Part I – Whispers in the Dust
The coliseum was silent now, its sand raked smooth as though blood had never soaked it.
Rowan walked the empty tiers at dawn, hood low, cloak hiding fresh bandages. Every step echoed, each echo a reminder of the oath seared into his chest.
I will kill him.
But kings were not slain in the sand. They were strangled in silence.
A shadow slipped from the archway ahead—Talon, a sellsword with half his face burned black by wars the crown had forgotten. He bowed, but not to Rowan. To the coin Rowan let glimmer between his fingers.
"Gold buys silence," Talon rasped. "But men like me… we sell sharper things."
Rowan's lips curved—not the serpent's mask, but something colder. "Then sell them to me."
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Part II – The First Net
By noon, three more were drawn.
A stableboy with ears sharp as a fox's.
A chambermaid who once served Serenya, walking soundless as her mistress.
An old armorer who sharpened steel for both noble and peasant without caring whose blood it drank.
None bent the knee. None swore oaths. They only listened as Rowan spoke, his words cut like iron.
"My father's crown weighs on my spine. It must break. You are not soldiers—you are cracks in his marble. The ears in his halls. The whispers in the dark."
The chambermaid's hands trembled, but her eyes blazed. The armorer spat. Talon grinned with rotten teeth.
They were not an army. They were sparks. Rowan would scatter them into the Duke's shadow until fire caught.
Part III – Serenya's Hand
That night, Serenya came again. Veils trailing like smoke, she found him not at the mirror but at a desk, maps of Veloria spread wide, ink staining his fingers.
"You've begun," she said.
Rowan did not look up. "I cannot stop."
She circled closer, fingertips grazing the maps, pausing over the circled guard rotations and wine routes. "Do you trust them?"
"I trust hunger," Rowan murmured. "Every one of them has been starved by my father's hand. I will feed that."
Her veil brushed his cheek as she leaned in, lips too close, her hand pressing lightly to his ribs where the wound still bled beneath. His breath caught.
"Rebellion is not fed by steel alone," she whispered. "It is fed by secrets. By touch. By desire stronger than fear. You will need all three."
Rowan's gaze met hers, raw. "Then give them to me."
For a moment, silence. Her eyes lingered on his mouth. Her hand pressed harder to the wound, forcing pain into him like a test. He did not flinch.
Her laugh was a whisper, low and hungry. She withdrew.
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Part IV – Ash in the Veins
When she was gone, he sat alone with his maps. The oath echoed through him—not words now, but fire.
The Duke laughed too loudly at feasts.
Darius whispered too well in corners.
The city stirred, restless beneath banners and blood.
Rowan pressed his hand to the wound at his ribs. The pain was constant, a reminder sharper than steel.
Ash filled his veins. But in the ash, sparks glowed.
Not yet flame. Not yet war.
But soon.
From the streets below, drunken guards stumbled past, voices slurred. Beyond the walls, faint as a memory, the Nightfang howled—low, endless, unbroken.
Rowan's hand tightened to a fist.
Very soon.