Part I – The Prisoner Bride
The castle reeked of iron and incense.
Rowan crouched in the shadows of the throne hall, his small hands clutching a cold stone pillar.
Chains rattled. Soldiers dragged a woman forward, her wrists raw, her lips split and bleeding. Her dark hair clung to her sweat-damp face. The men jeered, spitting words like dogs fighting over scraps.
On the throne lounged Duke Alistair—Rowan's father. A goblet hung loosely in his hand, his eyes gleaming with the same cold steel as the blade at his hip.
"This one," he said, his voice rolling like distant thunder. "A gift for my bed. She will learn what it means to serve."
The woman lifted her chin. Hatred blazed through blood and bruises.
"Better to die than warm the bed of a butcher."
The soldiers roared with laughter.
The Duke's smile was thin, a slash of cruelty. His fingers twitched. A soldier backhanded her across the face. Blood sprayed across the stone.
Rowan flinched.
The Duke's gaze slid toward him. "Boy. Watch closely."
Rowan stiffened, every nerve screaming.
His father's voice softened, almost tender. "This is love. Not songs sung by fools, not weak hearts dreaming of tenderness. Love is possession. Power. To own is to love. To be owned is to be loved."
Rowan's voice was barely a whisper. "…Yes, Father."
The Duke leaned forward, lips stretched in a wolf's grin.
"One day, you will learn. And when you love, you will make the world kneel."
Rowan's breath caught as soldiers dragged the woman—his mother-to-be—screaming from the hall.
The sound carved itself into him, deeper than bone.
Part II – The Silent Mother
Rowan's chamber was stone and silence. But sometimes, in the coldest hours of the night, she came.
She sat on his bed with wrists still bruised from shackles, lips cracked, eyes hollow. Her name, whispered once and never again, was Selene.
She stroked his hair in silence. Not with warmth. Not with love. But with the numbness of duty.
"Why do you let him hurt you?" Rowan whispered.
Her hands froze. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then her voice shattered like glass.
"Because that is love, child."
Rowan frowned. "But you hate him."
Selene's mouth twisted, caught between sob and laughter. "I hate him. And I need him. Hatred feeds love. Love feeds hatred. There is no difference when you are bound."
Her fingers dug into his scalp, pulling just enough to sting. Her voice sharpened, fevered.
"Never let them own you, Rowan. Own them first. Even if you must smile. Even if you must bleed. Own them—or you will be nothing."
Her breath stank of stolen wine. Her nails left little crescents of pain across his skin.
Rowan lay awake long after she left, whispering into the dark:
"To love is to own. To own is to love. And to be weak… is to die."
Part III – The Wolf's Lesson
By twelve winters, Rowan's body was still slight, but his eyes had grown older than his years.
The Duke summoned him to the yard. Soldiers gathered, armored and eager, their laughter thick with bloodlust.
A peasant knelt in the mud, wrists bound, face swollen from beatings.
"Thief," the Duke spat. "He stole bread from the stores."
The man sobbed, dirt streaking with tears. "My son was starving—"
Steel flashed. The Duke's blade opened his throat before the words were done. Blood sprayed warm across Rowan's boots.
"Compassion," the Duke snarled, wiping his sword clean. "The excuse of weak men. And weak men are eaten. Do you want to be eaten, boy?"
Rowan's stomach churned, but his face stayed still. He shook his head.
The Duke's voice dropped, almost fatherly. "Then you will eat others. You will take. And you will make them believe it is mercy. That is the rule. That is love. That is power."
He shoved the bloodied sword into Rowan's hands. "Next time, you do it. Or you will join him in the mud."
Rowan's fingers tightened on the hilt. The blood was hot, sticky.
Something fragile inside him cracked.
It never healed.
Part IV – The First Mask
That night, Rowan sat before the mirror. A thin child's face stared back—pale, gaunt, streaked with blood not his own.
"They will never own me," he whispered.
His reflection whispered back. "Then own them first."
He smiled. It was the smile his father wore when breaking men. The smile his mother wore when pretending not to bleed.
A mask.
Rowan studied it. Held it. Wore it until his face forgot where the mask ended and he began.
Down the corridor, his mother's sobs echoed like ghosts. In the great hall, his father's laughter rolled, heavy with wine and cruelty.
Rowan pressed his forehead to the mirror, his voice low, hollow, ancient for his years.
"One day, all of you will kneel. And you will call it love."
The candle sputtered out.
And in the dark, the shadow found its first shape.