Part I – The Stage of Eyes
Veloria's coliseum had slept for decades, its stone cracked, its sand clotted with weeds. But tonight it woke—torches flaring, banners of every noble house unfurled, the air thick with smoke and hunger.
The city came in waves. Nobles glittered in their jeweled tiers, goblets catching firelight. Peasants crowded the crumbling benches above, pressed shoulder to shoulder, their voices rising like a storm.
The Duke had commanded a spectacle. Veloria obeyed.
At the heart of the arena, the cage waited. Its bars bent inward from strain, gouged deep by claws. Chains rattled. Shadows moved within, low growls shivering the air.
The Nightfang.
It remembered.
Rowan entered through the western gate. No cloak, no finery. Only plain steel in his hand and his face bared to every eye. His pulse roared in his ears, but his stride did not falter.
"The serpent walks," peasants whispered."The bastard faces it again," nobles sneered."Will he smile when it eats him?" someone jeered.
Rowan smiled. Always the smile.
Above, Alistair rose in his box, goblet raised. "Veloria! Tonight you will see if my bastard's mask holds when the beast tears it away!"
The cage door groaned.
The howl that followed silenced even Veloria.
Part II – The Howl and the Smile
The Nightfang stalked into torchlight—scarred, limping, one eye clouded, jaw twisted where Rowan's blade had cut. It carried its wounds like banners.
It saw him. Recognition burned in its one good eye.
Rowan bowed, lips curved. "We meet again."
The beast lunged.
Steel met claw. Sparks leapt. Rowan staggered back across the sand, arms shuddering from the force. He yielded ground like water, retreating but never breaking.
The crowd screamed, half terror, half awe.
Above, Serenya leaned forward, her lips shaping a single word.Reveal.
Part III – Blades of Shadow
The fight raged in bursts. Claw and fang against darting steel. Rowan bled from his side, crimson soaking his shirt. Gasps rippled—followed by mocking laughter.
"See how the serpent bleeds!" nobles cried.
But from the high benches came a shout: "See how he smiles still!"
The crowd divided—mockery and devotion, scorn and worship. Each drop of blood fed the myth.
In the Duke's box, Alistair drank deep, eyes unreadable: pride, hatred, hunger, amusement. Darius Vale leaned forward, hand tight on his sword, as though the beast's fangs alone would not sate him.
Part IV – The Coil Tightens
The Nightfang struck again, claws raking sparks from stone. Rowan tumbled, sand in his teeth, blood hot in his hands. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped—then he forced himself upright, wiping crimson from his lips.
He raised his blade in salute to the beast. And he smiled.
The crowd roared as though he had won already.
The Nightfang circled, chest heaving. Its one good eye glowed red in the firelight. Not hunger alone. Recognition. Hatred. Something that almost resembled respect.
Rowan whispered so only he could hear: "Remember me. Fear me."
Part V – Serpent and Wolf
The beast lunged once more. Rowan waited—then sidestepped in the last instant, steel grazing its flank. Blood spilled hot onto the sand.
The Nightfang reared back, howling. The sound rattled bones, shook stone, shook Rowan's very breath.
And in that how, he heard more than the beast. He heard his father's jagged laughter. Serenya's whisper. Darius's vow. Every rival's shadow bound into one cry.
"Kill it!" nobles screamed."Finish it!" peasants shouted.
Rowan lowered his sword. His smile curvesharplyer. He stepped closer to the wounded beast, unarmed but unbroken.
The Nightfang froze, blood dripping from its chest, heaving. Its eye met his. For a long moment, boy and monster stared—predator to predator.
Then the beast limped back. Into the shadow. Into silence. Its final howl carried out into the night, long and unbroken.
The arena held its breath.
Part VI – The Crown of Whispers
Alistair rose, wine spilling down his hand. For a heartbeat, his face betrayed him—astonishment.
Then his laughter tore the silence.
"The serpent smiles," he roared, "and even monsters bow!"
The arena erupted—nobles pounding goblets, peasants screaming, guards rattling their spears. Rowan bowed low, blood soaking his side, his smile radiant, venomous.
Serenya's gaze gleamed. Not mockery. Not defeat. Something like reverence. "He reveals," she whispered.
Darius Vale's grip whitened on the railing. "No," he hissed. "He steals." His vow darkened. "And I will tear it back."
The bastard was no longer a whisper. He was a crown carved into Veloria's bones.
Part VII – The Serpent's Cost
When the arena emptied, Rowan staggered back to his chamber, blood seeping through bandages.
The mirror awaited. His reflection smiled back, perfect and radiant.
But his body told another truth—trembling hands, fire in his wounds, weakness clawing at his chest.
He pressed his forehead against the glass. "They cheer me. They fear me. They believe in me."
The reflection's smile widened—too wide, sharper than his own.
"But I bleed."
He closed his eyes. The roar of the crowd thundered still in his ears. And beneath it, from the Ashenwild beyond Veloria's walls, the Nightfang howled again—low, endless, unbroken.