Part I – The Feast of Eyes
The hall was not the same.
It looked the same—torches guttering along the walls, tapestries heavy with dust and pride, servants gliding with silver trays—but every eye within it had changed.
Rowan entered in silence. Then to murmurs. Then, to a tide of gazes that clung to him like chains.
The bastard who had faced the Nightfang.The serpent who had shamed a Vale.The boy who wore smiles sharper than blades.
He felt it at once: before, the nobles had laughed at him. Now, they laughed around him, not as predator at prey, but as conspirators in a hall that had discovered something too dangerous to name aloud.
The Duke sat high upon the dais, goblet in hand, expression unreadable. His gaze flicked over Rowan once, then slid back to the wine as though his son were smoke in the air.
But the hall weighed him. Every whisper weighed him.
Rowan smiled. Always the smile. If they wanted a serpent, he would give them scales and fangs.
Part II – The Web of Whispers
He moved among them with practiced grace—accepting goblets, returning nods, feigning delight at tedious tales. Every gesture fed the fire.
"Did you hear? He bled the Nightfang.""They say it limped back into the forest, howling.""No… they say it fled because he smiled at it."
The stories multiplied like vermin in the dark. Rowan gave them nothing but his smile—no denials, no confirmations. The less he said, the more they imagined.
And behind the flattery, he felt the shift: from amusement to unease. Some nobles leaned closer, eager to bask in his light. Others leaned away, as if his presence scorched.
A merchant's wife pressed his hand too warmly. A captain of guards laughed too loudly at his smallest jest. In the corner, Lord Vale's retainers whispered with faces tight as drawn bowstrings.
Rowan drank their attention like wine—sweet on the tongue, bitter in the throat. Triumph had teeth.
Part III – The Father's Silence
At last, the Duke beckoned him forward.
Rowan climbed the dais steps, each one echoing. Alistair's eyes gleamed with something Rowan could not name—pride, hatred, amusement, or the hunger of a wolf that circles before it feeds.
"You live," the Duke said flatly.
Rowan bowed, voice smooth. "As you commanded, Father."
The Duke studied the claw laid before him, still dark with dried blood. His fingers drummed against the wood of his throne.
"The hall sings your name. They say you faced the Nightfang and smiled. They say it fled from you. Tell me, boy—did you kill it?"
Rowan's lips curved, unbroken. "No, Father. I let it live."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Alistair's gaze hardened. "Mercy?"
Rowan held his eyes. "No. Memory. Let it howl. Let every child who wakes to its cry remember there is one who faced it and lived. Fear endures longer than death."
Silence. Then—laughter, jagged and raw, spilling from the Duke's throat until it shook the torches.
"Fear, you say? Then let them fear you. You will need it."
He drank deep and waved Rowan away. The hall whispered louder than ever.
Rowan descended the steps, smile untouched. Yet inside, he felt the coil tightening. His father's silence was no longer dismissal. It was recognition. And recognition was more dangerous than hatred.
Part IV – Serenya's Thorn
Later, when the hall thinned and candles sputtered low, Serenya Marlowe found him by the high windows.
"You smile too easily," she said.
Rowan turned, mask ready. "Would you rather I wept?"
Her gaze did not shift. "The Nightfang still lives. The nobles cheer you, but the beast howls. Tell me, which frightens you more—the whispers of men, or the cry of something you could not kill?"
For a moment, Rowan faltered. Just a flicker. But her eyes caught it.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a serpent's hiss. "What frightens me, my lady, is neither. What frightens me is how clearly you wish to see me break."
Her lips curved, not in mockery, not in kindness. Something else. Recognition. A mirror's smile.
"Not break," she whispered. "Reveal."
And then she was gone, her absence heavier than her presence.
Rowan turned back to the glass. His reflection wavered, faint against the night. For the first time, he wondered if Serenya saw more of the cracks than even he did.
Part V – The Wolf's Hunger
Across the hall, Darius Vale stood silent, untouched goblet in hand.
He had watched every word, every bow, every glance. He had watched the Duke's laughter echo for Rowan, not for him. He had watched Serenya's shadow linger where his did not.
The bastard was no longer a nuisance. He was becoming a myth.
Darius's knuckles whitened until the goblet cracked. Wine spilled down his cloak like blood.
He turned and left without a word, the crowd parting before his crimson shadow. Outside, beneath the banners of his house, he whispered to the night:
"Let them crown him serpent. I will be the wolf that devours serpents."
The vow tasted of iron on his tongue.
Part VI – The Serpent's Shadow
When the feast ended, Rowan returned to his chamber. The mirror awaited him, as always.
He touched the faint scar of the Nightfang's claws along his jaw. He traced the curve of his smile.
"They cheer me," he whispered. "They fear me."
But even as he spoke, he heard Serenya's voice: The Nightfang still lives.And Darius's vow: This is not over.
For the first time, Rowan's reflection did not look like triumph. It looked like a mask cracking beneath its own weight.
Still, he smiled. Always the smile.
"The serpent's shadow," he murmured to the glass, "is longer than the serpent itself."
The candle guttered. Darkness drowned the mirror.
Outside, the Nightfang howled again—low, endless, unbroken.