The first dawn in three nights touched the spires of Duskveil, but it did nothing to warm the air. The clouds hung low and heavy, bleeding crimson across the horizon like the sky itself was wounded.
Aelric stood at the highest balcony, arms folded, the wind pulling at his cloak. His mind was a storm of names, faces, and shadows. The traitor was still loose. The demons were growing bolder. And somewhere beyond the mist, Serath — the being who had cursed and saved him — waited.
Kaelen joined him quietly, his armor dark and unadorned. He handed Aelric a sealed parchment.
"From the northern scouts," he said. "They found a symbol burned into the trees near the border: the same serpent sigil."
Aelric tore open the seal and scanned the parchment. His eyes narrowed.
"They're sending a challenge," he muttered. "A blood wager."
Kaelen stiffened. "You're certain?"
Aelric nodded. "It's demon tradition — a pact of battle between chosen champions. If I refuse, they'll call it cowardice. If I accept…"
Kaelen finished the thought grimly. "They'll use it as a distraction to strike elsewhere."
"Exactly," Aelric said, turning toward the wind again. "But if I don't go, they'll think we've lost our edge."
Kaelen's voice softened, almost weary. "You can't fight every shadow yourself, Aelric. Not even you."
Aelric smiled faintly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Then I'll fight the one that casts the darkest."
---
By dusk, the courtyard was alive with preparation. Armor clanked, horses stamped, and the banners of Duskveil — black and silver — snapped in the cold wind. Word had spread quickly: the prince himself was answering the demons' wager.
Lyssara watched from the steps, bandaged arm still trembling from the encounter with the shade. "He's really going," she whispered.
Maelor, standing beside her, nodded grimly. "He won't stop until he finds who betrayed him. That kind of anger doesn't fade."
In the center of the courtyard, Aelric tightened the straps on his gauntlets. Kaelen approached with a sheathed sword — longer, older, and far more ornate than Aelric's usual blade. Its hilt was wrapped in crimson leather, its guard etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the dying light.
"The Blade of Solarn," Kaelen said quietly. "Forged before the first Blood War. Your father swore it would only leave Duskveil when the realm itself was threatened."
Aelric took the sword, feeling its weight settle into his hand like a promise. "Then it's long overdue."
Kaelen hesitated. "There's something else you should know. This wager… it's not just a duel. It's a contract of souls. The loser's essence is bound to the victor's will."
Aelric looked at him, expression unreadable. "Then I'd better win."
---
The battlefield chosen was an old ruin beyond the frostlands — a ring of broken pillars and stone altars, half-buried in snow. The moon was a pale sickle in the sky, and the wind carried the faint metallic tang of blood long spilled.
Aelric arrived with a small retinue — Kaelen, Grath, and two of Duskveil's most trusted guards. Across the field, the demon party waited, cloaked in black armor that glowed faintly with embers.
From their midst stepped the challenger — tall, broad-shouldered, his skin marked with crimson sigils that pulsed like living fire. His eyes burned orange. His voice, when he spoke, was low and rough, like gravel.
"Prince of blood," he said, "I am Zaroth, First Blade of the Infernal Court. By command of my lord, I challenge you under the Blood Wager."
Aelric stepped forward, unsheathing the Blade of Solarn. "I accept."
Zaroth grinned, revealing teeth too sharp to be human. "Good. Let's see if the whispers are true — that the prince bleeds darker than his enemies."
---
The duel began with no signal. Zaroth moved like lightning, his flaming blade cutting through the cold air in arcs that hissed when they met Aelric's steel. Sparks erupted as metal clashed with burning iron.
Aelric parried, countered, dodged — every motion deliberate, deadly. The runes on his blade shimmered, absorbing and deflecting the fire that sought to consume him.
Zaroth laughed, a sound like cracking stone. "You fight well, vampire. But you hold back. Why?"
Aelric's eyes glowed crimson. "Because I don't need to kill you to win."
He struck, faster than a blink. His blade carved through Zaroth's shoulder, cutting deep into the glowing sigils. The demon roared, dropping to one knee, the fire in his veins sputtering.
But before Aelric could finish it, Zaroth smiled — and the ground beneath them trembled.
"You think this was about victory?" he rasped. "No, Prince. This was the summoning."
A circle of blood erupted across the snow, glowing with infernal light. From within, a shadow rose — tall, elegant, and terrifyingly familiar.
Serath.
The demon prince's smirk was soft, almost affectionate. "You've been busy, little heir."
Aelric froze. "Serath… Why?"
"Because you made a promise," Serath said. "And promises between monsters always come due."
---
Kaelen shouted from the edge of the circle. "Aelric! It's a trap—break the seal!"
Aelric raised his sword, but Serath moved faster. In a blur, he appeared before Aelric, placing a clawed hand against the vampire's chest. A surge of heat — ancient, invasive, intoxicating — rippled through Aelric's veins.
"You crave strength," Serath whispered. "I'm here to give it."
Aelric staggered, every nerve aflame. His vision fractured — flashes of fire, blood, and ancient memory flooding his mind.
"You can't fight me," Serath murmured. "Because you are already mine."
And then — darkness.
---
When Aelric woke, the battlefield was silent. The snow was stained black with ash. Kaelen knelt beside him, relief and dread warring in his eyes.
"You're alive," Kaelen breathed. "But, gods, what happened?"
Aelric looked down. His veins glowed faintly red beneath his skin, pulsing with an unnatural light. His reflection in the blade showed eyes no longer crimson — but molten gold.
He whispered, almost to himself, "The Blood Wager… wasn't a duel. It was a claim."
And somewhere, faintly, Serath's laughter echoed in the wind.