Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Torben sits hunched over a small wooden box on his lap that he pulled from his satchel. Inside the box are the ingredients for the spell—ash from a birch branch, salt wrapped in a cloth pouch, and a strand of hair he plucked from my head when I wasn’t looking. “Relic of the Underworld,” he’d said with a shrug. Turns out, I hate being called a relic.
I didn’t protest, though I’ll be pissed if that hair doesn’t grow back. If this works, we have a chance. If not… Well, if it doesn’t, I’ll have a thousand mortal soldiers under my command and nothing to do with them while I’m trapped in the Upper World, forced to try and find another portal, hopefully one that’s already in existence and not conjured by a spell.
But no delays are acceptable at this point. I must return. Hanna, Lovia, Tuonen, my realm, my people—they all need me.
We drive for over an hour. Day darkens into a purple bruise. Snow begins to fall, lazy flakes that glitter in the headlights. Torben says little—occasionally, he mutters to himself, running through words of the incantation, checking and re-checking the lines from his spellbook. The general remains quiet, trusting my mental push to keep him docile but invested and unalarmed by this bizarre mission.
At some point, the road narrows until it’s barely a path. The trucks lumber through snow-laden pines, their branches sagging overhead like tired shoulders. We slow as the terrain grows wilder, more uneven, until eventually, the trucks can’t go on.
Everything comes to a stop.
The general’s voice crackles over a radio, but I shut out the words as I step out of the cab to survey our route. I’m focused on the land, the subtle pulse I feel beneath my boots. It’s faint, but I recognize the underlying hum of magic. This place is not ordinary. Something old and potent lingers here—perhaps these very hills remember the old faiths, the old ways, when this world and mine were so much closer.
“I feel it,” Torben whispers beside me. He crouches near a hollow stump, brushing away snow to reveal something carved in the wood: a spiral, half-erased by time. “A marker left by those who knew the paths between worlds, perhaps Väinämöinen himself,” he says softly, his eyes gleaming with both hope and worry. “We’re on the right track.”
I nod and signal the soldiers. They abandon the trucks now, leaving them behind. The portal, if it opens, will not be made in the middle of a road. I push my influence out, calming any stray doubts in their minds. They follow without question, rifles strapped across their chests, boots crunching through old snow and brittle undergrowth.
We find a glade beyond a ridge of ice-crusted stones. The trees arch high overhead, their trunks pale and ghostly. The ground underfoot is oddly level, and I feel my heart quicken—this must be the spot. Torben runs a hand along the bark of a birch tree and then scans the clearing, nodding to himself.
“This is it,” he murmurs. “I can feel it.”
“But it’s not a cave,” I say, looking around.
“It doesn’t have to be,” he says.
The soldiers line up single file behind me at my silent command as Torben places the wooden box on the ground and kneels. He sprinkles ash in a wide circle, then the salt. The wind dies down, as if holding its breath. My mouth goes dry. Everything hinges on this.
“Give me your hand,” Torben says, his voice low. I take off my glove and extend it, and he takes a small knife from his coat pocket, careful to prick my fingertip without touching me. A bead of dark blood wells up and I smear it onto a scrap of cloth with my hair tied inside—the energy of Tuonela, the essence of me, staining the fabric.
He places it at the center of the circle then pulls out the book. The soldiers stand motionless behind us, human statues in the twilight that mimic the trees.
Torben begins to chant. The language sounds old yet strangely familiar, each word strung like beads of sound that hum through my bones. The ash and salt stir in an unseen breeze. The cloth trembles. I feel something crack in the air, like a door creaking on ancient hinges. The soldiers shift uneasily, picking up on changes they can’t understand. I exert more pressure on their minds, keeping them calm.
A faint glow appears above the circle. No, not just a glow—a tear, a rip in reality. It shimmers at first, like heat haze, then broadens, revealing murky shapes beyond. Cold air spills through, richer and darker than the night that has fallen around us. I catch a scent: damp soil, faint rot, and something else I can’t name but know all too well—Tuonela’s fragrance.
Torben’s voice rises in intensity, the spell slipping from his tongue. The portal widens, an oval of shimmering darkness. It’s not stable, flickering at the edges. I step closer, peering into the void. I can see something large in the distance, like a building that rises from nothing. Are we truly looking into the Underworld, because though the shapes are vague, they don’t seem familiar.