“Do you want to know what I did that day?” His voice dropped lower, heavier, each word slow like he wanted it to crawl under my skin. “I bent over his body and I drank it.”
Yes. That was what he said.
“I drank our father’s blood right from the slit I carved. It was hot and thick and it ran down my throat like I was swallowing fire itself. And do you know what it felt like, brother? It felt like power. It felt like the world itself shifted under my feet. It felt like immortality itself sank its teeth into my veins.”
He shoved the knife again and laughed louder and harsher.
“You might be wondering why I drank it,” he said, smiling like this was the first real conversation we had ever had in our lives.
“Well, there is a myth, brother. A myth older than this pack, older than our father,
