Part I – The Banquet of Blades
The Duke's hall burned with firelight, tapestries swaying in the draft, goblets overflowing with spiced wine. Tonight was no ordinary feast—it was a performance, and every noble knew their part. Laughter clanged like steel, daggers of gossip flashing beneath the table's surface.
Rowan entered late, as was expected of him now. A serpent does not slither in with the herd; he coils, unseen, and strikes when eyes are upon him. The murmurs began at once.
"There he is…""The bastard who bled the Nightfang.""The smile was sharp enough to cut silk."
Rowan wore the same mask as always—warmth painted across his mouth, radiance where no warmth lived beneath. He let their whispers fill the air like smoke. He inhaled them as though they were his crown.
At the high table, Serenya Marlowe's eyes gleamed. She leaned into the Duke's ear, and though Rowan could not hear the words, he knew their shape: Let us test him.
The Duke raised his goblet, grin jagged as broken glass. "Tonight," he declared, "we will have not merely feasting. We will have a sport. A duel—not of steel, but of wit."
Laughter rippled. Faces turned to Rowan, hungry.
"And who," Alistair continued, "is bold enough to face the serpent's tongue?"
Serenya rose with liquid grace, black silk catching torchlight. "I will."
Part II – The Rules of the Game
The court roared approval. Already wagers were being laid—gold rings slid into cups, whispered promises exchanged behind fans.
Rowan's smile did not falter as Serenya approached him in the center of the hall. Her presence was a blade, her every step a challenge.
"What shall be the stakes?" Rowan asked softly.
Serenya's lips curved, sharp as a crescent moon. "A simple contest: three exchanges, each sharper than the last. The one who falters, who fails to draw blood from the hall's laughter—loses."
"And the prize?" Rowan tilted his head.
"Reputation," she said. "Yours, or mine. One serpent's mask will crack tonight."
The nobles hushed, eager. Torches hissed in silence.
Rowan bowed low, smile radiant. "Then let us dance."
Part III – The First Cut
Serenya struck first.
"You smile too often, Rowan," she purred. "If a man smiles at every shadow, the world begins to wonder what terror keeps him awake at night."
The court chuckled—light, sharp, hungry for his reply.
Rowan's smile only widened. "And if a lady strikes at every shadow," he countered, "the world begins to wonder if she cannot tell the difference between a serpent and her own reflection."
Laughter burst, rippling louder than hers. Serenya's eyes flashed, but her lips curved further. She was pleased.
"First cut to the serpent," someone whispered.
Part IV – The Second Cut
Serenya did not relent. Her next words fell like silk but cut like steel.
"Tell us, Rowan—when you bled the Nightfang, did you tremble? Did the beast see courage in your smile, or did it see a boy hiding behind a mask too heavy for his face?"
The hall stilled, the laughter sharpened into knives. Even the Duke leaned forward, watching.
Rowan's hand twitched near his goblet—but his smile remained. "Masks," he said softly, "are not a weakness, my lady. They are crowns. A king wears gold so men will kneel. I wear a smile so beasts will flee."
The court gasped, then erupted in laughter, applause, and even cheers.
The Duke's eyes glittered with something more dangerous than amusement.
Rowan bowed slightly. "Tell me, Serenya—what crown do you wear tonight? Or is your beauty crown enough?"
Her gaze did not waver. "Beauty fades. But scars endure."
The laughter quieted. A blow returned, subtle but deep. Rowan felt it land, though he did not let it show.
Part V – The Third Cut
The third exchange hung like a blade suspended.
Serenya circled him, her gown trailing like smoke. Her voice was silk, low enough to cut without effort. "You claim the serpent's fangs, but you live only because your father wills it. When the Duke tires of his pet, tell me, Rowan—who will smile then? Who will keep you from the wolf's teeth?"
The court's laughter was sharp now, cruel. Rowan felt their eyes, their hunger, their eagerness for him to falter.
He let the silence stretch. Let them think the smile would break.
Then, softly, he spoke:"When the wolf bares his teeth, he shows his hunger. When the serpent bears his smile, he shows nothing at all. Tell me, my lady—who should the hall fear more?"
The words struck like lightning. The hall erupted, nobles pounding goblets against tables, cheers rising like thunder. Even those who despised him laughed until their eyes watered.
Serenya did not flinch. Her lips curved—not in defeat, not in anger, but in recognition. She had drawn blood, and he had returned it. Neither mask cracked. Both endured.
The Duke's laughter rang jagged over them all. "Enough! My hall will not break beneath your knives."
But already, the hall had chosen. The serpent's legend swelled.
Part VI – Wolves in the Shadows
Later, when the feast thinned, Rowan slipped into shadowed corridors. His mask ached, the smile carved too long upon his face. Serenya's words clung like thorns: What terror keeps him awake at night?
Behind him, footsteps. He turned, half-expecting her.
But it was Darius Vale.
The wolf's face was carved from stone, his crimson cloak snapping with each stride. He stopped inches from Rowan, gaze burning.
"You won their laughter tonight," Darius said. His voice was steady, but hate laced every syllable. "But laughter does not win wars. Steel does. And steel will end you."
Rowan's smile was thin, venomous. "Perhaps. But until then, wolf, you will live in my shadow."
Darius's jaw clenched. He stepped back, but his vow lingered in the air. "Your shadow grows long, bastard. Too long. One day, it will choke you."
He left in silence.
Rowan exhaled, alone. His reflection glimmered faintly in a darkened window—smiling, triumphant, but cracked at the edges.
The serpent had won the dance.
But in the echo of Serenya's gaze and Darius's vow, he felt it: victories like this were daggers sharpened on both edges.
Part VII – Serenya's Reflection
High above the hall, Serenya lingered in the gallery, where torchlight barely reached. The nobles' cheers had faded to murmurs below, but she heard them still.
She stared into a blackened window, her reflection faint. No smile. No mask. Only stillness.
Rowan had endured, as she knew he would. The serpent's legend had grown again.
But she had seen the flicker. The breath that caught, the hand that trembled before he mastered it. Enough to tell her that even serpents bled—only slower than most.
"They think he cannot break," she whispered to the glass. Her fingertip traced its surface, smudging her reflection's lips. "But everything breaks. Even serpents."
Her lips curved—not mockery, not warmth. Recognition. A vow.
"When he does, I will be there. To see what face lies beneath."
She vanished into shadow, leaving only silence behind.