The contestants' quarters occupied an entire wing of the tournament complex, with separate sections allocated to each territory. Nathaniel had been assigned to the traditional faction's area, a decision that initially brought relief—familiar surroundings would make maintaining his disguise easier—but now created unexpected complications.

  His chambers, though luxuriously appointed in the heavy, ornate style of Orlov's court, came with an overwhelming array of protocols entirely unfamiliar to him. In his father's household, Lady Natalia would have had servants to manage everything. Lord Nathaniel, however, was expected to understand and direct these matters himself—knowledge Natalia had never been permitted to acquire.

  "My lord, how would you prefer the blood served for your evening refreshment?" asked the attendant who had been assigned to his quarters. "The traditional ceremonial goblet, or perhaps the more practical modern vessel preferred by some younger nobles?"

  Nathaniel froze momentarily. In all his pnning, he had focused on combat techniques, aristocratic walking styles, and masculine speech patterns. The practical details of how noble sons were expected to manage their daily routines had somehow escaped his preparation.

  "The ceremonial goblet," he answered, choosing the familiar option. At least he had observed those rituals, even if never permitted to direct them.

  The attendant nodded and continued, "And will you require the blood warmed precisely to ninety-six degrees as Lord Hargrove prefers, or do you favor your own temperature?"

  Another trap of ignorance. What temperature did his brothers prefer? This was never discussed in his presence.

  "Not as warm as my father prefers," he improvised, keeping his voice carefully deepened. "Slightly cooler."

  "Very good, my lord," the attendant replied. "And for your morning arrangements? The traditional waking ceremony with the ancestral invocations, or the abbreviated ritual that many younger nobles now prefer?"

  Nathaniel suppressed a sigh. At home, he had simply been awakened and dressed by servants who knew exactly what was required. The eborate ritual his brothers underwent each morning remained a mystery to her—something performed in the masculine spaces of the household where Natalia was never permitted.

  "The abbreviated ritual will suffice," he answered, hoping this would involve fewer opportunities for errors. "The tournament preparations must take priority."

  As the attendant continued listing options—specific blood varieties, preferred intensity of room darkness, particur arrangements of symbolic items on the various tables—Nathaniel felt increasingly out of his depth. Each question required knowledge he had never been allowed to possess as Natalia.

  When finally alone, he paced the chamber, anxiety mounting with each step. He had prepared so thoroughly for the public performance of masculinity, but had somehow overlooked these private details that could just as easily expose him.

  A knock at his chamber door interrupted his nervous pacing.

  "Lord Nathaniel, the territory orientation gathering begins in thirty minutes," called the attendant through the door. "Shall I prepare your formal attire with the Hargrove ceremonial pins, or would you prefer the tournament cssification insignia instead?"

  Another decision with unknown implications. Nathaniel took a steadying breath.

  "Both," he answered, hoping this wouldn't create some protocol viotion. "The tournament deserves recognition, as does House Hargrove."

  Within minutes, the attendant returned with his evening attire—heavy brocade in House Hargrove's colors, with both the family crest and tournament insignia arranged on the breast. Nathaniel felt a moment of relief; his answer had apparently been acceptable.

  The territory orientation, he soon discovered, was mercifully divided by faction. Traditional territory contestants were guided to a separate chamber from those of progressive territories, preserving the strict separation Orlov's faction insisted upon during training and preparation phases. This arrangement—which Nathaniel had originally feared would limit his freedom—now provided welcome protection for his disguise, keeping him exclusively among those with simir aristocratic expectations.

  The orientation chamber for traditional contestants proved both familiar and stifling. Heavy velvet draperies covered the windows, while eborate candebras provided minimal illumination. The attendants moved with the slow, measured pace expected in Orlov's court, and the blood offered in ceremonial goblets had been heated to the precise temperature preferred by traditional nobles.

  Lord Deveraux, a vampire noble from Orlov's inner court who had been appointed as the traditional faction's protocol guide, addressed the gathered contestants with the eborate formality Nathaniel knew all too well.

  "Distinguished heirs of noble bloodlines," he began, his overly ornate nguage requiring three times as many words as necessary to convey simple information. "We shall commence our preparations with the Ritual of Intent, followed by the Ceremony of Martial Commitment, thereafter proceeding to the Decration of Noble Purpose..."

  Several younger traditional nobles exchanged subtle gnces that Nathaniel recognized immediately—the barely concealed impatience he had often shared with his brothers during particurly tedious court ceremonies. This small commonality provided unexpected comfort; perhaps he wasn't the only one who found these rituals excessive.

  When Lord Deveraux finally concluded his introduction—nearly forty minutes of eborate speech that could have been expressed in five—he proceeded to distribute ceremonial tournament sashes that differed from the ones provided at registration.

  "These sacred tokens must be worn during all training sessions," he expined, "to maintain the purity of traditional methodology. They have been blessed by Archduke Orlov himself to protect against progressive contamination."

  Nathaniel accepted his sash with appropriate reverence, while privately wondering what "progressive contamination" might entail. The hyperbolic nguage seemed more extreme here than even in Orlov's court itself.

  As the orientation continued, Nathaniel carefully observed the other traditional contestants, noting which rituals seemed to surprise even them. To his relief, many appeared equally confused by some of the more obscure protocols, suggesting that not all traditional nobles were equally versed in every arcane ceremony.

  Following the formal orientation, contestants were permitted a brief period of socialization strictly within their faction. Nathaniel cautiously approached a small group of younger traditional nobles who had demonstrated subtle resistance to the most tedious rituals.

  "Is it always this eborate at tournaments?" he asked, maintaining his carefully practiced masculine speech pattern.

  "Worse with each passing Games," replied a young vampire with the insignia of a western traditional territory. "My father competed in the first Crimson Games and said there were half as many ceremonies then. It's like they add new rituals every time to make the progressive faction wait longer."

  Another noble nodded in agreement. "I trained for combat for decades, not for remembering which hand to hold the Goblet of Ceremonial Intent during the fifteenth ritual of the evening."

  Their quiet commiseration provided Nathaniel unexpected comfort. Even those raised as noble sons found the excessive protocols challenging—a fact that helped mask his own unfamiliarity with masculine noble expectations.

  The evening concluded with yet another eborate ceremony, this one requiring contestants to recite pledges of traditional methodology while holding ceremonial weapons in specific positions. Nathaniel copied the movements of those around him, grateful that Natalia's years of silent observation during court functions had trained her to notice and memorize precise details of ritual performances.

  When finally released to return to their chambers, Nathaniel overheard a conversation between two traditional nobles that caught his attention.

  "Have you seen the progressive territory training facilities?" one asked quietly.

  "Briefly, during the tour. Disgustingly practical," the other replied with performative disdain. "No ceremonial spaces at all, just efficient training equipment and analytical tools."

  "Efficient is right," the first continued, voice dropping further. "My cousin trained there st Games. Said they accomplished in two hours what takes us eight with all the rituals."

  The second noble gnced around nervously before replying. "Don't let Deveraux hear you. He reports everything to Orlov."

  Nathaniel carefully maintained an expression of aristocratic disinterest while absorbing this information. The division between factions clearly went beyond mere aesthetics—it represented fundamentally different approaches to effectiveness itself.

  Back in his chambers, as the attendant helped him prepare for rest with yet another set of eborate rituals, Nathaniel found himself wondering about those progressive training facilities. What would it be like to focus purely on practical improvement without hours of ceremonial preliminaries?

  "Will there be anything else, my lord?" the attendant asked after completing the traditional evening preparations.

  Nathaniel considered the array of symbolic items now arranged around his chamber—ancestral tokens, ceremonial weapons, and ritual blood vessels positioned precisely according to traditions whose meanings had been lost centuries ago.

  "No," he replied, his masculine voice now coming more naturally after a full day of practice. "That will be all."

  As the door closed, leaving him alone among the traditional trappings of noble vampire life, Nathaniel experienced a curious sensation—one part comfort in the familiar surroundings of his upbringing, one part suffocation under their eborate weight. For the first time, he wondered if there might be something to the progressive approach after all.

  The thought itself felt like a small betrayal of everything he had been raised to believe. Yet as he y in darkness surrounded by traditional ceremonial objects, he couldn't help but wonder what other revetions the tournament might bring.