PROLOGUE

  A blood-red sun pushed itself over the horizon, slicing through the blackness of the sea and scattering blue, shimmering ripples across its surface. The crimson light crawled inland, revealing the lush overgrowth now smothering most of the city.

  It spread everywhere—an unruly, swelling mass of green.

  Colossal tendrils of bark and leaves wrapped around buildings, punched through the windshields of abandoned cars, and reached deep into the deserted luxury hotel suites along Cannes’s famed Croisette boulevard.

  Through the maze of shifting roots—roots thick as pillars, born from hundreds of cyclopean trees—a humanoid figure moved with fluid ease. It weaved between towering fronds, leapt gracefully over low thickets, and pressed its bare feet into the mud, the skin tough and tanned like hardened bark.

  Despite the labyrinthic, living forest around it, it never drifted from its path.

  With each step, the distance to the old lighthouse shrank.

  Its destination was close now. Very close.

  Soon, it would arrive.

  And the ritual could begin.

  CHAPTER 1

  Charles woke drenched in sweat, his heart pounding as if trying to punch its way out of his chest.

  The nightmare had returned—again. The same one that had stalked him night after night, leaving behind no images, no scenes… only that crushing sense of dread.

  And the sound.

  That steady, muffled knock hammering inside his skull.

  TAC. TAC. TAC.

  Each strike throbbed between his temples, a rhythmic punishment for the heroic amount of alcohol he’d demolished the night before.

  Eyes stinging, he wiped the tears clinging to his lashes and dragged his palms over what remained of his thinning hair. When his breathing finally slowed, he pushed himself upright to sit on the edge of his bed. His fingers searched blindly across the nightstand for his glasses—until they brushed against the deep, familiar scratch running across the surface.

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  Relief washed over him.

  He loved that nightstand.

  A lacquered wooden piece he’d bought for thirty-five euros instead of forty-seven—an absolute steal thanks to a “slight crack,” as the Ikea salesperson had put it. Poor guy had no idea the defect had been the very thing that sold Charles. All the flawless ones, lined up identically, had disgusted him.

  Because if there was one thing Charles hated more than anything, it was perfection.

  A perfect object was a soulless object. An empty shell.

  Same with people.

  How could you trust someone too clean, too polished, too… smooth? Perfection always hid something rotten underneath. Wasn’t there a saying about perfection not belonging to this world?

  Tell that to Fran?ois-Xavier Challier.

  Mr. I-Have-Everything-and-Love-to-Rub-Your-Face-in-It.

  What did that smug little bastard think? That having an office on the top floor with his own private bathroom, wearing suits that cost two thousand euros, and marrying a former model made him superior? That it gave him the right to shit on his employees whenever he felt like it—especially Charles?

  Conveniently, Monsieur Parfait forgot one tiny detail:

  He only held his position because Daddy said so.

  Fran?ois Challier Senior—the great patriarch of Sogedam Insurance— who had died a year earlier, leaving the whole empire to his incompetent, pampered heir.

  Without his father’s name, Fran?ois-Xavier wouldn’t be sitting in a luxury office. He’d be exactly like Charles: a miserable traveling salesman begging wealthy entrepreneurs to sign contracts they didn’t need, smiling through humiliation, bowing to every condescending remark.

  It would’ve done that spoiled brat some good to experience that.

  But no—kids who grow up taking everything without ever giving back never change.

  Sinking deeper into these bitter thoughts, Charles was abruptly pulled back to reality by something unusual.

  Something that hadn’t been there when he’d stumbled into bed, drunk off his ass.

  A stick.

  Lying at the foot of his bed.

  Frowning, he put on his glasses and crouched for a closer look.

  It was a long, gnarled piece of gray wood—about a meter in length, thick as a baseball bat. What struck him instantly, filling him with a strange spark of excitement, was how raw it looked. Not straight. Buds protruded along its surface. Bits of bark still clung stubbornly to it. And its end wasn’t cut clean at all—it had been torn, violently.

  Fascinated, Charles picked it up.

  The rough bark scraped his palm, and a pleasant warmth surged through him. A blissful smile spread across his face.

  He felt good.

  Calm.

  Powerful.

  He swung the branch experimentally. Slow at first. Then faster. Spinning it like a kid playing at a swordfighting game with a wooden toy.

  When the exhilarating rush faded, an instinct hit him hard:

  Hide it.

  Not because it was just a stick—but because it was something more, something precious. Something meant for him.

  He hurried to his bedroom wardrobe, opened it, and shoved the branch beneath a stack of clothes before closing the door with a relieved exhale. The heaviness in his body had lifted. Even the brutal hangover was gone.

  What a feeling.

  He didn’t care how the branch had made its way into his fifth-floor, balcony-less apartment in one of Marseille’s dingy downtown buildings. He didn’t care that he always locked the door twice, like any city dweller with common sense. Or that he was such a light sleeper he’d wake at the slightest sound.

  None of that mattered.

  The only thing that mattered was this:

  The branch had been left here for him.

  It belonged in his hand.

  It had a purpose—a purpose he hadn’t discovered yet.

  But he would.

  Soon.

  Author's note : This is the English translation of my novel The Dusk Tree, published exclusively on Royal Road. Chapter 2 will be released tomorrow at the same time, where you’ll meet Audrey, the protagonist, and the strange discovery that will change her life. Feel free to leave a comment — I always reply!