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Manor Marquin was a broad mansion settled on a vast estate covering many acres. Our carriage bumbled past miles of flat fields made violet from the moonlight as the glorious manor shone ahead of us like a golden lighthouse.

This far east from the Olhavian metropolis was a hilly, windswept countryside.

I had never seen such expansive pastures or tranquil woods before.

It was quiet here, with only the creaking of the carriage wheels and howling of the wind giving any sound.

The ridges of the mountains jutted up in every direction around us, black monoliths against the purple sky.

It was in the crater of this massive mountaintop terrace that Olhav existed.

Civilization came into focus an hour after we leveled off at the summit of the mountain and started heading east through the valley. Other carriages passed us, conversations and sounds of activity ahead met our ears.

The eight attendees in our cart pushed together toward the front to gaze through the partition like so many schoolchildren in awe of their surroundings.

The manor was kept upright by sturdy pillars.

It was a marvel unlike anything I’d seen—three stories tall, stained-glass windows, more like a temple to opulence than someone’s house.

Down in Nuhav, it would have taken up an entire city block.

Gold-tipped spires reached up toward the heavens at all four corners, giving it a castle-like appearance.

Lukain guided our carriage down a smaller thoroughfare that split off from the main road. Other carriages in the courtyard of the manor shrank as we rounded the side of the stronghold toward the back.

“We will enter through the eastern door, like the other workers,” Lukain explained.

At the rear of the mansion, invisible to the gala attendees entering through the front, was much more chaotic.

A dozen tents had been erected and countless white-robed slaves and laborers hustled to and from the tents, carrying goods, wine bottles, plates of food, all in preparation for the evening’s festivities which they would not get to enjoy.

“The lucky ones,” Lukain told us in a low voice. “Highly skilled laborers who managed to transcend Nuhav to work for a lord of Olhav.”

I said, “I thought humans weren’t allowed to, erm, ‘witness the greatness and glory of Olhav,’ Master.”

“These are thralls, not paid workers,” Lukain said with a hint of disgust in his voice. “They have traded their humanity to become vampiric playthings and pincushions. A leisurely life compared to what the common man suffers in Nuhav. Hardly a life at all, you ask me.”

Our master’s opinion on the situation was clear.

The cart pulled up to a long barnyard near the tents. Horses snorted and huffed in partitioned stalls. The stableman took the cart as Lukain had us exit from the back. A man with a white robe approached from one of the tents, bowed to us, and turned for us to follow. He said no words.

Lukain’s voice lowered to a hush as we walked toward the manse. “An acolyte of the manor. He stays mute out of respect for his overlords not wishing to hear his wretched human voice.”

I blinked. Sounds like a vowager of the House of the Broken. Even wears similar garb.

The double doors at the back of the mansion opened and the acolyte shuffled us inside. Lukain stopped our group briefly, eyes trained on the three fighters: me, Kemini, Rirth. “You will not enjoy this next part, grimmers. It’s all part of the facade. It won’t be anything you’re unaccustomed to.”

With that vague warning, we followed the acolyte in, down a sloping hall. Torches in stylish glass lanterns lit the walls. The corridor was wide, unlike the narrow passages I was used to in buildings of Nuhav. Red and purple rugs, tastefully decorated, led us down the hall.

The acolyte turned into a room, motioning us in with a swept hand. I paused, hearing a thudding from above. I noticed we were partly underground having come through the back entrance. The sounds above were feet.

I stiffened at seeing the room. It was much less refined than the halls we’d walked through to get here.

Rough walls of gray stone encircled the dark space.

Barred jail cells occupied the area, at least ten cells in all.

A few of the cells were inhabited by shadowy people I couldn’t recognize as we walked past. A trickle of light came in overhead and I glanced up to see lanterns from the story above creeping in through slatted flooring.

The acolyte led us to three empty cages, motioning us to enter. I took one look at Lukain, my eyes alight with alarm.

“This is your waiting room,” Lukain said. “Soon, you will test your mettle for the benefit of the Olhavians.”

Rirth, Kemini, and I took separate cells. The acolyte locked us in. Then the robed mute led the girls and Lukain away.

It was aggravating being able to see what we couldn’t touch. While merriment played out overhead through the slats of the hidden floor, we were left in the darkness below, in a stinking prison room.

When I thought about it, our lower-level prison was a microcosm of the Nuhav-Olhav contrast.

Before leaving the room, Lukain looked over his shoulder. “I must bring the ladies to the surface so they can interact with Lord Ashfen’s guests. You will be gathered soon. Be ready.”

As the festivities played out above us over a span of hours, I paced my small cell, feeling helpless. A growing frustration swelled inside me, threatening to steal away my focus from the bout at hand.

“Walking in circles will do nothing but drive you mad,” said a smooth voice from the cell across from me.

I walked to the bars of my cage and peered out with squinted eyes. A tall man stood near the bars of his cell, a crooked smile on his face. His hair was completely shaven, face attractive and smooth, with beady red eyes.

When he tilted his head expectantly, I inhaled sharply. “It’s . . . you. The dhampir from the alley.”

From the cell to my left, Rirth said, “You know this half-breed, Seph?”

“Garroway Kuffich,” the man replied, inclining his chin. “Wondered if I’d ever see you again, alley girl.”

The memory of this half-vampire, the first I’d ever met in person, rolled through me. The way we’d shared a dark alley in hiding—me from the House of the Broken, him from whatever threatened him. The cloak he wore, which he blanketed me with when I fell asleep.

The next morning, Baylen and the Diplomats had arrived to take me to the next chapter of my young life, and Garroway had vanished. Lukain had also used Garroway’s name in the past, as the recipient of Peltos for feeding.

“I do,” I said to Rirth, crossing my arms. Now I had another suspicion. “Tell me, Garroway Kuffich. Did you do it?”

This monster had an easier countenance than, say, Lukain.

The gifted cloak-blanket made me believe he retained more of his humanity than my master, even in his half-vampiric state.

Yet I couldn’t get the image of poor Layson out of my mind—being dragged into shadows, never seen again, to be feasted upon.

And there was the fact I’d seen this man on our desperate vampire-hunting excursion hours later .

. . yet had not alerted his presence to Dimmon Plank.

Garroway understood my question immediately. His face fell, that wispy smile twisting into a frown. “I . . . did. Not through any will of my own, mind you. My master needed sustenance, and I provided.”

My jaw clenched. “So you are nothing more than a thrall, actions dictated by your superior.”

He chuckled lightly. “Don’t be mistaken, alley girl. We are all thralls to someone else, half-blood or otherwise. I am no different than your master.”

But I thought you were different. “I could have given you up.”

“To the hellbent gang of feral children on their bloodthirsty hunt? Yes. Why didn’t you?”

“I felt I owed you a kindness.”

“You owe me nothing, alley—”

“It’s Sephania.” My voice came out harsh. “I’m not a guttergirl living in an alley anymore.”

Rirth said, “If anything, she’s more of a ‘dungeon girl’ these days.”

To my right, Kemini grunted a laugh in the other stall. It was rare for the oak-sized man to say anything, much less laugh.

I couldn’t see Rirth in his cage, but I narrowed my eyes in that direction. “Whose side are you on?”

Rirth chuckled and asked Garroway, “What’s a Buver like you doing locked in a cage like us?”

Overhead, the gala grew increasingly louder. Voices rose, most of them merry and refined. Jostling and clanking goblets spilled droplets of wine through the grates overhead, down into our cages.

“I am meant to fight one of you three and kill you,” Garroway said, returning another disarming smile. “Master’s orders.”

“We are all just pawns on a gameboard we don’t control,” I muttered.

“Quite right. Half the time we can’t even see the board clearly or all its possible moves.”

I fell silent. I had nothing more to say to Garroway Kuffich, especially if he was going to be an enemy.

A few minutes later, the door to the room opened. Three white-robed acolytes entered, walked past mine and Rirth’s cages, and retrieved Kemini. From another part of the room, a separate cage clicked open.

The hulking brute towered over the acolytes as they led him out of his cage.

“Good luck, big guy,” Rirth said as the huge young man exited.

“Don’t need it,” Kemini answered, patting his hip where his axe hung. “Have this.”

Anxiety had me chewing my lip. Before long, I stared overhead and noticed Kemini’s large boots on the grates. Master Lukain’s voice rose above the quieting din of partygoers.

“If it pleases my Lord Ashfen and his guests, I give you the first of my Grimson warriors.” His voice was lilting and cheery, belying every disposition I knew of the stern, violent grayskin.

“He becomes a jester in a court of monsters,” I sighed, shaking my head in shame.

“As you said, we are all just pawns,” Garroway answered. “Born to play a part.”

“You don’t seem bothered by it.”

“Bothered by it?” He chuckled. “Lass, I was born into it. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

All I’ve ever known too, if I’m being honest. Only my court has always been in Nuhav, and before Lukain, my kings have all been human wretches.

A jarring clang of metal rang out and startled me from my thoughts. My neck hollowed as I tensed and whipped my head up to the grate.

Kemini grunted, swinging his axe against a shorter opponent. The conversations between the gala attendees had shifted into pleased shouting and jeering as they watched my Holdmate fight for his life.

Upstairs was an arena. Prizefighters matched against each other for the entertainment of our bloodthirsty slavemasters. They cared not one whit about the outcome, only how much it might impact their purse if their particular fighter didn’t win.

This life was wrong. It was brutal. The stark realization of what Lukain Pierken was offering us was finally coming into dire focus.

I couldn’t catch every glint of steel or movement overhead, staring mostly at shuffling feet and angled bodies. Kemini’s opponent was smaller and quicker, yet I knew Kemini would not tire easily.

“What are you doing fighting here?” Rirth asked Garroway, probably to avoid the anxiety of watching the match. “I thought these bouts were for vampires to watch humans struggle, as sport. You’re not a human.”

“I’m hardly a vampire, either,” Garroway answered. “I go where I’m told, lad. Same as you.”

A grunt stole our focus and the conversation died as our eyes went heavenward. Something warm dripped down the slats through the darkness and trickled across my forehead.

I gasped at the warmth, the sticky viscosity, the coppery scent. My hand came away red, smearing blood across my face.

Light applause sounded from the audience.

More grunts, and the sickening sound of flesh and muscle being stabbed into over and over again. Then the thudding sound of a body hitting the ground. A heavy body.

My mouth fell open and my eyes widened as a face slammed against the slats, facing down into my cage with wide-open, unseeing eyes. An expression of eternal anguish and pain twisted the dead man’s slack face.

Kemini’s face.