Part I – The Sand Awakens
The coliseum seethed like a waking god.
Veloria's dawn drowned beneath banners and drums: frost-blue horns of Eryndral clashing against the desert flutes of Kharas, Vaelmar's drums beating low and slow like a heart.
The sand had been raked smooth, gold dust scattered to catch the light—already it smelled of iron.
Rowan stepped from the western gate, cloak dark, blade plain, smile flawless. He hid the limp. He hid the tremor in his breath. To the crowd, he was untouchable. To himself, every step was a knife.
The mob roared—but not in unison. Some shouted "Serpent!" with fevered devotion. Others spat "Bastard!" with venom. Darius's whispers had done their work. Doubt slithered between cheers, sharp as fangs.
Rowan's smile did not falter. But he heard it. Felt it. The sand itself seemed to shift beneath him.
Part II – The Champion of Eryndral
The frost-knight returned—shamed from the first day, helm reforged, rune-blade burning blue with cold.
"I will carve truth from your lies," he thundered.
Their clash was no pageant. Each blow struck like an avalanche, each swing meant for bone. Rowan's wound screamed. His ribs shook. His mask quivered.
Once, the knight's blade nearly pinned him to the sand. The crowd gasped, half-cheer, half-hope of his fall.
Rowan laughed—raw, ragged, defiant. "Strike harder," he cried. "I am still smiling!"
With a feint and pivot, he tore the rune-blade loose, shards of frost scattering like stars across the arena floor.
Cheers ripped the air—but not all. Some voices hissed, some murmured. Doubt bled through awe.
Rowan bowed low, smile radiant. Inside, his ribs burned like fire.
Part III – The Blood of Kharas
The horse-lord strode forth, cloak a storm of red, scimitar raised.
"You mock beasts," he growled. "Now I am a beast."
The clash was furious. Sand sprayed, steel shrieked, blood spilled. Rowan's bandages tore, crimson blooming across silk. His wound gaped in plain sight.
The mob saw it. And for the first time—cheers faltered.
Rowan staggered. Then he raised his bloody hand high, laughing, voice cracked but soaring:
"See! Even my blood smiles for you!"
The arena froze—then erupted, half in awe, half in horror. The horse-lord faltered at the madness. Rowan struck, blade twisting, scimitar ripped from his grip.
The serpent bowed. The serpent bled. The serpent smiled.
The city howled. But whispers gnawed sharper than cheers.
Above, Serenya leaned forward, her lips parted, eyes fixed not on his sword but his smile through blood. Fascination flickered there—dangerous, reverent.
Part IV – The Duke's Hand
Alistair sat rigid, goblet trembling. His bastard stood. His bastard smiled.
But he bled too freely. Too visibly. Too human.
The Duke growled to his captains, "Keep him alive. No more. No less."
For an instant, fear passed across his face. If the leash snapped, if the mask slipped—the crowd might bow to serpent instead of crown.
Part V – The Wolf's Shadow
In the shadows of the noble tier, Darius Vale smiled thinly. His crimson cloak gleamed, his whispers spread like smoke.
"See how he staggers," he told the Vaelmar envoy."See how the bastard bleeds behind his grin," he told the northern knights.
And the lords nodded. Some with smirks, some with scowls. Doubt had teeth now.
The serpent was still a legend. But a fraying legend. And when legends fray, wolves devour them.
Part VI – The Serpent Alone
When banners lowered and torches dimmed, Rowan staggered into his chamber.
The mirror shards awaited. His reflection grinned a hundredfold.
He pressed his hand to his ribs. Blood leaked between his fingers. His smile trembled.
"They cheer," he whispered. "They doubt. They bleed with me."
The reflection's grin only widened—mocking, merciless.
"And still I smile."
From the Ashenwild, the Nightfang howled—low, endless, unbroken. The sound vibrated in his bones, in his wound, as though the beast still lived inside him.
The serpent bled.The serpent smiled.The mask pulled tighter.
And the coil drew nearer to breaking.