I had a spear.
Sharper than a blade in a wolf’s mouth.
They called her Trembler, Shivvr, a scream of steel, sharper than fate. None could stand.
And called her Willow. Her birth-wood, see? Nothing sacred, Dvalin-made;
a widows’ wail flung a mile.
And we hunted together.
Til the Wolf escaped the dagger.
I chase the moon.
Hunt: night after night, following the cinders scent and the cool starlight and the desire that burns. No one can stop me. I chase it forever.
One day I will catch and devour the moon. The end times. The one-eyed god will die. They call me Hate, but they are wrong. I am Hunger. I am Desire.
For what I can’t have.
For what I will have.