Corvin Blackmoor was a man carved by war and betrayal.
From the blood soaked deserts of Afghanistan to the shadowed corridors of British Intelligence, he served and watched ideals crumble into lies.
Patriotism. Honor. Loyalty.
He buried them all long before a Quds Force assassin silenced his final breath.

But death was only the beginning.

Dragged from the ruins of a dying world, Corvin awakens in Valtheris. A savage world ruled by magic, where gods are myths, and survival is written in blood.
He is no longer human.
He is the last of the Dark Parasytes, an extinct race once so feared that every kingdom, every empire, and every mage order hunted them to extinction.

Armed with Shadow Siphon, the power to replicate the strengths of others, Corvin stands alone at the bottom of an alien food chain.
Weaker than a wild beast, with enemies and predators lurking in every forest, every court, every throne.

Weakness is temporary, patience is eternal.

In a world fractured by ancient wars, between noble Elves, scheming Demons, ruthless Humans, primal Feralis and Aetherborn Corvin will climb.
He will feast. He will conquer.

And in the shadows of Valtheris, the last predator will rise.
No gods. No masters.
Only the cold ambition of a man who has nothing left to believe in… but power itself.

Corvin returned to his study, the flickering hearthlight spilling golden warmth across the dark wood paneling, casting long shadows that swayed like silent spectators to his thoughts. Yet his mind refused to settle on matters of state or magic, it circled back to Sythara: the way her crimson robe had draped over her form like liquid silk, the deliberate grace in her gait, and that faint, exotic musk that lingered in the air long after she had gone. There was something primal about his interest. An instinctive recognition of a predator in another form, but beneath it lay a calculated intent. If the Dragonkin truly placed such sacred value in knowing the scent of an ally, then he would make sure she carves his to memory so deeply and unmistakably that it would be etched into her very being.


Chapter 77 - The Veiled One’s Lament