Fuck family. All family does is disappoint. Even the soft, unknown little thing growing in Worra’s womb is just the promise of a lie. Stay yolked and unformed, little one, he thinks. Stay a dream. A dream can’t disappoint. Flesh, though? Flesh always fails in the end. Fate can’t be found in blood and womb-water. Fate is what you make, what you take, reaching into the ribs of the world and wrenching out its still-steaming heart.
