The halls of the Castle of Morvelle were as silent as a crypt, the air thick with the weight of centuries-old secrets. At its heart stood Comte (Count) Léonard de Morvelle,
the last of his bloodline, the shadowed ruler of a vast empire stretching from Marseille to Amsterdam.
His name commanded respect.
His presence, fear.
Behind the closed doors of his estate, the whispers never ceased. They spoke of his cold, piercing baby-blue eyes, his slick black hair always groomed to perfection, his fair skin untouched by time. They spoke of his sharp mind, his words measured and deliberate—when he chose to speak at all. What he said was law, and none dared question him.
But they did not know the truth.
They did not know the boy who once wandered the blackened woods of Gévaudan, found months after the train wreck that killed his parents. They did not know of the nights spent sleepless in his grandfather's house, haunted by the scent of iron and the sound of snapping bones. They did not know the curse that stirred beneath his skin, waiting, clawing, demanding release.
They did not know what happened when the moonlight touched his flesh.
For beneath the mask of nobility, Léonard de Morvelle was no better than a beast. A hunger lurked within him, violent and insatiable, a force no man could suppress.
And soon, the world would know what he truly was.