Book One in the Lycan Chronicles
Evander Rue had his entire life planned out even before he was born. He grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth and parents who never had time for him. A family who barely called or cared for him left him to be rais...
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The battle had gone on for days; some were exhausted to the bone, others heavily wounded, and the rest were dead, their souls carried away by the Valkyrjur so that they could enter the Great Hall of Valhǫll and await Ragnarök. Those rascals would be feasting amongst the gods living under Óðinn's rule, basking in the glory of their conquests while awaiting for their kin to join them. Aye, it was unavailing to lament over their deaths when they were in contentment.
The enormous Norseman, whose menacing eyes glowed inhumanely blue, looked his nose down at his remaining opponent. His army had suffered their fair share of casualties, but in the end, the victory was theirs. The last of his enemies was clutching their side that was heavily bleeding, and no amount of supernatural healing or medical attention would close the wound. The Norseman had made sure of it when he planned on taking on such an infamous adversary.
"Ég gef þér enn eitt tækifærið, Skarde, kné fyrir konungr þinn." The Norseman spoke clearly and boldly, his voice like thunder ready to break the heavens so they may fall to his feet as a gift from the gods at his impressive achievements.
"Þú ert ekki konungur minn!" Skarde spat blood trickling past his ashen lips and down to his braided beard. "Sál mín mun ganga inn í Helheim áður en ég hné fyrir þig, garmr!"
The Norseman cocked his head to the side, a minuscule grin tugging at the corner of his mouth in beguilement. He had to give the Alfa for his resistance and obstinacy. It was admirable to a moderation. If only such strength were not wasted in opposing him, the Norseman would have granted the Alfa a mass of fertile land for his pack and a respectable position amongst his ranks. Alas, this was not something he would waste another thought on. What was done was done, and there would be no reversing the course of the destiny he had decided for himself nor his descendants.
"Svo sé það." The Norsemen nodded at the resolution and advanced, shoving the weakened Alfa to his knees. Skarde made no endeavor to struggle to free himself from the vice grip the blue eyed male had on his long braid. He could feel the cold stained metal of the long ax cutting through his hair, slightly scalping him. The men and women of the Norseman watched in silence, not daring to utter a word at the scene before them unfolded. They were to be witnesses to the end of a rule and the birth of a new reign, one where every single werewolf will know and fear the name of the Alfa-konungr Æiríkr Úlfhéðinn the eilífligr. The Norseman bowed his head with a dark glint dwindling the glow of its inhumane eyes. He leaned down to susurrate to the fallen Alfa in a tone that only the two of them could hear. "Ég veit hvað þú og þínir menn hafa gert. Sýndu allan þann styrk sem þú vilt en ég veit sannleikann og fyrir þessar ósegjanlegu athafnir má aldrei fara inn í Valhǫll."
