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The fire had burned low, the logs copsing into a bed of glowing embers.

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Francesco hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. His hand was still around mine, warm, steady, yet his eyes were turned not to me but inward, to a time that lived in him like an old scar–never fully healed, only quiet until touched.

I didn’t rush him. The silence between us was not heavy; it was waiting.

And when he finally spoke again, it came like the slow crack of ice splitting a river.

“Franco was cleverer than any of us gave him credit for,” he said.

His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the bitterness in it.

“And crueller, though we did not see it at first. My father believed blood would temper envy. I believed brotherhood would outweigh ambition. We were both wrong.”

Franco began with shadows. fn8a31 Discover more novels at fin?novel/fn8a31

He wore Francesco’s face like a mask, testing the edges of deception. At first it was small things: a careless insult tossed at a servant, a broken promise whispered to an ally, a cruel remark at court.

All of it pinned to the silent twin, who never defended himself.

“He knew I wouldn’t argue,” Francesco admitted, his eyes catching the faint firelight. “I had always been… different. Words did note as quickly to me as to him. I relied on silence, on action. He used that silence against me. Every usation I answered with quiet, and the quiet made me guilty in their eyes.”

I felt my chest tighten. I wanted to reach across the years and shake that boy, that young man who carried me like a cloak.

‘You weren’t guilty. You were just steady. They couldn’t see the difference.’

But Francesco’s voice carried me onward before I could speak.

Franco escted.

He began slipping away at night, not to taverns or beds–though he had his share of both–but to meetings with witches. They were dangerous then, as they are now, wielders of magic that gnawed at the soul.

They promised Franco what he craved most: power without patience.

“He brought their trinkets into the manor,” Francesco said, his jaw clenching. “Amulets of bone, oils that smelled of rot. My father forbade it, of course. He destroyed them when he found them. But Franco…. he only smiled and brought more.”

And with that magic, Franco whispered louder to the wolves of Europe.

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For centuries, werewolves had lived under Lycan rule. They fought in Lycan wars, bled for Lycan causes, bowed to Lycan crowns. Resentment simmered, waiting for a spark. Franco gave it one.

“He told them lies wrapped in truths,” Francesco said. “That we saw them as lesser. That our father meant to chain them forever. That the Lycaons believed themselves gods while wolves were tools.” He shook his head slowly. “It wasn’t wholly false. Our family… we were proud. But my father never treated the wolves as beneath him. He knew their value. He trusted them. He bled with them. Franco twisted that into poison.”

One by one, Alphas bent their cars. Packs who had once sworn fealty to King Totti began to waver. Whispers spread. Suspicion turned toward Francesco, too–the silent executioner who did not smile, the cold twin with the golden eyes.

“My father still trusted me,” he said, softer now. “But trust is not armor. Rumors move faster than loyalty.”

I could see it in my mind: a young Francesco, shoulders already bearing the weight of reputation, moving like a shadow at his father’s side while whispers grew in the halls. Francoughing in corners, gathering wolves with honeyed words, letting suspicion fester like rot.

“Did your father ever confront him?” I asked quietly.

Francesco nodded once. “He did. I was there. He demanded Franco end it. Stop the lies, stop the games. Franco only smiled. He said he loved me, that he only wanted to test how strong I was. He lied to his own father’s face.” His voice roughened. “And my father wanted to believe him.”

Because what father wants to see one son destroy another?

But Franco wanted more than lies. He wanted blood.

The first time Francesco realized the depth of his brother’s treachery was not in whispers or magic, but on the battlefield.

There had been a raid on their borders, led by a coalition of wolves who had once been allies.

Francesco was sent with apany of warriors to put it down. He fought, as he always did, with ruthless precision–sword in hand, ws when needed, silence even in the ughter.

But when the dust cleared, he learned why those wolves had risen.

“They told me,” Francesco said, his voice tight, “that Franco had promised them my father’s death. That he had told them the Lycaon heir was cruel, and only by killing me would they be free of his rule.”

I drew in a sharp breath. “He–he sent them after you?”

Francesco’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Not directly. He was too clever for that. But he whispered enough that they believed they acted on his will. He wanted me dead without blood on his hands.”

My stomach turned.

The cruelty of it, the calction.

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Brother setting brother’s death in motion and calling it freedom.

“And yet you survived,” I whispered.

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His eyes flicked to me then, a faint glint of something fierce. “I survived. And the wolves who attacked me… they carried the story home. That I was dead in silence. That I was unstoppable. They meant it as a warning. Franco used it as proof. Proof of the monster he painted me to be.”

The executioner. The butcher. The shadow.

The titles that would follow Francesco for decades had begun there, in Franco’s lies and Francesco’s survival.

By the time they returned to the manor, the fracture was no longer a crack. It was a canyon.

The court was divided.

Some are still loyal to Totti and the silent son who carried his will.

Others charmed by Franco’s smile, his promises of a gentler rule, his whispered venom.

“My father tried to hold us together,” Francesco said. “He gathered the council. He begged Franco to stand with me, with him. To show unity.” His voice dropped lower. “And Franco agreed. He looked my father in the eye, took his hand, and swore loyalty.”

I felt the hair on my arms rise. “But he lied.”

Francesco nodded once. “That very night, he slipped away to meet the witches again. To gather Alphas to his cause. To n the fall of his own family.”

Oh God…

I couldn’t breathe for a moment.

The fire cracked, filling the silence.

Franco hadn’t just envied.

He hadn’t just lied.

But, he had betrayed blood.

And I could see it in Francesco’s face even now, the shadow of that betrayal carved into him like stone.

I reached up, cupping his jaw, forcing his eyes to meet mine. “You carried their fear, their hatred, their lies— and still you stood. Still you fought. You did not break.”

His throat worked, but no words came.

Instead, he leaned into my hand like a man who had carried weight too long and was startled to find someone willing to share it.

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But I knew this wasn’t the end.

The fracture would be a break.

And Franco would not stop until he tore the Lycaons apart.

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