Alistair stood near the mouth of the cave, arms crossed, no heartbeat to betray him, because, well, he was dead. But if undead chests could tighten from awkward feelings, his was doing push-ups.

  Emotional vulnerability: his least favorite status effect.

  The emotional whiplash from earlier was… a lot.

  Brimma had made a noise suspiciously close to a grunt of affection.

  Kael had defended him like an actual friend.

  And he had said heartfelt things out loud.

  So, naturally, he needed to leave immediately.

  “I’m going to look for loot,” he said, loudly. “Maybe my [Treasure Seeker] trait will stop being shy and ping something shiny.”

  Brimma raised an eyebrow. Kael was still sweating out the last of the poison.

  Alistair didn’t wait for their responses.

  “I’ll be back soon. Don’t die. Unless it’s Brimma, in which case, actually, no, don’t die either. I think the bond might riot.”

  And with that, he vanished into the trees.

  He walked for a while, letting the distance stretch behind him.

  The forest was different out here. Quieter. As if the trees were waiting for something.

  He didn’t mind.

  His thoughts were loud enough for a crowd.

  Gods. That was embarrassing.

  Not the poison. Not the fighting.

  The talking.

  That raw little confession in the cave was still echoing through his skull like someone had cast Resonance of Poor Decisions on him.

  He kicked a stone off the trail and sighed.

  What the hell was he doing?

  Since when did he talk about his feelings like a real person? And since when did he care this much about two people he’d known for barely a day?

  He’d always seen the Soulbond as a mechanic. A way to get strong. A tool.

  Useful.

  Controlled.

  Predictable.

  But now?

  Now he had a bond with Kaelren. And it wasn’t just stat sharing. It wasn’t just positioning and awareness and synergy.

  It was presence.

  It was knowing Kael was there. Breathing. Bleeding. Trying.

  It was the way Alistair hadn’t been able to leave the cave until Kael was okay, even when every system timer in his head screamed You’re wasting time.

  And then there was Brimma.

  Cranky. Impossible. Judgy. Brilliant.

  Unbonded.

  And yet… he could feel something. A pull. Like the bond had already started, half-formed, pulsing in the back of his skull. Waiting.

  She hadn’t accepted.

  Maybe she never would.

  But without her, it felt like something inside him was missing. Like a page torn out mid-sentence. A connection that was supposed to exist, dangling just out of reach.

  It made him itchy.

  Nervous.

  Vulnerable.

  Which, let’s be clear, was not his preferred operating state.

  “I’m a vampire,” he muttered to no one. “I’m supposed to be cold and cool and mysteriously aloof. Not whatever this is.”

  He paused by a fallen tree, brushing a branch aside.

  Maybe it was the bond.

  Maybe it was him.

  Either way, the worst part was realizing they weren’t just tools.

  They weren’t just assets on a stat sheet.

  They were something his soul yearned for.

  And that was… horrifying.

  He’d always been alone. Even when surrounded. Even when praised. Even when used.

  Especially when used.

  And now here he was, in the middle of a divine bloodsport, where only one champion could emerge victorious.

  Tied by fate to a cranky old gnome and a sarcastic wood elf with excellent shoulders.

  Great job, Alistair. What a strategic mastermind you are.

  He blew out a breath, ruffling his hair.

  That was when he saw it.

  A soft, gentle glow.

  He turned his head, drawn like a moth.

  At the base of three knotted trees, a ring of blue mushrooms pulsed with inner light. Faint. Ethereal. They weren’t glowing the way other magical herbs did. They were humming. Singing without sound. Calling.

  Alistair stepped closer, curiosity sharpening.

  Maybe they were valuable.

  Maybe this was the start of something shiny and loot-worthy.

  He took a step.

  Then another.

  And then...

  He crossed something.

  It wasn’t a wall.

  It wasn’t even visible.

  But the second his boot sank into the ring of mushrooms, the world shifted.

  The light changed. The air turned heavy. Colors bled at the edges of his vision like he’d stepped into a dream painted too vividly to be real.

  The trees were gone.

  The forest was gone.

  And Alistair was elsewhere.

  The moment Alistair reappeared, he knew something was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  He stood in a cave, but not the one he'd left. This one glowed softly, the walls alive with blue mushrooms that pulsed with an inner light, like veins of sleeping magic. Small streams of water ran down the sides, converging into a shallow pool in the center.

  That pool shimmered.

  Its bottom was lined with sparkling sand, silver and gold and too perfect to be natural.

  The air pressed in on him like a vice, not hot, not cold, just... dense. Like something enormous was holding its breath and the space itself was barely holding together. He felt it on his skin. In his bones.

  System? he thought. Still alive? Still mortal? Great. Let’s see how long that lasts.

  Then he saw her.

  Perched on a boulder beside the pool, like some lazy river queen, was a woman.

  No.

  Not a woman.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  A presence.

  Her skin was pale, moonlight made flesh. Hair like sunset fire tumbled in waves down her shoulders, catching the glow of the mushrooms and setting the cave alight in warm amber tones. She wore nothing ostentatious, no armor, no divine regalia, just flowing cloth that barely clung to her curves.

  But her eyes were the giveaway.

  Two pools of liquid gold, still and endless, like someone had scooped the sun and poured it into sockets. They radiated power. Not heat. Not light. Power.

  Alistair took a slow step forward, then another.

  “Let me guess,” he said, voice dry. “I died and this is the really weird afterlife tier.”

  The woman smiled. And everything pulsed.

  The mushrooms flared brighter. The air grew heavier. A whisper of something ancient brushed the edge of his neck like a forgotten prayer.

  “No, darling,” she said, voice like a harp string plucked underwater. “You’re very much alive. For now.”

  Alistair cocked his head. “Well, that’s ominous.”

  She laughed softly and stretched, just a shift of position, really, like a cat rebalancing its weight but it sent another ripple through the cave. Her presence had gravity. It pulled at the seams of the world.

  “You’re Alistair,” she said. “Champion of the Bloodmistress. I’ve been dying to meet you.”

  He didn’t move. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Do I?” she asked, clearly amused.

  “Yeah. You know my name, my patron, my title. I, on the other hand, just walked into a glowing mushroom cave and found a divine-level bombshell on a rock. I’m improvising here.”

  Another smile. This one was slower. Sharper.

  “I am Vellura,” she said. “Mistress of Forgotten Paths and Stolen Chances. Or I will be, soon enough.”

  Godling, Alistair realized.

  Not yet a full goddess but not far.

  The pressure in the air. The shimmering pool. The way the cave bent reality around her like it didn’t dare disobey.

  She was powerful.

  And more importantly, she was ambitious.

  “I thought godlings were discouraged from meddling in the Arena,” he said.

  “They are,” she replied. “But what is the point of rules if no one breaks them?”

  Her eyes twinkled. Like gold being stirred.

  “I must admit,” she continued, folding her hands on her knee, “you are something of a curiosity. The Bloodmistress rarely shows her pieces. Most of her champions remain... hidden. Until the last moment.”

  Alistair gave her a half-smile. “So I’m the shiny decoy?”

  “Or the real threat,” she said lightly. “Hard to tell.”

  She tilted her head.

  “How close are you to your patron, Alistair?”

  There it was.

  The first probe.

  “Close enough to get the occasional whisper in my sleep,” he said smoothly. “But not so close that I’ve started calling her mum.”

  Vellura laughed again. Gods, it was like a chorus of bells and secrets. Delightful and disturbing.

  “Do you like her?” she asked. “Your Bloodmistress?”

  “That’s a loaded question.”

  “Humor me.”

  He leaned against a nearby wall, feeling the magic in the stone hum under his shoulder.

  “She saved my life. She cursed my blood. She gave me power and chained me to it.” He shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

  “Mm,” Vellura said. “She has a tendency to discard tools when they’ve dulled.”

  Alistair raised an eyebrow. “And here I thought you wanted a flattering first impression.”

  “Oh, I do,” she said, eyes gleaming. “But I also want honesty. And I think you know better than most that gods are rarely sentimental.”

  Alistair didn’t answer right away. His brain was busy doing three things at once: processing what she said, figuring out what she meant, and calculating how fast he could run if this all went sideways.

  “I take it you don’t like her?” he asked eventually.

  “I don’t know her,” Vellura replied. “But I know the game. The Bloodmistress plays long, quiet moves. She hoards her cards and sacrifices her champions like they’re copper coins. And you...” She leaned forward, eyes burning. “You’re interesting. Not powerful yet. But... different.”

  Alistair gave her a lazy smile. “You know, if this is your version of divine flirting, I give it a solid seven out of ten.”

  “Flirting?” She laughed again, and the cave almost cracked. “Darling, if I wanted to seduce you, we wouldn’t be talking.”

  “…Noted.”

  There was a pause.

  Then her voice turned velvet-soft.

  “Tell me, Alistair… if you knew the Bloodmistress would discard you the moment you failed her… what would you do?”

  The question was a hook wrapped in silk. It slid into the air between them, slow and sharp.

  Alistair didn’t answer.

  Not yet.

  Because this wasn’t about his loyalty.

  It was about hers.

  Alistair kept smiling.

  That lazy, half-witty, I-have-no-idea-what’s-going-on-but-I’m-gorgeous smile. He wore it like armor now.

  Because he couldn’t answer her question.

  Even if he wanted to.

  What would you do if the Bloodmistress discarded you?

  Simple.

  Nothing.

  Because he couldn’t leave her.

  Couldn’t.

  That part of his life, the bloody contract, the father who sold his future for power, was locked behind walls he never opened. He was bound to the Bloodmistress by something older and crueler than loyalty.

  She didn’t choose him. She owned him.

  He didn’t say any of that.

  He gave her something better.

  He gave her Alistair the Fool.

  He leaned against the glowing wall and raised a brow. “So. Vellura, was it? Let’s say I’m intrigued. What exactly are you offering? Gold? Power? Eternal hair shine?”

  She watched him for a beat, those golden eyes glowing faintly, like they could see through every wall he’d ever built.

  But she smiled.

  She played along.

  “A deal,” she said, rising slowly from the stone. “A path.”

  He watched her move, graceful, effortless, like the cave shifted to make space for her. Her godhood wasn’t declared, not yet, but it radiated from her like heat from a forge.

  “I want you to become my Prophet,” she said plainly.

  Alistair blinked. “Bold of you.”

  “I don’t waste time.”

  “And what does being your Prophet involve? Public speaking? Animal sacrifices? Weekly wine parties?”

  “You’d receive a Wreath, a divine trait tied to me,” she said, ignoring his quips. “It would evolve with your faith, granting new powers over time. You’d draw from Holy Points instead of mana for certain abilities. You’d have access to divine skills, blessings, and passive protections.”

  Alistair tilted his head. “So... a priest with bite.”

  “A champion with god-blood in his lungs.”

  He scratched his jaw. “And what do you get out of it?”

  “A foothold,” she said. “A voice in the Arena. A mortal tied to my name. One who grows, wins, survives. And one day, when I finish forging my domain, you’ll be the first mortal to wield its full blessing.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “Forging?”

  Vellura walked slowly around the pool, her bare feet leaving ripples in the shimmering sand.

  “Godlings aren’t born with domains,” she said. “We have to carve them out. Shape them through worship, symbols, stories, effort. I’ve nearly finished mine, Forgotten Paths and Stolen Chances. The lost doors. The last-minute miracles. The choices that vanish before they’re made.”

  “Catchy.”

  She glanced back at him. “It’s slow going. The Pantheon isn’t kind to upstarts. Most godlings never rise. Most fade.”

  Alistair studied her. “But you haven’t.”

  “No,” she said. “Because I learned how to survive. How to navigate their little court of golden masks.”

  Her voice cooled.

  “Do you know what it’s like, Alistair? To walk among beings whose existence predates the sun? To be the youngest, the weakest, the least loved in a hall of monsters draped in worship?”

  “No,” he said honestly.

  “It’s suffocating. And every one of them smiles as they push your head underwater.”

  She stopped beside him.

  “I want to rise. I will rise. And I want you at my side when I do.”

  He looked at her, really looked, and saw what she was hiding.

  Desperation. Not loud. Not sloppy. But threaded through her voice like silk wrapped around a blade.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

  Her smile faltered, just a little.

  “This cave. This space. You’re not strong enough to build something like this.”

  She tilted her head. “Aren’t I?”

  “Even the Bloodmistress had trouble reaching me in the Arena. She sent dreams. Visions. Shadows. But you?” He gestured around. “You’re lounging in a hand-crafted divine bubble with full projection and spatial warping.”

  Her silence was answer enough.

  “Someone’s helping you,” he said quietly. “A god. A real one.”

  “Perhaps,” she admitted. “Or perhaps I’m simply clever.”

  He laughed. “You are many things, Vellura. Modest is not one of them.”

  She stepped closer.

  “You asked what I offer, Alistair. Here it is. A future where you are more than her pawn. A path where you wield divine power that is yours, earned, not inherited. You’d still be in the Arena. Still be a fighter. But you’d be mine.”

  Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Bit possessive.”

  “You’d enjoy it.”

  “I might.”

  Then her voice darkened.

  “And you’d be free to see the truth.”

  He frowned. “What truth?”

  “The Pantheon is divided,” she whispered. “Factions have formed. Hidden wars are brewing. And the ones worshipped for their goodness...”

  She leaned in.

  “They do things that would make you stab your eyes out just to unsee them. Plug your ears with blood just to unhear the screams.”

  Alistair stared at her.

  Not smiling now.

  Vellura’s eyes burned.

  “I offer you power, yes. But also truth. Purpose. A role in what’s really happening.”

  He stepped back once. Just to breathe.

  Then smiled again. Not wide. Not amused.

  Just sharp.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She nodded.

  “You won’t have long.”

  Vellura’s expression softened. Just a touch.

  She turned, walking back toward the pool with the slow grace of someone who didn’t need to rush. The water shimmered at her approach, the golden sand beneath it swirling like it had a will of its own.

  “If you want to return to the Arena,” she said, “step into the pool. It will carry you back to where you left.”

  Alistair didn’t move yet. Not until she did her usual thing and added one final twist to the knife.

  And she did.

  “But before you go,” she said, her voice now quieter, lower and wrapped in silk, "a token of goodwill.”

  He watched her warily.

  “I won’t lie to you, Alistair. I am not kind. I am not good.” She looked over her shoulder, golden eyes steady. “But I protect what is mine. And I value what I invest in.”

  The air tightened again. The mushrooms dimmed.

  “I give this freely. Your friend, the elf, Kaelren is marked.”

  Alistair’s stomach dropped.

  “Marked… how?”

  “By a god,” she said. “Not a major one. But old. Dangerous. Twisted with purpose.”

  Her gaze burned into his.

  “Orrakan God of Broken Vows and Unblinking Eyes. Your friend killed his son in the Arena. The cyclops. Goruk.”

  Alistair blinked. Slowly.

  That explained… a lot.

  “He doesn’t know,” Vellura added. “Kael, I mean. But he will. Orrakan is already searching. Vengeance is his domain.”

  The cave was silent.

  Alistair, for once, didn’t joke.

  He gave a nod. A real one.

  “Thank you.”

  Vellura smiled faintly. “You’re welcome. For now.”

  He stepped forward.

  Paused at the edge of the pool.

  The water glittered like starlight folded into liquid.

  Alistair exhaled, no breath, just habit, and muttered to himself, “This better not involve time travel or magical parasites.”

  Then he stepped in.

  The pool rippled. The sand surged.

  And the cave, the mushrooms, the weight of divinity...

  ... vanished.

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