Alistair rubbed his eyes, the faint shimmer of system text still burned against the inside of his lids. Clearing notifications was supposed to be satisfying, like putting order to chaos. Instead, it had been endless, dozens upon dozens, stacking one after another until his vision blurred.

  Arena kills, rewards, spell upgrades, new schools of magic. Even now he still couldn’t quite believe [Eidolon Flame] had climbed ten levels in a single fight. Grave Ember had once sputtered into three ghostly sparks. Now five embers burned at his fingertips, eager, hungry, brighter than ever.

  He leaned back against the obsidian wall, exhaling slowly. Gods, he’d come far. Too far, too fast. Power had poured into him like wine into a cracked cup, overflowing, messy, intoxicating. For the first time in his unlife, he wasn’t wondering if he’d ever progress again. Instead, he found himself staring at his character sheet with a quieter, sharper question.

  Was it enough?

  Enough to protect a kingdom that didn’t exist a week ago? Enough to shoulder the weight of Brimma’s cranky loyalty, Kael’s stubborn faith, Fergus’s propriety, Buddy’s fire, and seventy-three terrified Caelari who thought he was their savior?

  He sighed, dismissing the last of the glowing windows with a flick of his fingers.

  Morning was close. He could feel it in his bones, that subtle thrum his kind carried, a warning baked into blood. The day was coming. To most vampires, it meant retreat. Find shadow, find soil, hide until dusk.

  But not for him. Not anymore.

  A bitter smile curled his lips. Lucky me.

  Still, someone else wasn’t so lucky. His head turned instinctively toward the plateau outside. Fergus.

  Alistair’s stomach tightened. His brother wasn’t here. He hadn’t been since night fell.

  “Damn fool,” Alistair muttered, pushing away from the wall. The day was rising, and Fergus was nowhere to be found.

  The mouth of the mountain yawned open into pale gray light, and Alistair stepped out onto the stone shelf that overlooked his plateau. Buddy padded behind him, each step heavy as a drumbeat, the hellhound’s hot breath rolling up the back of his neck like a furnace that refused to turn off. The beast huffed once, ears pricked, and sat on its haunches as if it knew this was a vigil.

  Alistair paced in a tight circle near the lip of the ledge, cloak snapping in the cold breeze. His eyes swept the twisted forest below. The leafless branches reached upward like claws, skeletal fingers straining toward the paling sky. No sign of movement.

  “Come on, Fergus,” Alistair muttered, voice low. His fingers flexed against the stone, itching to do something other than wait.

  The eastern horizon bled faint gold. To a pureblood like him, sunlight was more nuisance than death sentence, he could endure it with penalties, a dull burn in his flesh, stats dropping like a bad investment.

  But for made vampires? It was a guillotine. A few seconds of exposure could char them to nothing but ash. Fergus was old, strong, two centuries of scars and etiquette gave him resistance, but even that wasn’t immunity.

  Alistair bit back a curse. “If you’ve gone and gotten yourself roasted your first day here, I swear…”

  Buddy rumbled deep in his chest, a noise somewhere between a growl and an impatient sigh. The hound’s glowing eyes fixed on the horizon, ears twitching.

  Alistair followed his gaze. A flicker. A black streak tearing between the crooked trees, impossibly fast for mortal eyes but not for his. His chest loosened. Fergus.

  Alistair exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “About time.”

  The shadow darted across the clearing below, then angled toward the mountain’s slope. Even from here, Alistair could feel the desperation in each step, the old vampire racing the dawn itself.

  Fergus appeared at the edge of the slope a moment later.

  Not staggering. Not panting. Not even ruffled.

  Immaculate.

  The bastard looked as though he’d taken a leisurely stroll under the stars, coat smooth, hair perfectly combed, breath steady as a monk at prayer.

  Alistair’s jaw tightened. Some of the worry he’d been holding onto slipped out as irritation.

  “We are not in the Shadowlands anymore,” he snapped. “The sun actually rises here, in case you didn’t notice. Exposure isn’t an experiment you want to run. Made or not, it’ll burn you out faster than you can bow.”

  Fergus slowed, offered the faintest smile, and bowed anyway. A shallow dip of the head, graceful, infuriating.

  “Of course, my lord,” he murmured, voice smooth as aged wine.

  “Don’t give me that crap.” Alistair huffed, turning away so Fergus wouldn’t see the relief tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Fergus straightened, posture like a drawn blade. “Your companions?”

  “Asleep,” Alistair said, crossing his arms.

  “Good.” Fergus’s expression didn’t change, but there was a weight to the word. He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes narrowing in quiet thought. “That is fortunate.”

  Alistair raised a brow. “Oh? And why is that?”

  Fergus inclined his head slightly. “Because, my lord, there are matters to discuss, delicate ones, that are better heard by no ears but yours.”

  Alistair’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Now you’ve got me intrigued.”

  Fergus clasped his hands behind his back, posture immaculate despite the long night. “I have completed my survey of your domain.”

  Alistair tilted his head. “And? Tell me we’re sitting on a mountain of wine and gold.”

  Fergus allowed the smallest flicker of a smile. “Hardly. There is good news, and bad.”

  “Of course there is,” Alistair muttered. “The universe never just leaves me with ‘good.’”

  “The valley itself, your currently unlocked territory, is harmless enough,” Fergus continued, unruffled. “I found only small creatures, most of them timid. They might be hunted, though whether their flesh is suitable for mortal consumption remains to be determined.”

  “Translation,” Alistair thought, “we’ll find out when Brimma poisons someone by accident.” He waved a hand. “Noted.”

  Fergus’s tone grew measured. “The river that bisects the plateau, however, is another matter. I could not cross, but the far bank was… active. Shapes the size of carriages, armored perhaps, moving among the dead trees. Not mere shades. Substantial, hostile presences. Clearing that tile will be… costly.”

  “Lovely,” Alistair drawled. “So the neighbors are already sharpening their claws.”

  Fergus ignored him and pressed on. “I traced the plateau’s edge. It is as I suspected, sheer cliffs, impossible to scale or descend in most places. But…” He paused deliberately. “There is one path. A winding descent cut into the rock at the mountain’s base. Narrow. Treacherous. To reach the forest floor would take half a day, perhaps longer.”

  Alistair frowned. “So we’re penned in.”

  “Not quite.” Fergus’s voice was calm, deliberate. “It is a bottleneck. A single artery in or out. Militarily advantageous. Any force marching upon us will bleed itself dry climbing that path, and we would have time to muster. With proper fortifications at the foot of the mountain, this plateau becomes a fortress in truth.”

  Alistair’s mind wandered as Fergus laid it out like a textbook. “He says ‘muster’ like I have more than seventy people who can barely feed themselves. Sure. I’ll just muster my army of starving bone-tinkerers.”

  Fergus continued without pause. “Yet what strengthens defense also hinders expansion. Trade, resource gathering, diplomacy, all limited by that one artery. Any merchant, any envoy, any hunting party will have to endure the same ordeal. The mountain both protects and shackles.”

  Alistair whistled low. “So basically: congratulations, sire, you’ve inherited a gilded cage.”

  Fergus’s lips twitched, though he didn’t look up. “A well-defended cage, at least. Once the second tile is secured, your valley will be wholly defensible. No threat could reach your people without first announcing itself.”

  Alistair let out a long breath. “Finally. Actual good news. Was starting to think you’d scouted the place just to tell me we’re doomed.”

  Fergus inclined his head slightly. “My lord, if we were doomed, I would not waste your time with warnings. I would instead be arranging your last supper.”

  Alistair smirked despite himself. “And here I thought you’d say you’d be picking out the coffin.”

  Fergus’s gaze wandered briefly across the horizon, then back to Alistair. “By the stars and landmarks, I was able to approximate our position. We are southwest of Ebonheart, your father’s domain, at the outer edge of the Shadowlands.”

  Alistair blinked. “So… close enough for him to drop by for tea, far enough that he won’t smell me yet?”

  Fergus ignored the comment. “As far as I can tell, no major powers have staked a claim in this region. That said, my lord, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Your father’s attentions were always fixed eastward; what lay west was beneath his notice. There may be forgotten clans, hidden enclaves, or worse, watching even now.”

  Alistair rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Great. I finally win something worth having, and it’s in the one corner nobody wanted.”

  “Perhaps,” Fergus allowed. “But land unwanted may yet be land unspoiled by competing banners. There are notable points of interest nearby… but that,” he cut himself off with a faint incline of his head, “we will discuss later. For now, we must turn inward, to the business of your kingdom.”

  Alistair groaned. “Here we go.”

  Fergus did not miss a beat. “If you wish this settlement not merely to survive, but to thrive, we require… everything.”

  He raised a pale hand, counting with slim fingers as though delivering a lecture. “Tools, first. Axes that do not snap at the haft, shovels that do not warp with damp, hammers fit for stone. Utensils for eating and cooking. Clay, stone, or iron for durable vessels. Baskets and rope for storage. Salt, oil, and whatever herbs can be scavenged for preservation. Clothing suited to both day and night, for while you may be impervious, your subjects will freeze or roast with the turn of weather.”

  Alistair’s mind drifted. So basically, we need a shopping trip. Perfect. I’ll just pop down to the nearest medieval department store and ask for the ‘kingdom starter pack.’

  Fergus pressed on, his tone still crisp, his voice perfectly level. “Beyond those basics, homes. Not this cavernous ruin, but dwellings of wood and stone. Families need walls of their own. Order breeds loyalty. Next, craftsmen. Blacksmiths, tanners, weavers, masons. Without them, every task becomes slow improvisation.”

  He clasped his hands tighter. “Infrastructure. Wells and aqueducts to carry clean water. Storehouses to keep vermin from grain. Defenses, walls, guard towers, a watch rotation. Scouts to track threats before they reach our gates. A council, even if only in name, so your subjects feel invested. A healer, should Brimma’s art not suffice. Records, to track rations, births, labor, deaths. A kingdom without ink and parchment is one that forgets itself.”

  Alistair’s head was spinning. “Tools, houses, wells, towers, healers, paperwork. All from seventy people and a dog that breathes fire. Fantastic.”

  Fergus’s gaze sharpened. “And food. Above all, food. The rations you provided, a few days, by my estimate, and I am being generous. We may hunt, but the creatures I saw… twisted. Consuming them may do more harm than good. Poison of the body, or worse, corruption of the soul. Until we secure a steady, clean source of food, everything else is but sand poured into a broken vessel.”

  Alistair’s stomach knotted. “So let me get this straight. No food, no kingdom. No pressure at all.”

  His voice cracked dry as bone. “Tell me, Fergus… do you actually have a plan, or is this the part where I’m supposed to sprout wheat from my fangs?”

  Fergus adjusted his cuffs, every inch the steward even with the horizon bleeding pale light. “While scouting, I confirmed one of the points of interest I spoke of earlier. An orc trading post. Slave stock, to be precise.”

  Alistair’s lips pulled tight. “Charming.”

  Fergus inclined his head, unfazed. “Morality aside, such a place would carry precisely what we require. Grain. Salt. Livestock. Iron ingots, coal, perhaps even bellows and anvils if fortune smiles. Tools in abundance, spades, picks, chisels. Ropes, hides, even weapons we might melt down for steel. And…” He hesitated, his cultured tone faltering for a breath. “…new subjects, should you wish it. Those freed from chains may yet swell your ranks.”

  Alistair arched a brow. “You make it sound like a shopping trip.”

  Fergus’s gaze dipped, almost uncomfortable. “I do not know how we would afford such things. Trade requires coin, and unless you’ve...”

  Alistair burst out laughing, the sound sharp against the stone. “Coin? Fergus, I’m richer than my father now. I looted so many chests in the Arena, I could pave the damned valley with gold. I don’t even know what to do with it all.”

  For the first time, Fergus looked genuinely stunned. “Truly?”

  Alistair smirked, teeth flashing. “Truly. So tomorrow, dear brother… we go shopping.”

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