_*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5">"Your quarters, Your Grace," announced the tournament steward, swinging open an ornately carved door that appeared to weigh more than the man himself. "I trust you'll find everything to your satisfaction."

  Aric stepped into the chamber and stopped abruptly, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. The room—or rather, suite of rooms—stretched before him in a dispy of opulence that bordered on the absurd. Gilt-edged mirrors reflected the light of what appeared to be hundreds of candles (though Aric immediately recognized the steady, unwavering fmes as disguised electric lights, a compromise forced upon Orlov when he was outvoted by the other Archdukes regarding tournament safety measures). Crimson velvet draped every conceivable surface, from the towering four-poster bed to the walls themselves.

  "Will there be anything else, Your Grace?" the steward inquired, his expression revealing nothing but practiced deference.

  "No, thank you. That will be all," Aric replied, maintaining his composure until the door closed behind the departing steward. Then he turned to Morris, who had already begun efficiently unpacking their modest luggage.

  "I appear to have been assigned the inside of a particurly hemorrhagic artery," Aric observed dryly, gesturing at the overwhelmingly red decor. "Do you suppose they're trying to make us feel at home, or simply reminding us what we consume?"

  Morris surveyed the room with the dispassionate eye of a valet who had seen every form of aristocratic excess in his centuries of service. "I believe it's meant to honor your ducal status, Your Grace. The more important the vampire, the more... enthusiastic the decor."

  Aric crossed to an eborate sideboard where an array of goblets stood in meticulous formation, each more ornate than the st. "Thirteen different types of blood goblets," he counted, lifting one that was shaped like a snarling wolf's head with rubies for eyes. "Because apparently one cannot be expected to drink from the same vessel twice in an evening."

  "Indeed, Your Grace. The second goblet from the left is specifically for AB negative served at precisely body temperature. The one with the gargoyle handle is exclusively for chilled type O with citrus notes." Morris's tone remained perfectly neutral, though the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement. "I'm sure you'll agree these are essential distinctions that no respectable duke could possibly overlook."

  Aric snorted and set down the wolf goblet. "And what, pray tell, is this monstrosity intended for?" He pointed to an enormous chalice that appeared to be fashioned from beaten gold and encrusted with enough precious stones to ransom a small territory.

  Morris approached, examining it with exaggerated seriousness. "Ah, the ceremonial Victory Chalice. According to tradition, it's for drinking the metaphorical blood of one's defeated opponents after a tournament triumph." He paused. "Though I believe some of the more... traditional nobles have been known to take the metaphor quite literally."

  "How delightfully barbaric," Aric muttered. "And to think I've managed sixty years as a duke drinking from vessels that serve their function without requiring their own armored transport."

  He moved deeper into the suite, discovering a dressing room where eborate formal attire had been id out—none of which belonged to him. Tunics with excessive gold embroidery, ceremonial capes lined with ermine, and boots so pointed they could serve as weapons in their own right.

  "It appears our hosts have taken the liberty of providing appropriate attire," Aric observed, lifting a doublet so heavy with metallic thread and gemstones that it could likely stop a crossbow bolt.

  "A thoughtful gesture, Your Grace," Morris replied, his expression remaining admirably neutral. "Though I've taken the precaution of bringing your usual wardrobe."

  "Thank the darkness for small mercies." Aric dropped the doublet back onto its stand. "I'd sooner go into combat naked than wearing something that would restrict movement so thoroughly. How do they expect anyone to actually compete in these costumes?"

  "I believe the aristocratic contestants from traditional territories view restrictive clothing as a feature rather than a fw, Your Grace. The more impractical the garment, the more it demonstrates one doesn't need to move efficiently."

  "Ah yes, the 'I'm so powerful I can afford to be ineffective' school of fashion." Aric shook his head. "I've never understood the logic of intentionally handicapping oneself to prove superiority."

  The bathroom revealed simir excesses—a bathing pool rge enough to accommodate a small army, bottles of blood-infused oils and soaps arranged by scent and vintage, and towels so plush they appeared to be consuming the racks upon which they sat.

  "I count seventeen different grooming implements," Aric noted, gesturing toward an arrangement of combs, brushes, and mysterious silver tools on the marble counter. "I'm reasonably certain I could perform field surgery with half of these."

  "The silver-handled one with the curved tip is exclusively for styling eyebrows, Your Grace," Morris supplied helpfully. "The noble-born are traditionally taught to use seventeen distinct movements to achieve the proper aristocratic arch."

  Aric stared at the implement in question, then back at his valet. "You're not serious."

  "I regret to inform you that I am entirely serious, Your Grace. During my training, I was required to study 'The Complete Manual of Aristocratic Grooming.' The eyebrow chapter alone spans twenty-seven pages."

  "There's an eyebrow chapter?" Aric's voice rose in genuine astonishment.

  "Indeed. Followed by the even more comprehensive chapters on nostril grooming and earlobe presentation."

  Aric pinched the bridge of his nose. "I continue to be grateful that I earned my title through combat rather than being born into this madness."

  Returning to the main chamber, he discovered yet another door leading to a private blood-tasting room with an eborately stocked bar. Vintage bels from across the five territories were dispyed in temperature-controlled cabinets, representing rare blood types and specialty blends that would cost a common vampire a year's earnings per bottle.

  "Well, this at least might prove useful," Aric conceded, examining a bottle from a renowned blood vineyard in Seraphina's Eastern Encves. "Though I suspect they expect me to appreciate the collection rather than actually consume it."

  "The appropriate response would be to admire each bottle while commenting on its rarity, then select whichever is currently most fashionable among the aristocracy," Morris confirmed. "Under no circumstances should you express genuine enjoyment, as that would suggest a peasant's unsophisticated pate."

  "Heaven forbid one should drink blood because one actually likes the taste," Aric rolled his eyes. "What's the use of immortality if we spend it pretending not to enjoy things?"

  A discreet knock interrupted their exploration. Morris answered the door to find a tournament page bearing an ornate scroll sealed with the combined sigils of all five Archdukes.

  "The official schedule and regutions, Your Grace," Morris announced, bringing the document to Aric. "Along with your formal invitation to tonight's welcoming banquet."

  Aric broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, scanning its contents with a warrior's efficiency rather than the ceremonial pace traditional nobility would employ.

  "Apparently, I'm expected to wear the 'appropriate regalia of my station,'" he read aloud. "Which I can only assume means transforming myself into a walking treasury like that doublet in the dressing room."

  "I took the liberty of having your formal ducal attire pressed for the occasion, Your Grace," Morris replied. "It meets the minimum requirements for ceremonial presentation while maintaining your preferred... functionality."

  Aric gave his valet a rare smile. "What would I do without you, Morris?"

  "Scandalize the entirety of vampire aristocracy even more thoroughly than you already do, I expect, Your Grace."

  "A worthy goal, but perhaps not tonight." Aric continued reading the schedule. "It seems the tournament trials don't begin until three nights from now. First, we must endure an endless parade of ceremonies, introductions, and blood-sharing rituals."

  "The social components are considered as important as the competitive trials," Morris noted. "Many alliances and enmities that shape vampire politics for decades have been formed during Crimson Games receptions."

  "Yes, I recall that from my first Games." Aric's expression darkened momentarily. "Though in my case, the receptions mainly involved aristocrats making it abundantly clear that a common-born competitor had no pce in their assessment of leadership capability, diplomatic skill, or blood discrimination refinement—conveniently ignoring that my combat prowess and territory management experience exceeded most of theirs combined."

  "Things have changed somewhat since then, Your Grace," Morris observed. "Your victory and subsequent sixty years of exempry territorial governance have forced even the most traditional nobles to acknowledge merit can equal bloodline."

  "Acknowledge, perhaps. Accept? That remains to be seen." Aric rolled the schedule back up. "This tournament will show us how much progress has truly been made. Lucius takes the long view—centuries rather than decades—but even he must be growing impatient with the pace of change."

  Morris nodded, then gestured toward the bathing chamber. "Shall I prepare your bath before the banquet, Your Grace? According to the schedule, we have approximately two hours before your presence is expected."

  "An excellent idea. Perhaps I'll make use of that absurdly rge tub after all." Aric's sardonic smile returned. "Though I draw the line at the seventeen eyebrow grooming movements."

  "A wise decision, Your Grace. I've always felt fourteen movements were more than sufficient."

  Aric's startled ugh echoed through the crimson-draped chambers, a rare moment of genuine amusement before the tournament's complex political games began in earnest.