Page 211 of Marked By His Hunger
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Furious.
Ancient.
The words poured out of me like I had always known them.
Like they had never left.
My body lifted.
Not just me.
The table.
The room.
Reality itself seemed to warp around me.
And then—the rage came.
Not mine.
Not entirely.
Layered.
Generations.
Lifetimes.
The Norns—the Fates.
The threads of fate weaving and tangling and snapping.
I saw it—for just a second—three figures.
Watching.
Waiting.
Weighing.
Judging.
And beneath them—another presence.
Colder.
Still.
Hel.
The realm of the dead wasn’t empty.
It was ordered.
Structured.
Waiting.
