Part I – The Noble Spawn
The training yard stank of sweat, steel, and piss.
Sons of noblemen strutted in polished armor, their breastplates gleaming, their swords freshly sharpened—not through use, but through display. From the stone balconies above, their fathers leaned forward, watching like hawks, their eyes measuring which son might one day rule, and which might die young.
Rowan stood among them—smaller, leaner, his tunic plain and scuffed, stark against their silks and polished steel. His father had refused him the dignity of fine clothes. A wolf must earn his fangs, Alistair had said.
The noble boys laughed when Rowan took his place. Their voices rang high and cruel, circling him like wolves around a lone deer.
"Look at the bastard duke's whelp," one sneered, his wooden practice blade tapping against Rowan's chest. "Doesn't even look like a soldier. More like a rat that crawled into the wrong hole."
The others snickered, jostling each other, eager to impress their fathers watching above.
Rowan's lips curved into softness—a mask of harmlessness, smooth as silk. His dark eyes lowered, lashes veiling the glint behind them."You're right," he said lightly. "I'm not a soldier."
Then his voice dipped low, sharp as a needle meant to draw blood unseen."But do you know what rats eat… when wolves sleep?"
The boy blinked, his smirk faltering at the strange, quiet menace.
Before he could speak, Rowan's wooden blade cracked against his knee with a sharp crack. The boy screamed, collapsing into the mud.
The laughter broke instantly into shrieks and shouts.
From the balcony, Duke Alistair's chuckle rolled like thunder. His goblet of wine shook in his hand as he laughed."Better. The boy learns."
Rowan wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes glinting with something colder than victory. The pain of the boy's cries was nothing to him—it was background music, a reminder that the weak were meant to kneel.
The other noble sons no longer laughed.
They watched him—uneasy, some scowling, others wary.
Like serpents sensing that another serpent had slithered into their garden.
And Rowan smiled.
Part II – The First Web
The great hall reeked of roasted meat and spiced wine. Long tables sagged beneath venison glistening with fat, pheasants roasted golden, and figs dripping with honey. Nobles' sons jostled and shouted, their cheeks flushed with drink, their fathers toasting victories they had never won.
Rowan sat wedged between boys twice his size. He ate little. He drank less.
He watched.
Every whisper. Every scowl. Every laugh that rang too loudly, every sigh that betrayed longing. He drank them in as though they were the true feast laid before him.
One boy's hand trembled each time he raised his goblet. Rowan studied the twitch of his wrist, the flicker of panic each time the boy's eyes darted toward his father's end of the table.He fears his own blood more than he fears his enemies.
Another boy's gaze lingered not on the food, but on the serving girl pouring wine. Hungry. Possessive. The kind of hunger that could be used.He'll ruin himself for her… if I push him just a little.
Rowan leaned close to the trembling boy, his voice soft, almost kind, as though he offered comfort."You should eat more," he murmured. "Your father would hate to hear how weak your grip has become."
The boy froze, color draining from his cheeks. His trembling grew worse. Rowan smiled gently, as though offering reassurance, and filled the boy's cup to the brim. A kindness that felt like a threat.
Later, Rowan brushed past the hungry-eyed noble; his words dropped like a serpent's hiss."She looks at you, too, you know. Every time she passes, she lingers."
The boy's pupils dilated, his breathing quickened. By night's end, whispers of scandal slithered through the corridors—whispers Rowan had planted like seeds.
He lingered in the empty hall long after the feast had ended, sipping wine he did not enjoy. His reflection wavered in the dark liquid, eyes like black ice.
His smile wasn't for himself.
It was for the strings tightening around his fingers.
One tug. One whisper.
And boys far stronger than him danced.
Part III – The Snake in the Garden
The library smelled of dust and dying fire, its silence broken only by the scratch of quill against parchment. Rowan sat hunched over a scroll, pretending to read.
Heavy boots thudded against stone. The scent of wine and steel filled the room.
"You twist them," Duke Alistair said, his voice low, almost amused. "Make them fight. Lust. Drink. Is this your game, boy?"
Rowan didn't look up. His quill scratched lazily, as though the words of ancient generals were more worthy of attention than his father's accusations."They twist themselves. I just… nudge."
The Duke's laugh was a low growl, the kind that made men flinch."Cunning. A dangerous blade. But blades cut both ways."
Rowan lifted his gaze at last, steady and sharp, his voice calm."And if I sharpen the blade long enough… who will it cut deepest, Father?"
For the first time, Alistair's smile wavered. His eyes narrowed. His son's words lingered in the air like a blade unsheathed.
The Duke turned away with a grunt, but the silence he left behind was heavy.
Rowan's lips twitched upward. Even the wolf feels the serpent's fangs.
Part IV – The Blooming Mask
That night, Rowan sat before his mirror.
The boy who stared back was no longer the weak child of bruises and silence. His face had changed—no, not his face. His mask.
The smile he wore no longer echoed his father's cruelty nor his mother's resignation.
It was his own.
Sharp. Magnetic. Venomous.
"I am not their rat," he whispered, voice low, trembling with conviction. "I am the serpent."
He tilted his head, studying the gleam of his eyes, the elegant curve of his mouth. His reflection stared back, a stranger more powerful than he had ever been."When they laugh, it will be because I allow it. When they weep, it will be my gift. And when they kneel…"
His hand brushed against the cold glass, smearing the candlelight until his reflection blurred.
"…they will call it love."
The candle sputtered. Shadows slithered along the walls like coiled serpents, hissing in the dark.
The garden had found its master.