Part I – Ashes of Pride
The Vale estate sprawled across the hills beyond Veloria, towers of pale stone rising above crimson banners that bled against the dawn.
Inside its great hall, smoke clung to the rafters, wine soured in the air, and Darius Vale knelt before the hearth, fists pressed into cold flagstone.
The laughter of Rowan's triumph still echoed in his skull—days old, yet fresh as an open wound.
The bastard made a fool of me.
Every time a servant stifled a laugh behind their hand, every time his goblet shattered against the table, the memory grew sharper: Rowan's smile, the nobles' delight, the Duke's silence.
Darius slammed his fist into the stone until his knuckles split and bled.
His father's voice cracked across the hall like a whip:
"You let a rat shame you before all Veloria. A Vale. Do you understand what that means?"
Darius rose, trembling with fury.
"I understand. And I swear I will see the rat crushed beneath my heel."
But Lord Vale sneered, his scarred face grim with disdain.
"You'll do nothing—unless you learn to wield more than anger. Anger makes you a child. Patience makes you a wolf."
The words bit deeper than Rowan's jeer.
Part II – The Weight of Blood
Later, Darius sat in his mother's solar, the chamber perfumed with smoke and spiced wine. Lady Maelis Vale poured for him; her beauty faded, but her eyes were keen as blades.
"You shame us, son," she said, though her tone held no venom. "The court does not whisper of Rowan's wit. They whisper of your temper. Of your blade bared before the Duke."
Darius's jaw tightened. "What would you have me do? Bow to him? Let the bastard dance upon my name?"
Maelis leaned closer, her voice a quiet snare.
"No, child. You will not bow. You will outlast. The Duke favors the serpent now—let him. Serpents grow arrogant. They strike too far. And when they do, wolves devour them."
Her hand tightened around his, nails biting into his skin.
"Do not waste yourself on rage. Shape your vengeance. Build it. The bastard will slip one day. And when he does, you will not duel him with words."
Her lips curved, sharp as steel.
"You will end him."
Part III – A Seed of Hate
That night, Darius walked the training yard, torchlight gilding the keep's high walls. The crimson banners of House Vale snapped in the wind, proud and unbroken.
His soldiers trained in silence, steel clashing in the cold air. Darius stood watching, his hand never leaving the pommel of his sword.
He thought of Rowan in his silks and shadows, sipping wine, spinning lies.
You are no wolf, Darius told himself. You are no hound at the Duke's table. You are steel. You are blood.
He drew his sword, slashing it through the night until sparks leapt. His voice carried across the yard, ringing with promise:
"One day, the serpent will bare his fangs too wide. And when he does—I will strike off his head, and the world will cheer."
His soldiers roared their assent. But in his ears, only Rowan's laughter answered.
Part IV – The Rival Forged (Revised Ending)
In his chamber, Darius faced no mirror. He despised mirrors. They reflected weakness, shame, the moment he faltered.
Instead, he knelt before the great crimson banner of his house, pressing his bleeding fist to the embroidered wolf.
"By the blood of Vale," he whispered, voice trembling with devotion. "By the pride of my name—I swear it."
He bowed his head, eyes closed, and saw Rowan's smile blaze against the darkness. Hatred filled him—vast, cold, enduring as iron.
"I will not be remembered as the fool who let a bastard mock him. I will be remembered as the man who killed the serpent."
When his eyes opened, the vow had set hard as steel.
Where Rowan gazed into the glass and saw a serpent smiling back, Darius gazed upon the banner and saw only the wolf—its jaws open, waiting for the kill.
The serpent had found his rival.
And the rival would not rest until the serpent bled.