Father of the Witchborn: The Secret Histories of the Lopari Vo...

I didn’t write this for you. I simply grew tired of your poxy tongue scratched legends. I grew tired of how you snivel and abase yourselves for a Father who abandoned us long ago. You mistake stone for safety, fire for warmth, and hope for wings, instead of the coil that squeezes. You avert your gaze from the turn and huddle, pray for the day-star to return—forget that its light burns. I write this for all my brothers who howl still, for flesh taken and abused long past its due. For Hourl, the city that suckled us into its last dying tremors, cut us on pitted teeth, and spat us out with her last broken breath. Save yours from prayer; he is as blind as he is deaf. But he will know us, we that reave the turn. The seed is war, and we will not be writ on water. We are as we were made: his misbegotten children. But we will not cower. We will revel in it. My tongue is ink black, my fingers stained and chipped, my breath poison. I trade my teeth for this ink scrawl, for spite, for everything that we were and everything that we should have been. The cold turn blows—she comes for what is her due, for what I owe. But I am not yet ready, brothers. These skins I will still fill—come blood, come turn—gnashing. And when it is done, I will drink the bitter piss of dreams misspent. That you abandoned me I can forgive—that he made us and abandoned us, I will not.

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