Part I – The Stage of Wolves
The ballroom glittered with candlelight, chandeliers dripping molten stars from the ceiling. Perfumed nobles drifted in silks and brocade, jewels flashing as they laughed too loudly at jokes too shallow.
At the edge of it all stood Rowan. No silk. No jewels. Only a dark doublet—plain, immaculate, unyielding. His posture was perfect, his expression carefully measured.
He was not meant to be here, just another shadow in his father's court. Yet whispers circled him like moths drawn to flame.
"Is that the Duke's bastard?" a lady murmured behind her fan."They say he's clever. Too clever.""They say he's dangerous."
Rowan did not need to hear them. He saw it in the stolen glances, in the tilt of shoulders when he passed.
The wolves had scented something new in their garden.
And Rowan? Rowan had scented his stage.
Part II – The Dance of Smiles (Expanded)
Music swelled, violins slicing through chatter. Couples spun across marble floors, silks blooming like flowers in motion.
Rowan did not dance—yet. Instead, he drifted from circle to circle, his smile timed, his laughter rehearsed.
To Lord Brenwick, he was an attentive son: "I've heard my father speak highly of your counsel, my lord. It must be a heavy burden, guiding a man of such… power." The noble preened under the praise.
To Lady Halven, he was a charming rogue: "Forgive me, my lady, but I swear your gown shames the chandeliers themselves." She flushed, glancing away before her husband could see.
To a merchant, he was a naïve boy: eyes wide, fingertips brushing imported silk as though it were gold. "I've never seen such beauty," he whispered, as the merchant swelled with pride.
Every exchange was a mask, every mask perfectly worn. He watched their faces soften, their shoulders relax, their smiles bloom—not for who Rowan was, but for the reflection he offered them.
A lord complained of rivals. Rowan listened, eyes grave, as though the man's petty squabble were the suffering of kings.A lady bragged about her husband's estate. Rowan did not glance at the jewels she flaunted—he praised her beauty instead. That, after all, was the treasure she craved most.A merchant boasted of caravans stretching across three nations. Rowan sighed in awe, then added softly, "To carry such weight must be lonely, my lord." The merchant blinked, caught, suddenly believing Rowan saw something no one else did.
"Such a polite boy," one noblewoman whispered."Sharp as a blade," another murmured.
Rowan caught their words not with his ears but with his eyes, in the glimmering mirror that lined the wall.
He saw them there—dozens of glittering figures orbiting him, laughing, leaning closer, hungering.
And at their center, his own reflection: radiant, untouchable.
The mask was holding.
Part III – The Poisoned Chalice (Expanded)
As the wine flowed and tongues loosened, Rowan began his true work.
He drifted toward Lord Halvern, a stout man with a flushed face and jewels straining against his fingers. Halvern's pride was his vineyards—his wealth poured from the goblets he offered others. He was deep in drink already, boasting too loudly of his land's bounty.
Rowan leaned close, his voice soft, reverent."They say the Duke trusts your judgment above all others, my lord. That your wine graces his table above any other."
Halvern puffed, pleased. "Aye. Even Alistair knows quality when he tastes it."
Rowan let his smile curve, conspiratorial. "Strange, then… that I heard Lord Serath claim otherwise. That the Duke favors his cellars. I'm certain he must be mistaken, of course. But I thought you should know."
Halvern's face purpled, veins swelling in his neck.
Rowan stepped back, bowing slightly, leaving the man to stew.
Moments later, he found Lord Serath—thin, sharp-eyed, speaking with a lady too young to be his wife. Rowan touched the noble's sleeve, interrupting with an apologetic tilt of his head."My lord, forgive me. I fear I've betrayed you. Lord Halvern overheard me mention how highly the Duke praised your cellars… He was not pleased."
Serath stiffened. His lips thinned. "Is that so?"
Rowan bowed again, eyes lowered in practiced humility. "I am certain it will pass. You know how men are with their pride."
By the time he slipped away, both men were glaring across the ballroom—two vipers primed to strike, each believing the other had spat venom first.
Rowan did not smile immediately. He let the tension rise, let the room shift as whispers curled like smoke. Then, at the edge of the hall, he sipped his watered wine and let the smallest curl touch his lips.
One nudge. Two words. And already the feast would sour into suspicion.
His father had taught him to wield a sword.His mother had taught him to endure pain.
But here—here Rowan discovered a weapon sharper than steel.
A whisper could draw more blood than any blade.
Part IV – The Mirror's Triumph
The ball waned. Candles guttered low, laughter dulled to murmurs, and the last music shivered into silence.
Rowan left before the embers died. He did not need to linger. The room was already his.
In his chamber, he stood before the mirror once more.
The boy who had flinched in shadows was fading. In his place stood a youth whose smile bent reality, whose words sowed storms.
He touched the mirror's surface, his whisper meant for no ears but his own:"They will think me harmless. They will think me theirs. And when they kneel, it will not be from fear…"
His reflection smiled back—dazzling, terrifying.
"…but because they believe it is love."
The candle flared once, then died.
And in the darkness, Rowan's mask—bright, perfect, deadly—shone like the edge of a dagger.