Part I – The Fracture
The mirror shards still watched him. A hundred grins, a hundred lies, all sharper than the glass.
Rowan's hand pressed to his side, blood slipping hot between his fingers. The cheers of the coliseum had faded, but their echo clung to him—half worship, half venom. He had given them blood, and still they doubted.
And beneath it all, the howl lingered. Low. Endless. The beast's cry clawed in his ribs as though his wound were its mouth.
"Smile," he whispered to his reflection. The lips in the shards obeyed. His own trembled.
The door groaned open.
Part II – The Temptress of Ash
Serenya entered unannounced, as always. A whisper of silk, a glimmer of jeweled eyes. She crossed the chamber like a shadow that had chosen flesh.
Her gaze fell on his wound, on the blood, on the glass scattered around him. She said nothing at first. Only looked.
Rowan laughed, ragged, broken at the edges. "You should knock. Some of us prefer privacy while dying."
Her voice was soft, sharp as steel. "You're not dying. Not yet. But he will let you."
Rowan stilled. "He?"
"Your father." Her veil brushed her cheek as she tilted her head. "Every cheer feeds him. Every wound you suffer fattens his crown. And when the crowd finally tears you apart, he will drink to it."
The words cut deeper than the blade that had opened his side.
Rowan forced a grin, though it caught on his breath. "And what would you have me do? Frown at them?"
"No." She stepped closer, perfume lacing through the copper tang of blood. Her hand, cool and pale, brushed his jaw. "I would have you bare your teeth. At him."
Part III – The Poison of Doubt
Silence stretched. Only the howl in his bones remained, gnawing.
Serenya's eyes glimmered. "You could make them bow to you. Not as a mask. Not as a puppet. Not as a smile. But as the blade that cuts free."
Rowan turned from her, but the mirror betrayed him. In its shards, he saw it: his own lips quivering, his eyes raw, not grinning but glaring.
The boy beneath the smile.
For the first time, he let himself look.
Alistair's words replayed in his skull: My son will show you that even kings may kneel to a bastard's smile.
Kneel. Not to him. To his leash.
His jaw tightened. His hand clenched the shard until it bit deep.
Part IV – The Spark
"Why tell me this?" Rowan asked, voice low, unsteady.
Serenya leaned closer, lips brushing the air by his ear. Her whisper slid like silk over a blade. "Because I have no love for crowns. And I do not want to see you waste yourself smiling for his."
Her hand pressed against his wound, not cruel, but deliberate. Pain flared—white, searing. He gasped.
"Feel that?" she murmured. "That's what he takes from you. And you let him."
Her face lingered close, veil a whisper against his cheek. His breath tangled with hers—iron and smoke, blood and desire. For a heartbeat, their closeness felt more dangerous than any blade.
"You bleed, Rowan," she whispered. "Let him bleed for once."
The shard cut deeper into his palm. Blood streaked across the mirror.
And for the first time, he did not smile.
Part V – The First Oath
Rowan turned, eyes raw, voice quiet but burning.
"No more masks for him. If I bleed, it will not be for Alistair's throne."
Serenya's lips curved—not in triumph, but hunger. "Then say it."
Rowan lifted the bloody shard, fractured faces staring back. His voice shook, but it was steel.
"I will kill him."
The shard fell. The mirror shattered, glass raining like frozen stars.
The mask was gone.
And the howl in his chest no longer felt like pain. It felt like promise.