Part I – The Mirror's Bite
Rowan woke to silence.No laughter, no torches, no cheering crowds. Only the whisper of dawn seeping through the shutters.
The bandages at his side were wet again. His hand trembled as he unwound them. The wound was shallow, yet it burned as though the Nightfang's claw still dragged through his flesh.
He faced the mirror. His reflection smiled, as always—bright, flawless, untouchable.
But his lips were pale. His hands shook. His chest heaved ragged, too quick.
"You are not me," Rowan whispered.
The reflection's smile widened. I am what they see. You are what bleeds.
Fury surged. He hurled the goblet into the glass. The mirror cracked, shards scattering across the floor. One fragment sliced his palm open. Blood welled, warm and real.
Yet even through the web of fractures, the reflection still smiled—unbroken, eternal.
Rowan staggered back, clutching his bleeding hand, his breath quickening. Then, slowly, the mask slid back into place. Always the mask. Always the smile.
Part II – The Wolf's Snare
Elsewhere in Veloria, Darius Vale was already moving.
The wolf did not howl in public; he whispered in shadows. His allies were not peasants with torches but men with daggers hidden in sleeves, nobles with debts, guards whose loyalty bent with coin.
In a candlelit chamber, he spread maps of the city.
"The serpent feeds on crowds," Darius said, voice low and sharp. "So we cut his stage from beneath him. Merchants who chant his name—ruin them. Minstrels who sing his deeds—silence them. Every whisper that crowns him becomes a blade we turn on him."
One of his captains hesitated. "And the Duke? He parades the bastard like a prize."
Darius's jaw hardened. "The Duke parades him to break him. I will do the same—but first, I will make the serpent kneel. I will drag him before the same mob that worships him, rip his mask away, and split his smile from ear to ear."
The captain bowed. Plans spread like fire. The wolf was weaving his snare.
Part III – Serenya's Measure
In her chamber, Serenya Marlowe sat alone, goblet untouched. She did not scheme with daggers or wolves. Her weapons were sharper.
She replayed the arena in her mind—the serpent bowing to the beast, the beast bowing in turn. The crowd had seen victory. She had seen something else.
Choice.
He could have killed it. He had not. That mercy—or calculation-was—was a seam in the mask.
Her maid entered quietly. "My lady, the feast waits. Shall I prepare—"
"Leave me."
Serenya's gaze lingered on the candle flame. "He bleeds," she whispered. "And if he bleeds, he can break. But if he breaks…" Her lips curved faintly. "…perhaps I am the only one clever enough to see what lies beneath."
It was not mockery. Not pity. It was hunger—intellectual, dangerous.
The flame wavered. She smiled as though the fire had answered.
Part IV – The Duke's Chains
In the highest tower, Alistair drank alone.
The cheers of the city still rang through the night, carried up even to the Duke's stone seat. His bastard's name. His bastard's smile.
The goblet trembled once in his hand before he crushed it against the wall.
"No leash holds forever," he muttered. "But if I cannot leash him, I will make him chain himself."
He summoned scribes. Orders were inked by torchlight: decrees binding Rowan to the court, to feasts, to duels. One parchment bore a heavier weight than the rest—an announcement that Rowan would represent Veloria in the Great Tourney of Crowns, before foreign kings and rival dukes.
Every decree is another chain disguised as honor. If the serpent thought himself free, it would be the sweetest shackle of all.
Part V – The Serpent Alone
Rowan stood at his window, looking over Veloria. Torches still burned in the streets, though the night was deep. He could hear the faint echo of a song. His song.
The serpent smiles.The bastard bleeds monsters.Even beasts bow.
He touched his wound. He touched his jaw where the Nightfang had scarred him.
"They crown me," he whispered. "But each crown is a blade."
The reflection in the glass of the window smiled back. Always smiling. Always brighter than his own lips.
Rowan closed his eyes. The coil tightened in his chest. Around him, unseen, wolves and fire and whispers closed in.
And far beyond the city walls, from the Ashenwild, the Nightfang's howl carried again. Not weaker. Not broken.
Endless.Unyielding.Unbroken.