The first tendrils of dawn stretched over the horizon, casting a soft glow upon the sprawling estate of Duke Conan Greythorn. As the moon dipped below the edge of the sky, a low groan echoed through the tranquil garden, disturbing the serenity of the early morning.

In the center of the garden, amidst the dew-kissed petals of midnight blooms, lay Conan. His body was sprawled upon the damp earth, limbs splayed in disarray. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his eyes fluttering open to reveal irises as golden as the sun's first light.

The scent of damp earth and blooming roses filled his nostrils, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that lingered on his tongue. With a groan, he pushed himself up from the ground, his muscles protesting against the exertion of the night's hunt.

Conan's mind, usually sharp and calculating, was clouded with fragments of memories from his lupine form's nocturnal escapades. Snippets of the chase flashed before his eyes: the thrill of the hunt, the pounding of paws against soft soil, and the wild ecstasy of surrendering to his primal instincts under the luminous gaze of the full moon.

As he staggered to his feet, Conan's gaze swept over the garden, taking in the carnage wrought by his nocturnal transformation. Broken branches littered the ground, their leaves torn and shredded. Fragments of torn fabric clung to thorns like macabre trophies, remnants of his human guise discarded in the frenzy of the hunt.