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)
I want to say something, anything, to break the suffocating silence, but there’s nothing I could possibly say that would make any of this right, that would make any of this horror and grief vanish. My chest is unbearably tight, and I fight back the tears, my vision blurring. I look to the line of strange marks along Nyyrikki’s arm—thin scratches, almost runes.
No, it’s script.
A signature.
One that looks suspiciously like Louhi’s.
Sour water fills my mouth as I hold back the urge to vomit at the sheer villainy of my mother. I wish I could cut open my veins and drain my body of her blood, severing my link to her.
Tapio crouches over his wife’s lifeless, gruesome form, his shoulders trembling. The ancient God’s grief is a raw thing that sends ripples through the forest. Leaves rustle and twist overhead, branches creaking, creatures crying out in confusion. I can feel the realm shuddering, responding to his loss. This isn’t just a death of two beings; it’s a wound in the forest’s heart.
They’ve lost their own mother.
Tellervo’s sobbing is soft but gut-wrenching. She leans over her brother’s body, smoothing his hair back from his brow. “This isn’t supposed to happen,” she whispers.
I take a step back, reeling, my sword seeming useless now. I meet the Magician’s gaze, and his galaxies shimmer with a sadness I can feel. Rasmus is pale as bone, his bravado drained as he stares at what might have been him if Yggthra got its way.
This death, this brutality, it changes everything. They’ve broken our fragile sense of hope, shown us that nothing is safe. If the Forest Gods can be slain in their own realm, wards broken, what hope do we have?
My throat closes. I reach out blindly, and the Magician’s hand meets mine again. His grip is strong, steady, and for a moment, I wonder how much of this he foresaw, if there was anything that could have been done to prevent this. Something tells me the Magician is a slave to the tide of things as much as I am. He can change outcomes, but he can’t be everywhere at once, and this isn’t the kind of darkness we can banish easily. It’s a darkness that seeps into the roots of Tuonela, twisting beneath our feet.
The forest sighs, a mournful wind passing through the leaves, and I squeeze the Magician’s hand, feeling terror and anger swirl together in my chest.
The silence stretches. Tapio’s grief is profound, Tellervo’s shock numbing. Rasmus stares in quiet disbelief. The Magician stands beside me, and I cling to the warmth of his presence. I see a determination in the swirl of his stars, as if he’s already thinking of what comes next, how to strike back or survive. I taste blood in my mouth where I’ve bitten my tongue. I don’t even remember doing it.
Finally, I drag my eyes away from the bodies, away from the broken tree of a family cut down. We must move on, faster now. If the Old Gods and Louhi can penetrate the wards of the Forest Gods, we aren’t safe.
We have to keep going toward the Star Swamp, into dangers untold. We have to keep going, even though the Old Gods have proven how ruthless they can be. We will carry their death like a fire in our chests, fueling what comes next.
But right now, all I can think is, this was a message.
We’ve received it loud and clear.
CHAPTER TEN
DEATH
The palace looms before us in jagged lines, each spire and parapet silhouetted against the murky sky. From a distance, it looked imposing, but now that I stand at its threshold, it feels like some wretched animal carcass picked clean by vultures—a place devoid of warmth or comfort, Louhi’s evil having seeped into the bones.
I order the troops to remain outside in the snow, to dig trenches, fortify positions, set guards. They obey wordlessly, rifles slung over their shoulders, the frost clinging to their eyelashes. The Star Swamp lies not far behind them, a shimmering deathtrap now mercifully iced over, but the air is bitter, the cold unrelenting. It doesn’t bother me now that I’m in my realm, but it must bother them. I know they are weary; humans always are. They last so briefly, burn so quickly. Yet, here they stand, mine to command. My coercion holds them to a strange neutrality—no one protests my decisions, no one asks the obvious questions. Without my influence, they would be terrified. I’m doing them a kindness, I think.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Torben shuffles at my side, his shoulders hunched against the chill. Beyond the towering black gates, the palace beckons, its doors ajar, as if opened in haste long ago and never shut. A layer of grime and frost coats the threshold, old footprints still visible.