rafael salazar / d7 / (fin)

When he was a young thing, his most beloved story was the dark tale of the basilisk.

It was always a good night when his mother told them this by the hearth, firelight woven through her dark hair, Esmeralda Salazar appearing soft – a rarity. The basilisk was a serpent known for petrifying prey using its mere gaze and slaughtering them later, a cruel and cut-throat animal, one with no regards for mercy. It was ruthless, not in the way of young, vicious snakes – but in the way of powerful, feared vipers.

Granted, the macabre story was not one composed for small children, but to their mother, they were never that. Since birth, he was a creature of the dark: hair the color of cut obsidian, eyes the color of a winter sky whose stars had been plucked out. And as he grew up, Rafael became the heir of it, loved by the darkness. He liked to believe that Esmeralda told them the tale of the basilisk in hopes that Rafael would become it one day.

After all, wasn’t he the best of all her children?


One could bring up Cayetana to counter that point, but what was she but all ruthlessness? That was not what a snake should be; no matter how effortlessly Cayetana could beat him up in the fighting ring – and she, unfortunate to his ego, had – she was lacking in all the other talents he had, a list too long to be named in any form.

If anyone of them embodied a serpent truly well, it would be his uncle Valentino.

Rafael’s admiration for Valentino was as intricately hidden as his dislike for Jacinta, meaning it was not hidden at all, in any way. Who wouldn’t admire the man? All modicums of grace and charm, Valentino was the serpent lying under the flower – someone he knew would make the Salazars the crowning glory of seven. Valentino was the basilisk he wanted to be. His ego had enough strength for him to confess that he’d stolen many things from the man: his gait – brisk, calculated steps, hands clasped behind the back; his mannerisms; his clothing style; his charm.

After all, if something were to happen to Valentino, the Salazar throne was all his.

More often than not, he’d heard himself referred to as ‘proud’ by others – but isn’t that what all jealous hearts say? Proud was another word for perfect; the leers were just because he was the chosen heir to the Salazar fortunes. The details were a tad hazy and of course, it had never been outright mentioned – but it was clear: Rafael Salazar was meant to be the head of this empire one day, a basilisk that would turn the entire world to stone before devouring it whole.

The worst thing he’d been referred as, was an ourobours: a snake eating its own tail. A boy fed on by his own pride. How preposterous. Not true, whatsoever – absolutely not. Rafael Salazar was not proud, he was just smugly aware of his own strengths. It wasn’t a normal childhood that Esmeralda let them have; there were no playmates in young Rafael’s past, only trainers that taught him how to properly load a gun. He was weaned on a regular diet of lessons on how to be a Salazar – vicious, cruel, and above all, always the ones with the power in the end.

Rafael’s dislike for Jacinta stemmed from that, because she was the one who ended up with the crown in the end and yet here she was, abandoning the family for doe-eyed Mackenzie Pryce. A queen, running away from her throne to be ordinary. It confused him to no ends. Salazars were made for power but here she was, refusing it.

And fuck, what if he was proud?

The world demanded him to be. Pride was what only the powerful could have – it was a hallmark of his own greatness, an emblem to his prominence. The name Rafael Salazar would slither its way onto everyone’s tongue, no matter whether it was in a good or a bad way. Seventeen and Rafael had already built a myth around himself, like that of the basilisk, and with a heart full of rattlesnakes and cut-throat ambition — he was coming for that throne.