Part I – The Banners Arrive
Veloria had not seen such color in a generation.
From the north rode the knights of Eryndral, armor etched with frost-runes, banners snapping like shards of a winter sky. From the desert came the horse-lords of Kharas, cloaks blazing red as sunrise, scimitars curved like fire caught in steel. Across the sea, the pale lords of Vaelmar disembarked beneath black sails, their eyes cold as the tide, their blades said to drink not wine but souls.
The Tourney of Crowns was no sport. It was theater—kingdoms weighing one another not by treaties, but by blood spilled in the sand.
At Veloria's gates, whispers burned like wildfire:The bastard son faces kings.The serpent who tamed a beast will tame princes next.Or die before the world's eyes.
Rowan stood on the palace steps as the banners paraded past. His smile gleamed flawless. Beneath the cloak, his bandages still bled.
The serpent was no longer Veloria's alone. Now the world would watch if he could coil—Or if he would break.
Part II – The Wolf in Shadow
Darius Vale rode at dawn, crimson cloak dragging like a wound across the cobblestones.
To the arriving lords, he bowed, voice honeyed, smile sharp. He whispered poison tailored to each ear.
To the frost-knights of Eryndral, proud of their steel: "Do not be deceived. He fights with tricks, not honor."To the princes of Kharas, who prized strength: "He bleeds too easily. His smile hides weakness."To the lords of Vaelmar, who loved lies best: "The greatest lie is believing him true."
Every bow was a knot in the snare.
Let foreign eyes see Rowan not as a legend, but a fraud. Let them enter the Tourney already whetted against him.
When the serpent fell, Darius would not merely rise as Veloria's wolf—He would rise crowned by the world.
Part III – The Lady's Game
Serenya Marlowe hosted no feasts, no tournaments. She preferred quieter halls.
Her estate was a house of glass and shadow, mirrors catching torchlight until every guest saw their own face multiplied, suspicious, watching.
She greeted envoys in black silk, voice soft, words like daggers slid between ribs. She never spoke Rowan's name. Instead, she spoke of masks, of truths cracking under pressure.
"Every champion wears a mask," she told a northern envoy. "The question is not who fights—but who dares to be seen when the mask breaks."
The envoy left unsettled. The rumor spread.
Serenya smiled at her mirrors. Rowan's mask was strong, yes—but not unbreakable.
And she alone would glimpse the man beneath before the world tore him apart.
Part IV – The Duke's Web
In the great hall, Alistair feasted his guests like a conquering king. Wine spilled like rivers. Meat rose in the mountains. He laughed loudest when toasts were raised to his serpent.
But later, when the fires dimmed, he whispered his truer orders.
To one knight: "Strike him hard. Bleed him well. But do not kill."To another: "Lose with honor—but make him bleed."To his captains: "Guard him with spears. But never so close he forgets he bleeds."
Rowan was his weapon. But no weapon should believe itself a king.
So Alistair spun the web: every cheer bound to Veloria, every victory another chain disguised as glory.
And if the serpent ever forgot?The wolf waited. The leash waited.
The chain would snap tight until Rowan could not breathe without his father's hand.
Part V – The Serpent's Quiet
That night, as drums from the desert and horns from the north echoed through Veloria's streets, Rowan returned to his chamber.
The cracked mirror still leaned against the wall. Its shards caught the lamplight, splitting him into a hundred smiling pieces.
He stared at them. In those splinters, he saw a hundred fates—one bled, one bowed, one laughed, one died.
And one—just one—stood free, smiling not for crown nor crowd, but for himself.
He touched the glass. Blood smeared his reflection.
Outside, the city sang foreign songs. Beyond the walls, as if mocking every trumpet and drum, the Nightfang howled—low, endless, unbroken.
The sound rattled Rowan's bones.
He smiled into the glass. His reflection smiled back, sharper than ever.
The storm had gathered.