Part I – The Net Tightens
The tavern cellar stank of wine and smoke. Rowan stood in its shadows, hood low, his circle gathered close. They were not soldiers—just scars and hunger wrapped in flesh.
Talon, the half-burned sellsword, sharpened a jagged knife on stone.
The chambermaid twirled a stolen ring of keys, her eyes quick as blades.
The stableboy shifted, too eager, too green.
The old armorer leaned on his hammer, silence heavy as judgment.
Rowan's voice was low, steady.
"Tonight we test the leash. One link only. Captain Draven. Too proud, too loyal. His blood tells the city what whispers cannot."
The stableboy swallowed. "And if we're caught?"
Rowan's lips curved faintly—not the serpent's mask, but colder. "Then they'll know Veloria bleeds."
The circle nodded. The first net was cast.
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Part II – The Hunt in the Streets
Night drowned the city in torchlight and shadow.
The chambermaid drifted through guard posts like smoke, keys clicking soft in locks.
The stableboy led a mule into the street, spilling hay and curses to draw off watchmen.
The armorer pressed blades into waiting hands, iron humming with promise.
And Talon stalked ahead, cloak low, knife hungry in the dark.
Rowan followed last. Not as king, not as son. As hunter.
They crossed alleys where piss and torchlight mixed, until the winehouse loomed—lanterns burning, laughter spilling into the street. Inside, Captain Draven drank loud enough to rattle the rafters.
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Part III – The First Kill
They struck fast.
The chambermaid slipped behind the bar, scattering glass.
The stableboy cut the lanterns—darkness drowned the room.
Talon lunged—blade to belly, twist to silence.
But Draven was no fool. He roared, swung a fist like a hammer. Talon reeled. Steel clattered. The stableboy shrieked.
Rowan moved.
His sword hissed free. Draven turned, eyes flashing, recognition sparking. "You—"
For a heartbeat, Rowan froze. This was not sand and cheering crowds. No trumpets. No father's leash. Just a man, drunk and human, staring back at him.
Then the oath burned. I will kill him.
The blade drove through his throat. Blood sprayed across wine, pooling black on the floorboards.
The laughter died. The winehouse echoed only with the gurgle of a loyalist drowning in his own blood.
Rowan stood above him, chest heaving. No mask. No smile. Only silence.
---
Part IV – The Whisper of Fear
By dawn, Veloria buzzed like a hornet's nest.
A captain of the Duke's guard gutted in a tavern. His body burned before noon, but the whispers spread faster than fire.
Some swore a phantom struck him down.
Others whispered of shadows with knives.
None spoke Rowan's name. Not yet.
But when Rowan walked the streets cloaked and hooded, he felt the air shift. The city no longer sang only of crowns and serpents. It murmured of something new.
Fear.
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Part V – The Mask of the Duke
In the highest chamber, Alistair raged.
Goblets shattered. Wine bled across maps. "One of mine—killed like a rat in his den!"
Darius Vale bowed low. "Shadows strike when walls crack, my lord. Let me loose the wolves to sniff them out."
But Alistair's gaze turned, slow and venomous, to Rowan. The bastard stood silent by the wall, bandaged still, face carved in calm.
"You walk with ghosts these days," the Duke hissed. "Do not think I do not see."
Rowan bowed, flawless. "I walk where you lead, Father."
The Duke's jaw tightened. His eyes burned long, heavy.
The leash pulled tighter.
And beneath it, Rowan's oath burned hotter.