Part I – The Sand Unveiled
Veloria's coliseum no longer slept.It blazed.
Banners of every realm whipped from the cracked stone—Eryndral's frost-blue sigils, Kharas's crimson sunburst, Vaelmar's black tide. Nobles jeweled like idols filled the carved tiers, peasants pressed shoulder to shoulder on the crumbling rim. Trumpets split the air. Drums rattled like war.
At the center, the sand had been raked smooth, dusted with gold so that every step shimmered like a crown. A stage not of sport, but of judgment.
Rowan entered through the western gate. Cloak trailing black, blade plain steel, smile bright enough to catch every eye. Cheers and jeers clashed like thunder around him.
"The serpent!" peasants cried."The bastard!" nobles spat."The one who makes monsters kneel!" the mob howled.
Above, Alistair rose in his gilded box, goblet raised. His voice cracked the roar.
"Veloria bares her fangs to the world. My son will show you that even kings may kneel to a bastard's smile."
Laughter, awe, hatred—boiling together.
The sand waited.
Part II – The First Blade
The frost-knight of Eryndral stepped forward, helm crowned with antlers of ice, blade etched in runes smoking with cold.
"To honor," he intoned.
Rowan bowed lower, smile glimmering. "To victory."
The clash thundered. Frost met fire, steel against speed. Rowan yielded ground, weaving like water, every retreat a lure. His bandaged side seared, but his lips curved brighter.
The knight swung to shatter bone. Rowan slipped beneath, blade kissing the helm just enough to send it askew.
Gasps. A knight of Eryndral stripped of dignity by a whisper of steel.
Rowan bowed. Smile radiantly. "One."
The crowd roared.Above, Darius Vale's jaw clenched.
Part III – The Desert's Fire
The horse-lord of Kharas entered next, cloak a storm of red, scimitar curved like flame. He did not bow.
"You smile like a coward," he snarled. "Let us see it last against fire."
He struck like wind—fast, brutal, each blow a blaze. Rowan's wrists screamed against the force, sword near torn from his hands. The crowd leaned forward, tasting his fall.
Rowan staggered—then laughed, sharp and carrying.
"Strike harder," he said, grin gleaming. "You are not the first beast to bear teeth at me."
Fury broke the horse-lord's guard. One slip, one twist—sand sprayed. His scimitar clattered to the ground.
The arena erupted. Half awe, half rage. Rowan bowed. "Two."
From the noble tiers, Serenya Marlowe leaned forward, lips curving faintly. He bleeds, yet still he coils.
Part IV – The Tide of Lies
The Vaelmar lord stepped onto the sand, pale and tall, blade black as ink. His voice was a whisper.
"Every smile hides a lie."
Rowan bowed flawlessly. "Then I am the greatest liar alive."
Their duel was shadow against shadow. No thunder, no blaze—only silence, feints aimed at wrists, eyes, pride.
Rowan turned each miss into theater: ducking with a flourish, spinning with a grin, drawing laughter and cheers until the duel belonged not to Vaelmar, but to him.
When he struck, it was not to kill but to disarm—sending the black blade clattering across the sand.
He raised it in salute, then dropped it back at his opponent's feet. "Three."
The mob screamed his name. Nobles whispered louder than ever. The serpent had faced frost, fire, and shadow—and still smiled.
Part V – The Wolf's Teeth
The trumpet sounded. A fourth figure entered.
Darius Vale.
Crimson cloak trailing, blade gleaming silver, grin like a wound. He bowed only to the crowd.
"No beasts tonight," he called. "Only wolves."
The arena roared. The Duke leaned forward, hunger bright. Serenya's gaze sharpened.
Rowan inclined his head, smile razor-thin. "Then let them see whose fangs cut deeper."
Steel shrieked. This was no pageant. Darius struck to kill, each blow venom. Rowan's smile glimmered, but blood slicked his bandages, the coil of pain tightening.
Every strike echoed beyond the sand—foreign kings judging, peasants screaming, nobles wagering, Serenya watching, Alistair waiting.
The serpent parried, sidestepped, bled, smiled. Always smiled.
The wolf and the serpent locked eyes. Neither yielded.
Not yet.
Part VI – The World's Gaze
A trumpet cut the clash before blood could finish it.
"The first day ends," the herald cried. "Veloria's serpent stands unbroken."
The mob howled. Foreign banners flared. Whispers twisted into legend.
Rowan bowed low, blood seeping through silk, smile flawless.
Above, Alistair laughed loud enough to shake the stone.Darius's eyes burned with promise.Serenya whispered, too soft for any ear but her own: "How much longer can it hold?"
And beyond Veloria's walls, faint but clear, the Nightfang's howl rose.
Low. Endless. Unbroken.
The serpent's mask gleamed brighter than ever—But the coil beneath pulled tighter, sharper, nearer to the breaking point.