Part I – Smoke and Tongues
Veloria's Whisper Market was not drawn on any map. It lived in twisting alleys where torch smoke clung to the eaves, in taverns where secrets were worth more than gold, in corners where shadows carried news faster than messengers.
Rowan moved through it veiled in a plain cloak, though disguise was folly here. The Whisper Market saw everything. Every beggar's cough, every coin's clink, every mask worn too carefully.
Gamblers hunched over dice, curses rolling with the cubes. A boy juggled knives for scraps, the blades flashing like hungry teeth. Painted courtesans leaned in doorways, eyes bright and merciless. All fell silent when Rowan passed.
Silence was worse than jeers. It meant they already knew.
The serpent walks.The bastard bled the Nightfang.He shamed a Vale in the Duke's hall.
Beneath the hood, Rowan's smile was faint—but unbroken.
Part II – The Legend of the Serpent
At a stall that stank of onions and sour wine, a bard strummed a broken lute, voice hoarse with drink.
"They say he faced the beast with nothing but a smile," the bard croaked. The crowd jeered in delight.
"Nay—he cut it down and wore its pelt!" someone shouted back.
"No," a woman argued, slamming her mug. "He tamed it. Walks the forest now with a Nightfang at his side."
Every tale contradicted the last, yet each built higher, louder, heavier. Rowan listened, mask fixed, heart tightening beneath it. His silence was the mortar of their myths.
And in that silence, a question gnawed: was he still shaping the tale, or had the tale begun to shape him?
Part III – The Knife in the Crowd
A hand darted too near his purse. Rowan's grip snapped down, catching the wrist. A boy no older than ten froze, eyes wide, expecting the blow.
"Thief," someone spat.
Rowan's smile softened—bright, false, terrifying. He drew a silver coin from his cloak and pressed it into the boy's palm.
"Keep your hands quicker," he murmured. "The next man will not smile."
Gasps rippled. In one gesture, he was generous, cruel, unpredictable. The crowd murmured louder.
From the shadows, a cloaked figure watched. They did not drink, did not speak, did not jeer. And when Rowan's eyes met theirs, they slipped into the smoke.
A warning tightened in his chest. Not all whispers served him.
Part IV – The Broker of Shadows
At the heart of the market lay the perfumed den of Mistress Kora, the Whisper Broker. She sat swathed in silks, jeweled veil glinting, eyes sharp as razors honed on bone.
"Veloria sings your name," she said as he approached. "But songs are like rivers. They can flood—or they can drown."
Rowan bowed low, smile polished. "And which am I, mistress? Flood or drowning?"
Her laughter chimed like coins. "Both. But every song has a price." She leaned closer, voice soft as a blade's kiss. "Shall I feed the serpent's legend—or shall I starve it?"
For a heartbeat, Rowan wavered. To silence the myths was to lose power. To feed them was to lose control.
His mask did not crack. "Feed it. Let them dream louder."
Kora's veil curved, a smile of her own. "As you wish. But remember, serpent whispers are fickle lovers. They stay only until a sweeter song arrives."
Part V – Shadows in Pursuit
The market thinned behind him, but the whispers did not.
Bastard.Serpent.Thief of names.
Stones clattered in the alley. Rowan turned, dagger ready. Nothing but smoke.
The wolf was not here. The mirror was not here. But their shadows were.
He walked faster, cloak snapping in the wind. His legend had grown another root tonight. Stronger, deeper. But also more tangled.
Above Veloria, the Duke's banners cracked like whips in the dark. In the market, commoners spun new tales that twisted with each telling.
And in the Ashenwild, the Nightfang howled again—closer, louder, unbroken.
Part VI – Other Shadows
Far from the market, Darius Vale tightened his sword-belt. The whispers reached even his house, carried by servants who thought themselves unseen. Each tale was another stone on his chest.
"He bleeds beasts.""He breaks nobles.""He smiles, and the world bends."
Darius's blade struck the training post again and again, sparks hissing. But no steel could wound a story.
And in her chamber, Serenya Marlowe sat in silence, fingers tracing the rim of a goblet. The echoes of Rowan's smile lingered in her mind. She whispered to herself—not prayer, not curse, but certainty.
"Legends are masks. Masks always crack.