Part I – Summoned
Rowan did not sleep. The smoke of the Whisper Market still clung to his cloak, whispers still clung to his name.
Before dawn, the Duke's summons came.
Two guards pounded at his door, iron in their voices.
"The Duke commands you."
No "lord." No "sir." Just you.
Rowan's smile rose, brittle but unbroken. "Of course."
The long corridor stretched like a throat ready to swallow him. Torches were unlit, tapestries pale in half-light. This was no summons. It was judgment.
The Duke waited—not in his throne, but at a long table, goblet in hand, though dawn had barely touched the stones. His eyes glowed red in the gloom.
"Sit."
Rowan obeyed. Silence pressed heavier than stone.
Part II – The Father's Question
Alistair swirled his wine, gaze never leaving his son.
"The city sings your name."
Rowan inclined his head. "So I've heard."
"They call you serpent. They say beasts flee from you. They say nobles bleed from your tongue."
"Rumors," Rowan murmured, mask in place. "And rumors have their uses."
The goblet slammed down, crimson spilling like blood.
"And their dangers." Alistair's voice cut sharper than steel. "Do you know how many kings were slain not by swords, but by stories? Whispers sharpen blades. Whispers turn crowds into wolves."
Rowan's pulse flickered, but his mask gleamed brighter. "Then perhaps it is wise, Father, to keep the whispers close to your throne."
Alistair studied him. Pride or hatred, amusement or hunger—Rowan could not name what burned there.
Part III – The Test
The Duke rose without warning. "Come."
He led Rowan into a courtyard hidden behind high walls. Two dozen men waited—soldiers, mercenaries, and among them, Darius Vale.
Rowan's heart clenched. His smile did not.
"This," Alistair declared, "is your leash."
Laughter stirred.
"My bastard son grows fat on whispers. Let us see if he can feed them with something sharper. Not one duel. Three. Win, and your legend grows by my command. Fail—" His teeth gleamed. "Fail, and I tear the tongue from your mouth before the court."
Darius's grin was a wound.
Rowan bowed. "As you wish, Father."
Part IV – The First Blade
They gave him no armor, only a dulled practice sword. His first opponent lunged without warning, a brute twice his size.
Rowan feigned weakness, stumbling, retreating. The brute overreached. Rowan slid aside and tapped the blade against his throat.
The courtyard roared.
Rowan bowed, smile radiant. "One."
Part V – The Wolf's Teeth
The second was faster. The third worst.
But it was not the soldiers that chilled Rowan. It was the Duke's grin—watching not for skill, but for cracks in the mask.
Then came the third duel. Darius Vale.
The wolf stepped forward, crimson cloak trailing, real steel in hand, though the rules forbade it. His voice was low, venomous.
"Now the serpent bleeds."
Rowan's smile sharpened. "Then let the hall remember who drew first blood."
Steel shrieked in the courtyard. Darius pressed with brutal strength, nearly breaking Rowan's blade in every strike. Rowan yielded ground, step by step, retreating toward the wall.
Nobles murmured, hungry for blood.
Part VI – The Serpent's Coil
A line of fire split Rowan's arm. Pain seared.
"Yield," Darius growled.
Rowan staggered, smile unbroken. "A serpent does not yield. He coils."
He let Darius drive him back, then slipped aside. The wolf's own strength carried his sword into the wall, steel wedged in stone.
Rowan's blade tapped Darius's throat.
Silence. Then Alistair's jagged laughter split the air.
"The serpent coils," the Duke cried, "and the wolf chokes on his own teeth."
Cheers erupted. Nobles whispered louder than ever.
But Darius's eyes burned with hate. Rowan knew—this victory was not a leash. It was a declaration. War.
That night, Rowan's bandages bled. His reflection smiled back, cracked at the edges.
And far beyond Veloria's walls, the Nightfang howled again. Closer...