Part I – The Duke's Decree
The great bell of Veloria tolled at dawn, iron and thunder shaking the city awake. Crowds flooded the square below the palace walls—nobles draped in silk, peasants in rags, all craning toward the high balcony.
Alistair appeared in crimson and gold, crown tilted like a blade across his brow. Behind him stood Rowan, cloaked in black, the serpent's smile gleaming though the bandages beneath still burned.
The Duke raised his goblet. His voice carried like steel hammered against stone.
"Veloria has feasted on whispers long enough. Now the world shall drink our song. My son, my serpent, will bear our banner in the Tourney of Crowns. Before kings, before dukes, before every rival throne, he will show them that even monsters kneel to Veloria's will!"
A roar shook the city—cheers, jeers, awe, hatred. Gold coins spun into the air, merchants shouting wagers before the decree had cooled. Children screamed his name as though in prayer.
Rowan bowed low, smile radiant. Inside, the leash pulled tight around his throat.
Chains disguised as laurels.
The serpent bowed to the crowd—and the crowd bowed back.
Part II – The Wolf's Poison
Darius Vale did not join the roar.
He stood in the shadows of the cathedral steps, crimson cloak drawn close. The mob surged around him, faces flushed with feverish devotion. Devotion is not for him. For the bastard.
Every cheer was another blade in his chest.
"Did you hear?" a merchant gasped beside him. "They say the serpent tamed the Nightfang with nothing but his smile. That the beast followed him like a hound!"
Darius turned, voice soft as venom. "And if I told you it was a lie?"
The merchant frowned. "A lie?"
He leaned closer, whisper sharp as a dagger. "A trick. A cage loosened, a beast drugged, a smile staged for the mob. You think monsters bow to bastards? Or do you think bastards bow to their father's coin?"
The merchant's eyes widened. The poison seeped deep.
Darius smiled grimly. Not all wars were fought with steel. Whispers were sharper. He would seed doubt, rot the serpent's mask from within.
By the Tourney's dawn, the crowd would still cheer—but cheer through their teeth.
And when the mask cracked, Darius would be there to rip it open.
Part III – The Lady of Glass
While wolves wove poison, Serenya Marlowe moved with silk.
Her carriage rattled through Veloria's lower districts, where alleys stank of rot and taverns thrummed with rumor. She wore no jewels, no guards—only a veil of black gauze that let her glide unseen among commoners.
In a tavern thick with smoke, she listened.
"The serpent bleeds monsters!""No, he bargains with them!""He smiled and the beast fled—""He smiled because his father made it flee!"
Every tale contradicts. Every voice sharper than the last. The myth is swelling too large for its own skin.
Serenya traced her goblet, eyes gleaming behind the veil. Legends did not need to be shattered; they cracked themselves with pressure.
And Rowan—Rowan had chosen to let the beast live. A choice. A mercy. Or a weakness.
She whispered to herself, "When the mask breaks, it will not be steel that shatters it. It will be true."
The tavern roared on. Serenya smiled, a thorn blooming in the dark.
Part IV – The Chains in Silk
That evening, Rowan stood before his father again.
The Duke's chamber reeked of wine and iron. Alistair leaned against the map of the realms, crimson spilling across borders like blood.
"You will wear my banner," the Duke rasped. "You will bleed in the Tourney. You will make kings bow to Veloria. And when they cheer you, they cheer me."
Rowan inclined his head, smile flawless. "As you command."
Alistair's hand shot out, seizing his son's jaw. His grip was iron.
"Do not mistake this for choice. You are no hero. You are no king. You are the leash by which I drag wolves. The day you forget it is the day I set the wolf upon you."
Rowan's jaw ached, but his smile gleamed brighter. "Then let the leash glitter, Father. They will still bow."
Alistair's eyes burned—hatred, pride, hunger, indistinguishable. He shoved him away.
Chains in silk. Chains that tightened with every cheer.
Part V – The Serpent Alone
When the torches dimmed and silence cloaked the palace, Rowan slipped into his chamber.
The cracked mirror still leaned against the wall, shards glinting like knives across the floor. His reflection smiled back—fractured into a dozen radiant pieces.
He touched the bandage at his side. He touched the bloodstain that never seemed to fade.
"They will send me to kings," he whispered. "They will bind me in laurels. They will crown me in chains."
The reflection's smile gleamed sharper. Too sharp.
"And still," Rowan whispered, forcing the mask upon his lips, "I will smile."
Beyond the city, the Ashenwild howled. The Nightfang's voice rose again, low, endless, unbroken.
It carried into the city, into Rowan's bones, into his dreams.
The serpent's coil tightened.
And the knives were already waiting.