The tournament grounds gleamed in the moonlight as Duke Aric's vehicle approached the gilded gates. Having departed his territory shortly after dusk, he had timed his arrival for mid-evening—te enough to avoid the initial rush of contestants, yet early enough to settle in before dawn forced all vampires to retire. Unlike the ornate vehicles from Orlov's territory—genuine horse-drawn carriages maintained with medieval devotion—and the disguised automobiles from other progressive territories designed to mimic traditional aesthetics, his modern automobile maintained the sleek, practical lines favored in Lucius's Central Kingdom. The vehicle's engine hummed quietly, a stark contrast to the theatrical ctter of hooves from Orlov's contingent and the unnecessarily ornamental vehicles of nobles attempting to bridge progressive function with traditional appearance.

  "We're approaching the main gate, Your Grace," his driver noted unnecessarily.

  Aric nodded, his cobalt eyes scanning the tournament complex spread before them. Lucius had outdone himself this time. The sprawling grounds were a masterpiece of compromise—strategically combining elements from all five archdukedoms while appearing suitably traditional to satisfy Orlov's medieval sensibilities.

  The central pavilion loomed ahead, its towering spires illuminated by what appeared to be thousands of torches but were actually carefully disguised electric lights. Only those from progressive territories would recognize the subtle uniformity of the "fmes" that never flickered with the evening breeze.

  "Park behind the eastern quarter," Aric instructed. "No need for the main entrance."

  The driver raised an eyebrow but followed the command, steering away from the grand processional drive where eborately costumed nobles emerged from their gilded conveyances to the sounds of ceremonial trumpets.

  As the vehicle rounded the corner, Aric caught sight of a particurly ostentatious arrival—a carriage shaped like a giant swan, complete with enormous fabric wings that servants manually unfurled with eborate ceremonial gestures as it stopped. Six white horses with feathered headdresses pulled the monstrosity while attendants dressed as mythological water spirits performed ritualized movements alongside, each step precisely choreographed according to some arcane traditional protocol.

  "Thirteen hells," Aric muttered. "Is that Countess Veronique? I see subtlety remains a foreign concept in Orlov's territories."

  "I believe it's her daughter, Your Grace," the driver replied with admirable neutrality. "Lady Evangeline is making her tournament debut this year."

  "Ah. The swan certainly makes a statement." Aric's voice dripped with sardonic amusement. "Nothing says 'take me seriously as a competitor' quite like arriving in a giant waterfowl."

  The automobile came to a halt in the shadow of the eastern pavilion, far from the spectacle of the main entrance. Without waiting for assistance, Aric stepped out, stretching his warrior's frame after the journey. Despite the formal occasion, he had chosen attire that reflected his practical nature—his ducal finery cut for movement rather than dispy, the deep blues and bcks complementing his raven hair and emphasizing his battle-ready physique rather than hiding it beneath excessive ornamentation.

  A tournament official approached, recognition dawning as he spotted the distinctive scar across Aric's left cheek.

  "Duke Aric!" The official executed a perfect bow. "We expected your arrival at the grand entrance. The Archdukes have arranged a special ceremonial reception for you as the only titled contestant. Your unique status as champion of the inaugural Games and current duke has been incorporated into the welcoming ritual."

  "I'm sure they have." Aric adjusted his signet ring—the duke's insignia he'd earned sixty years earlier at the inaugural Crimson Games. "But I've already participated in one of those, and once was more than enough."

  The official's composure faltered. "But tradition dictates—"

  "I'm aware of what tradition dictates," Aric interrupted, his voice carrying the subtle commoner accent he had never bothered to eliminate. "I'm also aware that I've spent the st six decades earning the right to occasionally ignore tradition when it serves no practical purpose. The Archdukes want me here to compete, not to prance about like a show pony."

  The official hesitated, clearly torn between insisting on protocol and acknowledging the duke's reputation for disregarding ceremonial excess.

  Aric sighed. "Consider it a kindness. My absence allows the younger contestants their moment of glory without an old war horse stealing their thunder." His mouth curved into a wry smile. "Besides, I've found that making a grand entrance often creates expectations I have no interest in fulfilling."

  "As you wish, Your Grace." The official recovered admirably. "I'll have your luggage brought to your assigned quarters in the northern wing."

  "My valet will handle it," Aric nodded toward a lean vampire who had emerged from the automobile. "And I assume maps of the grounds are avaible? I'd prefer to avoid stumbling into any ceremonial fountains or blessed shrubberies on my way to my rooms."

  "Of course, Your Grace." The official produced a sealed scroll from his robes. "This contains all the necessary information about your accommodations and the tournament schedule. The opening ceremony begins tomorrow at midnight."

  Aric accepted the scroll with a nod of thanks. As the official departed, he turned to survey the tournament grounds more thoroughly. Beyond the artificial medieval spectacle designed to pcate Orlov y the true purpose of the Crimson Games—Lucius's carefully crafted mechanism for gradually introducing merit-based advancement into vampire society's rigid hierarchy.

  Sixty years ago, Aric had been the living embodiment of that purpose—a common-born vampire elevated to a duke's title through demonstrated excellence rather than bloodline. Now he returned not just to maintain his reputation, but also to secretly assess this new generation of contenders for Lucius—identifying those with potential to further the progressive cause, regardless of their factional origins.

  "Morris," he addressed his valet, "remind me why I agreed to this particur form of torture again?"

  "Because you enjoy proving aristocrats wrong about commoners, Your Grace," Morris replied without missing a beat. "And because Archduke Lucius personally requested your participation as his representative."

  "Ah, yes." Aric's lips curved into a smile that held genuine warmth beneath its sardonic edge. "Those are indeed excellent reasons."

  They proceeded through the less traveled pathways toward the northern wing, passing eborate topiaries illuminated by what appeared to be fairy lights but were actually miniature electric bulbs. Aric noted with amusement how the progressive territories had mastered the art of disguising modern convenience as traditional vampire aesthetics.

  A burst of ughter drew his attention to a nearby courtyard where several young nobles were gathered around a blood fountain. Their eborate attire made them look like exotic birds—all brilliant colors and impossible silhouettes that would hinder any practical movement.

  "Look at them," Aric murmured. "Three centuries after the Evolution, and they're pying dress-up like vampire society has always existed this way. Half of them probably believe these 'ancient traditions' actually predate the transformation event."

  "Most of these contestants were born into vampire nobility, Your Grace," Morris offered diplomatically. "Unlike you, they've never known any existence but these aristocratic ceremonies and feudal hierarchies. For the natural-born among them, these traditions are all they've ever experienced."

  "True enough." Aric's expression softened slightly. "I sometimes forget that advantage—remembering what came before. The perspective it provides."

  As they approached the northern wing, Aric cast one final gnce back at the main pavilion where the ceremonial arrivals continued in all their overwrought glory. For a moment, he allowed himself to remember his first Crimson Games—the commoner contestant facing centuries of aristocratic prejudice, fighting not just for victory but for the very right to compete as an equal.

  "Different tournament," he said quietly. "Same battle."

  Morris, who had been with him since those early days, simply nodded in understanding.

  With squared shoulders and the confident stride that had carried him from common vampire to duke, Aric entered the northern wing—ready to once again demonstrate that merit could match, and often exceed, the supposed advantages of noble birth. The Crimson Games had begun, even before the first formal challenge was announced.