Page 51 of Marked By His Hunger

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Threads within threads.

Fate woven so tightly it choked.

My father’s voice rose in memory, low and grim.

The Draugr does not get what he wants.

He takes what he must… or he destroys it.

“No,” I ground out, baring my fangs against the wind.

I would not take from her.

I would not destroy her.

There had to be another path.

A clause in my contract.

A clause in my father’s obsession.

The Draugen do not age as mortals do.

We persist. We endure. We hunger.

And we breed.

I bared my fangs to the wind.

The Norns—those twisted weavers of fate—had cursed us long ago to endure this Bloodlust for eternity.

See, it was all of them. Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos—all three denied us true mates.

Denied us softness.

Denied us redemption.

The curse would endure unless one of us—just one—was chosen.

But fated mates were rarer than unicorns in Asgarheim.

My father, his father, and the dozens before them had not been chosen.

So, why would I be?

We were creatures of the northern wastes.

Skin black as crow feathers. Horned. Winged.

Eyes lit with unnatural fire.

More Demon than man.

Revenants.

All cursed.

We could never return to the mortal world beyond the veil.

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