Part I – The Crack in the Crown
The Duke's hall reeked of wine and rage.
Alistair's voice thundered across marble and banners. "A captain, cut down like vermin. Do you hear the whispers? They are not of me. They are of shadows!"
His knights stood stiff, silence thick as stone. Only Darius Vale moved, pacing slow, crimson cloak whispering like smoke.
"Shadows have masters," he said softly. "And I think I know where to look."
His eyes flicked—too brief, too sharp—toward Rowan.
Rowan bowed, flawless as ever, though the bandages beneath his tunic burned. Inside, the oath pressed at his ribs like steel: I will kill him.
The Duke's gaze lingered long, venom heavy, before he spat, "Tighten the patrols. Drown the streets in steel. If rats run beneath my feet, I will crush them."
But Rowan heard it—the tremor beneath the fury. His father bled fear. At last.
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Part II – The Circle Splinters
The cellar reeked of stale wine and secrets.
Talon slammed his knife into the table. "One cut and the city stirs. Imagine two. Three. Burn their tax wagons, slit their throats in alleys. Fear is the only king."
The stableboy shook his head, pale. "Draven's blood was enough. The Duke's men sniff the streets already. We'll be caught—"
"Then run," Talon growled.
The chambermaid leaned close to Rowan, voice a whisper meant only for him. "They are cracks, like you said. But cracks widen when pressed. Too slow, and the crown fills them with gold."
Rowan said nothing, eyes fixed on the flickering lamp. Their hunger pulled one way, their fear the other. Silence weighed heavier than all their words.
At last, he spoke: "We strike again. But not loud. Not wasteful. A blade in the feast. A fire in the stores. Something that bleeds them without feeding their hunt."
The room stilled. Fear trembled. Hunger flared. And his circle bowed—not to a mask, not to a smile, but to his voice.
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Part III – Serenya's Silk
She came at midnight. She always did.
Rowan sat over maps, ink dripping rivers of black. Serenya leaned in the doorway, veils trailing like smoke, eyes glittering with secrets.
"You move quicker than I thought," she murmured.
"The leash tightens," Rowan said without looking up. "If I wait, it will choke me."
Her laugh was soft, dangerous. She circled him, fingertips brushing the edges of parchment, her perfume cutting through the iron tang of his wound.
"You speak like a king," she whispered. "But kings need more than knives. They need fire. They need hearts that burn for them."
Her hand slid to his chest, resting over the bandaged ribs. "Do you burn, Rowan? Or do you only bleed?"
For a moment, the air thickened. His breath caught, her closeness heavier than steel. Her veil brushed his lips, her words a ghost against his skin.
"Make them burn for you. And your father's crown will crumble to ash."
She pulled away before he could answer. The door whispered shut.
Rowan sat alone with maps, with her perfume, with fire swelling in his veins.
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Part IV – The Second Spark
Before dawn, the circle moved.
The chambermaid slipped poison into the Duke's feast-wines.
The stableboy loosed a mule cart into the square, scattering guards.
Talon vanished into alleys, knife thirsty.
The old armorer stoked fires that would not warm but devour.
And Rowan walked in silence, hood drawn, the oath alive in every step.
No more masks. No more leash. Soon.
From the Ashenwild beyond the walls, faint but unbroken, the Nightfang howled.
And Veloria's streets, though quiet, trembled with the scent of blood yet to come.