The fog that clung to Gévaudan's hills was thicker than milk, swallowing sound and light alike. Étienne Durand pulled his cloak tighter as he trudged along the muddy path, his boots squelching in the damp earth. Dawn had barely broken, but he was already late.
Pierre would be waiting in the meadow. He always was—grinning, teasing, and whistling that same cheerful tune while his sheep grazed. But as Étienne neared the field, the silence struck him first. No whistle. No sheep. Only the hush of the fog, too heavy, too still.
Then came the smell.
Coppery. Sharp. The stench of blood.
His stomach tightened. Quickening his pace, Étienne broke through the last veil of mist—and stopped dead.
The meadow was a slaughterhouse. Sheep lay torn open, their wool soaked scarlet. Some bodies were scattered in halves, others ripped apart by claws too deep, too vicious to belong to any natural beast. And at the heart of it all lay Pierre.
Étienne's chest heaved. He staggered forward, fell to his knees beside his friend, and reached out with trembling fingers. Pierre's body was twisted grotesquely, his chest ripped wide, his eyes glassy and fixed on nothing. Cold. Empty.
Étienne's throat burned as he forced himself to look away—only to notice the tracks pressed into the earth.
Pawprints.
But far too large. Far too heavy. Each claw had dug deep gouges into the mud, as if the ground itself recoiled from their touch. In some prints, the soil was blackened, charred, as though kissed by fire.
Étienne's breath quickened. Tales whispered in taverns returned to him—wolves the size of horses, shadows that devoured the living, eyes glowing with hell's light.
A growl split the silence.
His heart stopped. Slowly, he turned.
Amber eyes pierced the fog. Massive, glowing, unblinking. A hulking form emerged—fur bristling, shoulders broad, its muzzle wet with blood. With each step, the ground seemed to quake.
The Beast of Gévaudan.
Étienne couldn't move. His body screamed to flee, but his legs betrayed him. The Beast drew closer, its steaming breath curling in the air, its gaze locked on his with something more than hunger.
This was no animal.
No wolf.
It was a curse given flesh.
And it had chosen him.