To my dearest and only son,
I hope this missive find you in good health, and good fortune, both you and the little fluff ball.
I have a most wonderful news for you! (Your mother insisted that I do not bother you with this, claiming it really isn’t any of your business, but how could I not?)
The good news being, you might not remain my only son for very long!
Spirits willing, your mother will bring onto this brave, struggling world a new son or daughter to carry out our names and forge new legends. And something tells me, but perhaps I am wishing much too hard, that it will be a daughter. A Farrinsdottir. Just writing this down makes me giddy! (Your mother is sitting on her cot and giving me that look again. She thinks I look too happy, and that it might attract bad luck. Bah!)
I managed to convince her to move back to Hoelbrak for the last term of her pregnancy, but we will still remain stationed here for a few more months. The fire in that woman burns hotter than in any forge! (I would write down a few more inspired verses about her, but I can already sense you retching, you philistine boy.)
Come by and visit us when you find the time. Definitely come see your younger sister, at the very least.
Until then, may the Spirits grant you strength, wisdom and inspiration!
With pride in my heart and a song on my lips,
P.S. she is not going to admit it, but Ylva is anxious to know how this arm we forged is doing. Did it work? Is your friend happy with it? Do let us know. You know how your mother is about these things.
Fiel folds the letter back, once, twice, six times, a weird, awkward little butterfly dancing in his belly.
This was….. a news.
He didn’t know how to feel about it. Soon enough, he wouldn’t be an only child anymore.
He. A 30 year old necromancer. Having an infant sister. Or brother.
“….. somehow I feel like I’m responsible. And that thought alone is more terrifying than all the demons of the Underworld combined.”