cord in the storm.
Thess.
Even in death, her memory pulled at him, not soft but steady. A weight on his chest, a whisper at the edge of his rage. He clenched his teeth, forcing the Bloodsong down, channeling its fire into his muscles instead of madness.
The palace gave one final shudder and began to collapse outright.
Marble split beneath him, half the sanctum crumbling away into the Maw’s black hunger. A fissure roared down the center of the floor, devouring statues and shattered altars, pulling entire slabs into the void below.
Alistair surged to his feet, Thess’s body gathered tight in his arms. “Not here,” he rasped. His voice broke as stone fell away behind him. “You are not left behind.”
He ran.
The world tried to stop him at every step. Columns toppled, smashing into the ground like falling towers. He ducked, twisting through the rain of marble. Beams of stone shattered across his path, forcing him to leap gaps with the sanctum falling away beneath his boots.
The portal flickered, suddenly far away, its light spasming as if it too was about to be swallowed.
Dust blinded him, his lungs burning as the ceiling gave way. He clutched Thess tighter, his arms straining, her hair whipping against his face.
“Hold together!” he snarled at the portal, as if it could hear him. “Just a little longer!”
The final stretch split open, leaving a jagged leap across collapsing stone. He gathered himself, muscles screaming, the Bloodsong hurling fire into his veins.
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He jumped.
The floor gave way behind him, the Maw tearing the sanctum into nothingness. Alistair hit hard, stumbling, clutching her against his chest as the arch loomed overhead.
With a hoarse, broken cry, he threw himself and Thess into the portal, just as the palace was devoured whole.
He came through the portal snarling.
His fangs bared, breath ragged, eyes wild. Every muscle in his body screamed for violence. For vengeance. For Vardis’s blood on his blade, his screams in Alistair’s ears.
But there was no battlefield waiting for him.
No shattered arena floor.
No volcanic wasteland.
No twisted labyrinth crawling with monsters.
Instead...
A gilded chamber.
Columns of beaten gold rose around him, etched with script that seemed to shift when he looked too long. A ceiling of glass arched overhead, golden blooms hanging like stars in the night, their fragrance heady and thick, cloying in his lungs. Sheer curtains drifted lazily in a gentle wind, and beyond them, through open arches, the city spread.
The City of the Gods. Gilded spires, radiant plazas, avenues paved in light. A city untouched by time, by ruin, by hunger. A city that mocked him with its beauty.
And he... He stood at its threshold, dirty, bloodied, his cloak torn, his arms filled with Thessaly’s pale body.
Out of place. Out of breath. Out of everything but fury.
A dozen figures waited for him, their bloodred robes pooling like liquid across the polished floor. Heads bowed, hands hidden. Silent. Watching.
The figure at their front lifted her chin.
“Champion,” she rasped, voice like a ruined throat dragged over gravel. “We offer our condolences… for the loss of your companion.”
Alistair stiffened. That voice. He knew it.
It was her. The blood mage. The servant of the Bloodmistress who had come for him at the beginning, who had led him to the Arena. That felt like an eternity ago, when he’d been a boy in his father’s halls with capped skills and broken pride.
Now... He was something else.
She stepped forward, arms open in a gesture that was almost tender. “Let us help you.”
The world tilted red again. His chest tightened, his fangs bared, a hiss tearing out of him. He crouched low, feral, clutching Thess’s body tighter against him as if they meant to take her.
“Stay back,” he snarled, his voice raw, breaking on the edge of grief.
The blood mage did not flinch.
The blood mage’s ruined voice carried softly, her words like silk dragged over broken glass.
“We only mean to prepare her body for her last voyage, so that Xesious, the God of Death, may welcome her with open arms.”
Alistair’s grip on Thess tightened until his knuckles blanched white. His throat worked, the hiss on his lips fading into a hoarse rasp. He bent, pressed his forehead briefly against her cooling brow, then let out a sound between a growl and a sob.
Reluctantly he released her.
Two acolytes stepped forward, their crimson robes trailing like blood across the floor. They lifted Thess with reverence, their motions deliberate, careful, as though she were porcelain.
The moment her weight left his arms, the world hollowed.
The tether was gone. The bond severed. His chest clenched, the ache swallowing him whole. He pressed his hand against his sternum as though he could hold the pieces together, but the fracture ran deeper than flesh.
Half the robed attendants filed out silently with Thess’s body, vanishing through tall golden doors. The rest remained, heads still bowed, the chamber vast and echoing in their stillness.
The agent’s voice broke the silence again. “All finalists are to rest and prepare. Tomorrow, the last challenge will be issued. And in front of the entire gilded city, the grand prize, the Founding Crystal, will be awarded to the victor.”
Alistair nodded once. He heard her words. The cadence. The ritual weight of them.
But he didn’t listen.
The ache inside him hadn’t dulled. It hadn’t numbed. It hadn’t faded. Whatever had broken when Thessaly fell, whatever part of him had given her space, it was gone. Irrevocable.
His hand dug into his chest, nails scraping against leather and skin, as though trying to claw the pain free.
The woman continued, her tone smooth, practiced. “We are here to take care of you. To feed you, bathe you, entertain you… whatever you need in these final hours...”
“LEAVE.”
The word cracked across the chamber like a blade.
Every acolyte flinched. The sound echoed from the golden columns, rattling the glass ceiling, heavy with the weight of command.
Heads bowed lower. Robes rustled. One by one, they obeyed, withdrawing silently until Alistair stood alone in the vast, gilded chamber.
Alone with his grief. Alone with the red haze still burning in his eyes.
A mountain of bottles loomed at the side of the chamber, glass glinting in the lanternlight. Rows upon rows, stacked like treasure, enchanted wines shimmering faintly with charm-runes, blood-infused spirits glowing faint red, vessels of every shape and size holding vintages of lives long extinguished.
Alistair didn’t care.
He grabbed one at random, broke the wax seal with his teeth, and drank.
The liquid was thick, syrupy, clinging to his tongue like blood, but sharp too, spiced with heat, a violent kick of alcohol that burned down his throat. He coughed once, then drank again.
Bottle in hand, he wandered through the great golden arches until the city opened before him.
The City of the Gods.
It stretched forever, gilded spires and radiant plazas, a world of beauty and splendor basking in eternal light. Every inch of it was crafted perfection, immaculate in ways the mortal world could never hope to match.
Alistair leaned against the arch, bottle dangling loosely in his hand, and all he could think of was failure.
He had failed his companions. He had failed his soulbonded friends. And most of all, he had failed her.
For all the power he had accrued since stepping into the Arena—, for every level, every skill, every wreath, every blessing, every cursed treasure he had ripped from blood and fire, he hadn’t saved Thessaly.
She was gone.
He took another swig, longer this time, the burn clawing at his throat.
“I’m a damn vampire,” he muttered against the rim of the bottle. “One of the favored races. More attributes, more innate advantages, gifts other champions would kill for.” His lips pulled into a bitter snarl. “And still. Still, I couldn’t save her.”
The wine burned, but the ache in his chest burned more.
He could have done something. Anything.
His hand trembled as he pulled up his character sheet, the familiar lines of text swimming across his vision until they landed on the newest entry.
[Kiss of Life]
Type: Active
Cost: 150 Mana + Essence (irrecoverable)
Cooldown: 24 hours
Effect: You may transform a mortal into a vampire through a sacred blood ritual.
? Requires full exchange of blood and essence.
? Target becomes your bloodborn progeny, permanently bound.
? Gains vampiric traits, abilities, weaknesses.
? Irreversible.
Lore: “To grant the Kiss is to carry on the line, to create, to damn, to shape the night anew. Few may give it. Fewer still survive the weight.”
Alistair stared at the words until they blurred.
The ability every made vampire would have sold their soul to possess. The covenant that marked him as truly of the blood. The gift and curse he had dreamed of, hungered for.
Unlocked. Sitting there in his sheet, waiting.
And yet it was a mockery.
Because just as he gained it, one of the very few people who truly meant something to him was torn away.
He gripped the bottle harder, knuckles white. He had never seen a vampire turned. It was a private ritual, a family thing, hidden from outsiders. He didn’t even know how the process looked.
But he could have tried.
He could have done something.
Instead, he had stood there with her blood soaking his hands while her life spilled out of her eyes.
Alistair tilted the bottle back, drinking until the thick liquid was gone, his chest hollow, the ache inside him louder than the city’s silence.
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