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About this blog

Three women. An immortal witch. A werewolf on the run. A vampire seeking answers. Amidst pleasure and blood, ancient secrets and forbidden desires, their stories intertwine beneath the moon of Skyrim. Welcome to the Sorensen legacy.

Entries in this blog

Part III

PART III – THE CASTLE OF BLOOD

Narrator: Brunna     I was born in Volkihar Castle.   I don't remember the birth – of course not. But I remember the cold. The black stone walls that never saw the sun. The smell of old blood and tallow candles. The first time I opened my eyes, I saw Katarina's face leaning over me, her silvery-white hair brushing against my skin, her blue eyes watching me as if I were both a miracle and a danger at the same time.   My mom.   She was with me throughou
Part II

PART II – THE DAUGHTER OF THE MOON

Narrator: Rebecca         At sixteen, I was already certain of one thing: the universe loved to test me. And, apparently, I always failed.   Don't get me wrong. I'm not a poor little thing. I'm the girl who laughs at her own chaos because, if I don't laugh, I'll have to cry – and I'm already tired of crying.   My adoptive mother, Ingrid, used to say I was born with a "gift for confusion." My father, Torben, would correct her: "She wasn't born with a g
Part I

PART I – THE BIRTH OF THE WITCH

Narrator: Katarina (The Witch)     I left the village when I was sixteen.   There was no goodbye. There were no tears. Just me, the road, and the fragment burning inside my chest like a black flame.   I took only what would fit in a leather backpack: a change of clothes, a rusty dagger my father never learned to use, some stale bread and salty cheese. The rest – the bed where I slept for sixteen years, the wooden toys my grandfather carved for me, the blue dres
Prologue

PROLOGUE – THE GIRL AND THE CAVE

Narrator: Katarina (future mom from Rebecca and Brunna) The village had no name. It lay hidden among the mountains in northern Skyrim, so remote that not even merchants ever reached it. In winter, snow covered the rooftops for eight months. In summer, the thaw turned the streets to mud. The people there were hard and silent. They gazed at the horizon as if waiting for something—but they never said what. It was there I was born. It was there I learned to walk, to speak, and
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