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“Helsen,” I said, “Son of Hel.” Looking at the novel I wrote felling something on the edge of thought. The Edge of Dream.

‘Adoption was used by the Romans to make someone their heir,’ I’d read once. Someone not of the family line was made of the family in blood, often to provide for a child that family couldn’t have. That child inherited everything.

“But there are mortals who have similar names,and they are just names, or are children but don’t have claim to anything.” I said to myself, almost fighting the feeling I was getting. It was too big. I didn’t deserve something like that.

“But you’re not a mortal, are you?” Hel whispered in my ear. “You were never a mortal. You were a being of spirit and magic, like me, like all the other Gods. You might be in a mortal vessel, but you are not a mortal at all.”

“So I am…the Son of Hel?” I asked.

“You swore to be my child when you dedicated yourself to me.” She said softly, firmly. “I chose to make you more than just my child, I chose to make you My Child, My Heir.”

I stared at her in shock. “I spoke to you through the novel you wrote. As you tried to heal the pain of your loss, so too I was telling you of what you are, what you will be. Prince of Hel, Lucius Svartwulf Helsen…for now.”

“For now?” I asked, still shocked.

“The future, my beloved, holds yet more for you.” Hel said.

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