Part I – The Aftertaste of Victory
The laughter of the feast clung to the halls like smoke. Rowan strolled, measured, letting the sound trail behind him like the echo of a song. Every noble tongue had repeated his name, every glance had weighed him differently than before.
The bastard was no longer invisible.
Servants bowed too low. Guards straightened their stances as he passed. Subtle, yes—but Rowan felt it. The shift. The tilt of power.
His smile lingered, soft and victorious. Yet even in triumph, his father's words echoed:
A blade cuts both ways.
Rowan whispered back into the silence:
"Then I will wield it better than any man alive."
The taste of victory sweetened into hunger.
Part II – The Circle Tightens
By the next night, the change was clear.
Nobles who once ignored him now drifted closer, as if by accident. A merchant's daughter laughed too easily at his words. Two lords approached him separately, whispering favors, probing loyalties.
Rowan gave them all what they wanted—smiles, nods, murmurs of agreement—but never too much. Just enough to keep them reaching.
When one lady leaned in and asked, "What did you truly mean by your jest at Lord Vale's expense?" Rowan tilted his head, eyes alight.
"What do you think I meant?"
Her blush told him all he needed. She would carry that question away, spreading it like fire—her friends, her husband, her rivals, each twisting the meaning into something new.
The web tightened, though Rowan never touched the thread.
But in the far corner of the hall, one figure did not smile.
Lady Serenya Marlowe. Dark eyes, unblinking. She did not laugh. She did not bow. She watched.
For the first time, Rowan felt the faintest prickle of unease.
Part III – The Warning Beneath the Wine
Later, when the hall thinned and candles guttered low, Serenya crossed to him. No curtsy. No smile.
"You wear the mask well," she said softly, her voice smooth as oil. "Most here see only the shine. I see the cracks."
Rowan's smile sharpened.
"Cracks, my lady? I fear you mistake me for glass."
Her gaze did not waver.
"Glass cuts deepest when it shatters."
For a heartbeat, Rowan said nothing. Then, gently, he bowed over her hand, lips brushing the air above her knuckles.
"Then pray, my lady, that you are never the one to drop me."
Her eyes never left his, even as she withdrew.
Rowan felt the faint sting of something unfamiliar. Not humiliation. Not anger. Recognition.
Here was someone who might not be so easily owned.
Part IV – The Feast of Shadows
In his chambers, the mirror awaited him. Always the mirror.
Rowan studied his reflection in silence, replaying the night—the laughter, the whispers, the attention curling around him like smoke. And Serenya's eyes, sharp enough to pierce.
For the first time, the thought surfaced: What if someone sees beneath the mask?
The thought chilled him. He pushed it down. He would never allow it.
He leaned closer to the mirror, whispering:
"They laughed with me. They leaned closer. Already, they are mine."
His reflection smiled back—radiant, venomous.
"Let them think they hold me. Let them think I am theirs. The feast has only begun."
He blew out the candle. Darkness swallowed him whole.
But whispers did not fade with the night. They spread beyond stone walls, carrying the tale of a bastard who turned lords into fools, who smiled like a prince and cut like a serpent.
Rowan slept lightly, with victory on his tongue—unaware that in another chamber, Lord Darius Vale sharpened his hatred into a blade.