Part I – Into the Ashenwild
The Ashenwild was a graveyard of trees. Their trunks rose like pillars of black stone, their branches clawing upward as if to drag the sky back into the soil. Mist coiled low, swallowing roots and hiding the path. The air stank of damp rot and iron, as though the forest itself had been bleeding for centuries.
Rowan moved through the undergrowth with a torch in one hand and a dagger in the other. The flame sputtered, its glow swallowed by the mist until it seemed no stronger than a firefly. Every step crunched over bones of branches, each sound echoing too loudly in the silence.
Behind him, on the ridge, the Duke's soldiers watched. Their armor glimmered faintly in the moonlight. Their laughter carried faintly through the fog, cruel and sharp.
"Bring me its head, bastard!" one jeered."Or bring us your bones!" another called, the words swallowed by the dark.
Rowan didn't look back. He knew what this was: not a trial, not even punishment, but theater. The Duke wanted blood—his son's or the beast's. Either would do.
Then came the howl.
It rose from deep within the woods, low and endless, rattling bark, shivering mist, shaking the marrow in Rowan's bones. Not the cry of a wolf. Not the scream of a man. Something older. Something hungrier.
The Nightfang.
Fear slid down Rowan's spine like cold water. His torch trembled in his hand. But still, his lips curved upward. The mask never slipped.
"Then let us dance, beast," he whispered into the mist.
Part II – The Beast and the Serpent
It came like a shadow given flesh.
One heartbeat, the fog hung heavy. The next, it split—fangs bared, claws arcing downward. Eyes glowed pale, soulless, fixed on him as prey.
Rowan flung himself sideways, the beast's strike shattering bark where his chest had been. Splinters bit his skin. He rolled, torch tumbling across the dirt, its flame licking upward as if trying to flee.
The Nightfang turned with impossible speed. Its breath steamed white in the cold, its teeth slick with spittle.
Rowan struck before thought could catch him—dagger flashing in his hand. The blade bit into flesh. Hot blood sprayed across his wrist.
The creature roared, sound splitting the forest like thunder. It staggered, one eye already clouding with blood, but its bulk held steady.
Rowan rose, slow, deliberate. Torchlight wavered across his face. Crimson gleamed wet on his hand, dripping from his dagger. His heart pounded terror into his throat. But his smile remained. Thin. Radiant. Unbroken.
The Nightfang circled him. Predator and prey, but which was which? For a heartbeat, even the forest seemed unsure.
The beast hissed low, its chest heaving. Then, as though recognizing something in the boy before it—something darker, something colder—it drew back.
It slunk into the fog, its silhouette bleeding into mist, leaving only its howl behind. A sound that promised not defeat, but return.
Rowan stood alone. Trembling. Alive.
And smiling.
Part III – The Return
The soldiers did not laugh when Rowan staggered back into sight.
His torch had burned low, sputtering ash. His tunic was torn across the chest. Blood—dark, half-dried—slicked his jaw and hands.
But in his grip, he carried a single trophy: the Nightfang's claw, torn from flesh, still wet with gore.
He held it aloft.
The jeers died in their throats. Silence swallowed the ridge.
The bastard had not been devoured.The serpent had bled the beast.
By the time Rowan descended into Veloria, whispers had already fled ahead of him like sparks in dry grass.
The bastard faced the Nightfang.The serpent smiled at the dark.Even monsters retreat before his gaze.
Part IV – The Serpent's Triumph
In the Duke's hall, the claw was laid before Alistair on a silver tray. Torches hissed and spat, shadows twitching across the banners. The Duke stared long at the bloodied relic, silent.
Rowan bowed, mask unbroken. His voice was steady, velvet-laced."The beast howled, Father. But it fled from me."
For a long moment, the hall held its breath.
Then Alistair laughed. Low, jagged, bitter."You live, boy. Perhaps the gods mock me after all."
But even as he laughed, his eyes narrowed—just slightly. He had sent the bastard to die, and yet here he stood, not broken, not cowed, but gilded in whispers that spread like smoke.
From the corners of the chamber, nobles murmured. Servants shivered. And Rowan's smile gleamed brighter than the torchlight, spilling into every ear, every whisper.
The serpent had survived the dark. And the dark itself had fled.
Part V – Serenya
Later, when the feast dulled and the Duke's laughter rang hollow, Lady Serenya Marlowe lingered at the edge of the hall.
She did not toast Rowan. She did not sneer. She only watched.
At last, their paths crossed. Her gaze caught the smoke-stained tunic, the faint scar where claws had grazed his jaw.
"You faced a monster," she murmured, voice soft as falling ash. "And returned smiling."
Rowan's grin widened, gentle, radiant. "Should I have returned weeping?"
Her gaze was unblinking. "No. But I wonder—when you smiled at the beast, did it see your courage… or your fear?"
Rowan tilted his head, mask sliding back into place. "Perhaps both. And perhaps that is why it fled."
For the first time, her lips curved—not with warmth, but with recognition."Perhaps."
She left him with the word. Rowan felt its weight long after she was gone.
Part VI – Darius
Elsewhere in the hall, Darius Vale's knuckles whitened around his goblet.
He had pictured the bastard's bones rotting in the Ashenwild. Instead, Rowan returned draped in whispers of triumph.
He stared the Nightfang down, the nobles said.He bled it, the servants whispered.Veloria's serpent makes monsters kneel; the bards would soon sing.
Every word was a nail hammered into Darius's chest.
He left before the feast ended, crimson cloak burning in torchlight. In the courtyard, he drew his sword and drove it into the stone again and again, sparks shrieking with each strike.
When he stopped, his blade was notched, the pillar scarred. But none of those marks bled like Rowan's smile in his mind.
He pressed his bleeding fist to the crimson banner of his house, lips whispering a vow no ear would hear:
"I will not be remembered as the fool mocked by a bastard. I will be remembered as the man who killed the serpent."
Inside the hall, Rowan's legend swelled, cloaked in firelight. Serenya's warning clung to him like a thorn.
In the courtyard, Darius carved his oath into stone.
And far beyond Veloria's walls, in the drowned silence of the Ashenwild, a lone howl rose again—low, endless, unbroken.
The Nightfang lived.