Part I – The Legend Begins
The fire hissed and spat, flinging sparks into the black sky like dying stars. Children crouched close, their hollow cheeks glowing in the orange light, their eyes wide and hungry—not for food, but for the one thing even famine could not kill.
Stories.
The old man's voice rasped through the wind."Do you know the tale of the Shadow of the World?"
His single eye gleamed, carrying a weight that was not wholly fear, not wholly awe—something sharper, darker, heavier than either.
One boy leaned forward eagerly. "My father says he was a hero. He gave bread to the starving."
Another spat into the dirt. "My uncle says he was a monster. He burned villages until nothing was left but bones."
The old man's chuckle rattled low in his throat, bitter as soot."Hero… monster… savior… devil. You are all right. And all wrong. He wore every mask this world could forge. At sunrise, he was worshiped. At sunset, he was cursed."
He bent closer, his whisper cutting the night like a blade dragged across stone."Tell me, children—what is more terrifying? A man who kills his enemies… or a man who makes the world love him while he does it?"
The fire cracked. Smoke coiled upward, twisting into the shape of a tall shadow, broad-shouldered, its eyes gleaming like a wolf's in the night.
The children shivered. Some leaned closer. None dared to look away.
The story had them.
The tale began.
Part II – The Illusion of the Hero
Veloria's banquet hall glittered like a jewel in the dark. A hundred chandeliers burned overhead, gilding polished marble in molten gold. Velvet curtains bled crimson down the walls, while silver goblets spilled wine dark as blood. Nobles, merchants, and guildmasters filled the room—laughing too loudly, drinking too deeply, whispering too quickly of the neighbors they envied.
Then silence swept them, sharp as a guillotine's drop.
Rowan had arrived.
He moved through the doors as though born to command the room, though every soul present knew he had clawed his way up from nothing. His hair was bound neatly at his nape, his coat stitched in threads of gold, his boots gleaming like polished steel. His smile curved easily—so warm it made men feel important, so precise it made women feel seen.
"Ah, Lord Brenwick," Rowan said smoothly, clasping the damp hand of a sweating merchant. "It takes rare courage to wear a coat of such… daring color."
The man faltered, unsure if he had been praised or mocked.
Rowan drifted on, every word calculated, every gesture sharpened. He spoke of justice for the poor while striking trade deals that fattened his purse. He mocked a noble's illiteracy, then spun the insult into a joke so clever the noble himself laughed until his face flushed scarlet.
By the time Rowan raised his goblet, the hall roared with him.
"To Veloria," he declared, voice velvet wrapped in steel."And to those who bleed to keep her alive."
Applause thundered. Doubt drowned.
The mask of the hero fastened tighter.
Part III – The First Crack
The banquet dissolved into drunken music and hollow laughter. Rowan slipped out the back gates, his cloak dragging across rain-slick cobblestones. The perfume of roasted meats and spiced wine gave way to rot, piss, and old smoke.
Children stirred in the shadows—gaunt, trembling, ribs sharp beneath rags. Their eyes shone like a pack of rats starving in the dark.
"Please, my lord," one girl whispered, hands outstretched. "Just a coin…"
Rowan paused. His smile returned—soft, dangerous, unreadable. He tossed a small pouch into the mud.
The children pounced. Screams ripped the night as fists flew, teeth tore, bones snapped like twigs. Blood spattered stone as they ripped one another apart for a handful of copper.
Rowan stood still, watching, as if witnessing a familiar play. Slowly, his lips curled.
"Hope," he murmured. "The sweetest poison. It makes them dream… just enough to kill for it."
He turned away.
Behind him, a boy's skull split against the wall with a wet crack.
Rowan did not look back.
Part IV – The Mirror of Faces
Rowan's chamber was silent, save for the hiss of a lone candle. He shrugged off his cloak, loosened his collar, and approached the mirror waiting in the corner.
His reflection stared back.
He tried on a smile—warm, noble, radiant. Another—sharp, merciless, cruel. Another still—tired, fragile, pitiable.
His lips shifted. His brows bent. His voice changed with each mask, whispering lines as another man might whisper prayers.
At last, the illusions fell.
His eyes, stripped bare, were black oceans. Bottomless. Endless.
"The world will never know me," Rowan whispered, certain as scripture. "But it will remember me."
He blew out the candle.
Darkness devoured the room.
And thus, the Shadow of the World began his climb.