Part I – Feast of Masks
The Duke's hall burned with firelight, goblets overflowing, every noble's tongue sharpened. The feast carried weight—expectation, hunger, danger.
Rowan entered late, always late, smile in place. Whispers bloomed as he passed:
"There he is—the bastard who faced the Nightfang."
"They say the beast fled at his grin."
"No, he wounded it—left it limping back to the wild."
He smiled at each nod, each bow. Each touch on his sleeve was another weight pressing against the mask.
At the high table, Serenya Marlowe's gaze found him. Her lips curved faintly, not kind, not cruel. Curious. Measuring.
Beside her, Darius Vale burned in silence. A wolf is waiting.
Rowan bowed to his father. The Duke studied his goblet as though wine amused him more than blood.
The hall simmered, waiting for the game.
Part II – The Duke's Game
At last, Alistair rose. His voice cracked the hall.
"You chatter like hens. Whispers of bastards, beasts, and smiles. You make my hall a theater."
Torches hissed. Silence choked the air.
"Very well. Let it be theater."
He raised his goblet. "Veloria will have its spectacle."
The doors boomed open. Guards dragged in a cage of iron. Chains rattled. The stench of rot filled the air.
From the dark came a growl that froze every noble's tongue. Eyes glowed low and red.
The Nightfang.
Rowan's pulse surged, but his smile did not falter.
"You faced it once in shadow," Alistair roared. "Now face it in sthe un. Before nobles, guards, peasants, and children. Let them see if the serpent's fangs pierce true."
The hall erupted—cheers, wagers, gold clattering into cups.
Rowan bowed low. "As you command, Father."
The serpent would dance in blood.
Part III – Rivals' Eyes
Serenya's gaze lingered. She did not cheer. She only mouthed a word across the hall.
"Reveal."
Rowan's chest tightened. His smile sharpened, hiding the crack.
Darius Vale leaned back, laughter cold. At last. The bastard's mask would split. If the beast failed, the crowd would finish the work.
He whispered into his goblet, a vow etched in wine. "Die well, serpent. Or die slow."
And Alistair watched, bright with hunger. He had built the stage. Now he would see if his son lived through it.
Part IV – The Coil Tightens
The feast droned on, but Rowan heard only the beast's growl.
In his chamber, the mirror awaited him. He touched the scar on his jaw—the Nightfang's kiss.
"They want blood," he whispered. "If not the beast's, then mine."
His reflection smiled back. But not his smile.
Beyond Veloria's walls, the howl rose again. Low. Endless. Closer.
Rowan's smile sharpened, venomous. "Then let them watch. Let them whisper. I will not bleed. I will make them love me for surviving what should kill me."
The howl tore through the night.
The coil tightened.
The serpent's strike would not be in shadow.
It would be before every eye.