Part I – The Summons
The Duke's summons came before dawn.
Rowan rose from his bed to the toll of a bell, corridors still drenched in night. Guards flanked him in silence as they led him through the keep. Their armor clinked softly—the sound of chains in a dungeon.
The throne room was half-lit, its torches burning low, shadows clinging to the tapestries like parasites.
Alistair sat slouched upon his throne, a goblet already in hand though the sun had yet to rise. His eyes were sharp despite the wine, cold as the steel blade resting across his lap.
"Boy," the Duke rasped, voice gravel and disdain. "You've played at wit. You've stirred whispers. The nobles laugh, and you think yourself clever. Let us see how clever you are with blood."
He lifted the cup in signal. Guards dragged forward two men, bound and gagged, their faces bruised. Mud clung to their torn clothes. One wept silently. The other glared with defiance.
"Thieves," Alistair said. "Caught stealing grain from my stores. The people wail for mercy. My captains demand punishment. Tell me, boy—" his smile cut like a knife, "—which do they deserve?"
The hall hushed, silent but for the ragged breath of the prisoners.
Rowan knew. This was no lesson in justice.
It was a trap.
A test.
Part II – The Choice
Rowan studied the prisoners.
The first was young, hardly more than a boy, bones sharp beneath skin, eyes swollen from hunger.
The second was older, with weathered, calloused hands betraying years of toil.
His mother's words whispered in him: Never be owned. Own them first.
His father echoed darker: Mercy is weakness. Love is possession.
Rowan stepped forward, every movement deliberate. His voice, calm enough to seem rehearsed, carried across the chamber.
"My lord father," he began, bowing his head slightly. "Grain is life. To steal it is to steal breath itself. Such crime deserves no forgiveness."
The younger prisoner sobbed into his gag. The older one stared with blazing eyes.
"But…" Rowan let the word drip like venom. He turned toward the nobles assembled along the edges of the hall—silent, eager spectators. "…to kill a starving boy would be wasteful. Mercy, when wielded wisely, is also a weapon."
The Duke's brow arched, but he held his tongue.
Rowan continued, smile thin as a blade. "Hang the older one. Let the people see what awaits traitors. But send the boy to the mines. Let him crawl in darkness, knowing he breathes only because of your mercy."
The boy cried out, gag muffling his wail. The older man thrashed until the guards beat him down.
Whispers rippled through the hall. Mercy. Cruelty. Both in one.
Rowan bowed his head again, voice steady, sharpened.
"Thus, the people will both fear and love you, Father. For what is love, if not chains they clasp willingly?"
Part III – The Father's Lesson
Alistair rose, boots striking stone as he descended. His shadow fell long and jagged across the hall.
He stopped before Rowan, towering, the stench of wine heavy on his breath.
His hand came down—not in praise, but in a slap sharp enough to sting.
Rowan did not flinch.
"Do not lecture me on love, boy," Alistair snarled. "Do not weave pretty lies in my hall and think yourself master. You did not choose between life and death. You chose between two faces of cruelty. That is no wisdom. That is mimicry."
Rowan's lips curved in the faintest smile.
"And yet, Father, the hall whispers my words. Not yours."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Alistair's laugh broke loose—low, jagged, echoing off stone until torches flickered.
"You will be the death of us all," the Duke growled. "And by the gods… I almost look forward to it."
He turned, voice thundering across the chamber.
"Hang the farmer. Send the boy to the mines. Let all Veloria see that my mercy and cruelty wear the same face."
Rowan stood in torchlight, calm, unbroken. Chains clamped on strangers echoed like prophecy.
He had passed.
Part IV – The Serpent's Resolve
That night, Rowan faced the mirror.
The reflection gazed back, his cheek still marked red from his father's hand.
He touched the sting lightly. He smiled.
"I gave them fear. I gave them hope. Both tasted of poison."
The reflection smiled back—colder, sharper.
"My father would have killed them both. My mother would have cursed the guards. I did neither. I did both."
The mask was no longer an imitation. It was becoming something else. Something his father had not foreseen.
Rowan leaned closer, whispering into the glass.
"One day, Father, I will teach you what love truly is. And when I do, the world will kneel… not because it fears me…"
His smile widened, venomous, radiant.
"…but because it cannot help but love me."
The candle guttered. Shadows bled across the walls.
The serpent's fangs had tasted their first blood.