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The night had settled deep over the manor when Francesco finally relented to my gentle insistence.

“You can’t keep carrying this silence as if it will protect me,” I told him earlier, when we stood together in the garden. “If the world whispers about your family, then let me hear the truth from you. From your lips. Not theirs.”

He had gone still, his dark eyes shadowed, before he answered with a sigh that felt pulled from centuries, not merely years. “It is not a story for softness, amore mio. It is a story of blood.”

And yet, hourster, I found myself sitting cross–legged with him before the fire in our chamber, a nket tangled over both of us, the world shrunk to the glow of me and the steady weight of his presence. fnaaf0 Official source is FιndＮovel/fnaaf0

His hand was warm on mine, grounding me, as he finally began to speak of the name everyone feared but never exined: Lycaon.

More than a hundred years ago, long before I was even a thought, the westernnds of Europe were a battlefield.

Not for human kings–they squabbled in their castles and thought themselves masters–but for the creatures who ruled the night.

The Lycans.

They were not like the scattered werewolf packs of now. They were empires unto themselves, bloodlines traced back to the First Wolf. Power older than kingdoms, older than cities, ran in their veins. And of all those dynasties, none was feared more than the Lycaons.

Their seat of power was a fortress carved into the cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean, where the sea beat itself bloody against the rocks but never won. That was where King Totti Lycaon ruled, Francesco’s father.

I had to stop him there. The name–Totti, like his middle name. It was almost disarming, too ordinary for the shadowed weight with which he spoke it. Francesco’s mouth softened as he exined.

“He was not gentle, my father. But he was… fair. To our people, he was a pir. To our enemies, he was a storm they could not predict. He believed in strength, but he also believed in loyalty. He taught me that.”

My chest warmed at the faint reverence in his tone.

For all the pain that story would bring, I knew he still carried pride for his father.

And then he told me about the twins. About himself, and his brother.

I never thought he had twins, that there’s two of him.

Francesco and Franco.

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Two boys who looked so alike even their mother sometimes mixed them up when they were infants. But simrity ended with the face.

Franco, the elder by minutes, wasughter and arrogance and fire. He basked in the adoration of courtiers, the whispers of servants, the eyes of women who wanted to be chosen by a prince of the Lycaon line. He knew how to charm, how to twist a word, how to make himself seemrger than life.

Francesco, the younger, was silence. Not shy silence–deliberate, weighty silence. He watched where Franco spoke. He studied while Franco danced. He trained with weapons until sweat blinded him, then trained more. And when the manor library fell quiet, he was there in the corner with a book, teaching himself histories no tutor ever assigned.

“The people feared me even then,” he said, a rueful tilt at his mouth. “Because I did not smile as my brother did. Because I did not seek their praise. They thought I was cold. Perhaps I was.”

I leaned closer, pressing my forehead against his temple. “Not cold. Just deep.”

He did not answer, but his thumb traced slow circles over my palm as he went on.

It was Franco who thrived at court, but it was Francesco whom their father trusted. King Totti was not blind- he saw through Franco’s performance. Charm wins a room, but discipline wins wars. When Totti took counsel, he brought Francesco. When an enemy needed to be made example of, it was Francesco who carried the de.

“They called me the Executioner even then,” he said softly.

I flinched. That title, whispered even now in fear, belonged to the man I loved?

But then I understood: he had never been Executioner because of cruelty. He was Executioner because he obeyed, because he bore what others could not stomach. Because silence, in a world that worshipped noise, became terrifying.

And in the shadows of that, Franco’s envy grew like rot.

The turning point came the day Franco overheard a conversation not meant for him.

Totti had spoken with his Beta,te at night, in the strategy hall. The war against the Eastern packs was heating, and session was on his mind. Franco, arrogant and impatient, had lingered outside.

And he heard it:

“Francesco will inherit. He is steady. He will not falter.”

Not Franco, not the elder.

But Francesco.

And from that night, Franco’sughter grew sharper. His arrogance deepened into cruelty. Where once he basked in attention, now he demanded it. Where once he teased his brother, now he mocked him with

venom.

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And worse–he began to plot.

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I could almost isee /iit as Francesco described it: the way Franco started using their resemnce like a weapon.

He impersonated Francesco, whispered poisonous words to courtiers, left trails of mistrust that always pointed back to the silent twin. If a servantined of being threatened, it was Francesco’s face they swore to. If an Alpha ally spoke of insult, it was Francesco’s voice they imed to hear.

Francesco, too disciplined to defend himself with excuses, simply bore the weight. His silence was read as guilt. His efficiency as ruthlessness. Franco’s lies wove the myth of Francesco the cold–hearted butcher long before he earned the title in truth.

“My father knew,” Francesco said, his jaw tightening. “He knew Franco yed games. But he thought blood was thicker than envy. He thought a twin would never strike a twin.”

His voice went quiet then, and I knew the rest of the story would not end in trust.

By now, the werewolf packs of Europe were restless.

They had lived in fear of Lycan dominance for centuries.

Franco, clever and ambitious, whispered to them: Why follow a family that sees you as lesser? Why not rise, and put a wolf where a Lycan sits?

He courted witches, too, dabbling in power Totti had forbidden. Forbidden because it never came without a price.

Francesco trained, fought, obeyed, while Franco conspired.

The fracture widened.

And in the middle of it all, Francesco grew into the man before me: feared for his silence, mistrusted for his brother’s sins, yet carrying himself with the unbending discipline of his father’s son.

I looked at him across the firelight and saw the shadow of that boy–the one who had been given the sword instead of the smile, the one who had carried loyalty like a burden.

“My love,” I whispered, pressing my lips to his hand. “I see you. Not the whispers. Not the mask Franco painted. You.”

His shoulders eased, a fraction. The faintest flicker of relief moved through the bond.

And still, I knew this was only the beginning.

Because Franco’s envy was not done.

Because this was only the first chapter of how a family that ruled the night began to tear itself apart.

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