Part I – The Wound
Rowan staggered into his chamber long after the torches of the coliseum had died.
The cheers still rang in his skull—louder in silence than they had in the sand. His cloak clung damp with sweat, his shirt dark with blood that refused to stop seeping from his side. He pressed his palm against it and felt the warmth spill through his fingers.
The cracked mirror greeted him. Always there. Always smiling.
He tore away the bandages. His ribs bloomed purple, his side slashed raw. He had danced through frost, fire, shadow, and wolf—but each smile had cost him more than he could pay.
He braced against the table, forcing his lips into the grin the city demanded. The smile split against the pain. His breath hitched. For a moment, the mask slipped—just enough for the boy beneath to tremble.
Then the door opened.
Part II – Serenya's Visit
Serenya Marlowe entered as if she owned the silence, veil of black gauze trailing like smoke. She was never announced. She never needed to be.
Her gaze lingered on the broken bandages, the trembling hand, the half-hidden wound. For a heartbeat, there was no court, no daggers, no mask—only a woman seeing a man bleed.
"You bleed," she said softly.
Rowan's smile slid back into place, sharp and bright. "All men bleed, my lady. Mine only sells better."
She circled him like a scholar around a rare beast, every step slow, deliberate. "You disarmed frost, flame, and shadow with a grin. Yet the wolf—" her eyes flicked to his side—"nearly devoured you."
Rowan's jaw tightened. "Nearly is not devoured."
Her hand drifted across the mirror shards scattered on the floor. She lifted one, tilting it until his fractured smile glared back at both of them.
"One day," she murmured, "the mirror will not hold."
Rowan forced a laugh, ragged in his throat. "Then pray the crowd never sees it shatter."
Part III – The Hunger Beneath
She set the shard down, slow as a dagger. "The crowd feeds on you like wolves. Each cheer gnaws deeper. Do you not feel it?"
Rowan leaned against the wall, grin fixed, knuckles white around his goblet. "If they gnaw, let them choke. I smile. They bow. That is enough."
Serenya tilted her head, veil brushing her cheek. "Enough for Veloria? Or enough for you?"
The words are bit sharper than any blade. His mask faltered—just for a breath, pain raw in his eyes.
Then he set the goblet aside and bowed low, smile radiant as ever. "A serpent needs no answer, my lady. Only more prey."
But his chest heaved too quickly. Blood seeped too freely. And Serenya, sharp as glass, saw it all.
Part IV – The Wolf's Echo
From beyond the palace walls came faint horns—Darius Vale, rallying foreign knights with whispered poison. The wolf is weaving his snare.
Serenya's gaze flicked to the window. "The wolf waits. The Duke tightens chains. The world sharpens its knives. And here you are, bleeding into the floor."
Rowan chuckled low, almost tender. "Alone is safer. Alone is honest."
Her eyes glimmered, dangerous. "No. Alone is when the mask cuts deepest."
For a moment, the smile faltered. For a moment, the serpent looked human.
Then he turned away, pressing his hand to the wound, mask snapping shut like steel jaws.
Part V – The Shadowed Smile
When Serenya finally left, her perfume lingered like smoke and ash.
Rowan stood before the mirror, his face split into a hundred smiling shards. Each brighter than he could bear.
He touched the glass. His hand came away bloody.
"They want a serpent," he whispered, lips trembling. "So I will smile until I drown."
Outside, the city thrummed with foreign songs. And far beyond the walls, the Nightfang howled—low, endless, unbroken.
The sound trembled in his bones, in his wound, as though the beast's breath still clawed inside him.
The serpent's mask gleamed in the shards.The boy beneath bled in the dark.