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)
“The pleasure is all mine,” he says softly, reaching for my hand. We stand a moment longer in silent accord, snow drifting around us, holding on to each other. In the distance, I hear a muffled clang as a soldier drops a shield, a hushed curse as another fumbles with arrows, the sound of a rifle being loaded. Reality seeps back in. The Magician’s galaxies swirl slower, as if reluctant to leave this shared instant of warmth.
“I must go,” he says at last, regret in his tone. “There are illusions to prepare, positions to take. We are all needed tonight, every single one of us.”
I nod, biting back the urge to beg him to stay, to tell me more, to give some final reassurance. I won’t trap him in my fears, though. He has his role. We all do.
He fades into the gloom, disappearing soundlessly down stone steps. I lean against the parapet, the icy stone pressing through my cloak. The taste of his kiss lingers, a strange sweetness amid bitterness. For a moment, I feel braver—not because I know what’s coming, because I don’t, but because I know I’m not alone in my anxiety, in this silent vigil before the storm.
I take a steadying breath and return to my patrol, footsteps crunching softly on newly fallen snow. I pass the archers and gunmen again, meeting their eyes with a firmer gaze. I must show them strength, must be ready to lead. My father has put me in this position because he believes in me. If the Magician can offer comfort without certainty, I can at least offer courage, even without guarantees.
The storm intensifies, flakes coming faster, heavier, as if the sky itself conspires to hide our fate. The wind picks up a mournful note, whistling through arrow slits, tugging at Louhi’s old banners that hang limp and frosted. I might need to talk to my father about keeping the visibility open, but this might not be all of his doing.
I make one last round, checking that the troops along the western walls are in place. They nod to me as I pass, their eyes weary but resolved. My father must be expending so much energy to keep them in line, and I have to wonder how much they truly understand. I know they’re afraid, but they still don’t have total autonomy.
Luckily, I know my father will follow through with what he said, that in the end, he will reward all of them with seats and places across the land when they eventually die. Hopefully, that won’t happen here, but rather when they return to the Upper World when they’re ninety. They won’t even go to the City of Death—if there is to ever be a City of Death again. They will be gods in their own right.
I stand near the battlements once more, sword at my hip, and try to imagine dawn breaking over this field. Will it be a dawn of victory or a pyre for us all?
How much longer do we have?
No answers, only silence, snow, and the distant hush of shifting wind.
But I have something more than I had a moment ago: the memory of that gentle kiss, a reminder that even here, at the edge of doom, there can be tenderness. It sparks a tiny flame of hope in me—hope not for promises or certain outcomes, but for the strength to face what comes and find meaning in our struggle.
I close my eyes, focusing on that feeling, and wait in the deepening night, heart steadying. Let the enemy come. We have our plans, our courage, and the quiet bonds between us—even those forged in silence and star-swirled shadows.
That will have to be enough.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LOVIA
A horn sounds softly from a watchtower, waking me from my slumber.
I sit up fast and straight. I’m in the grand hall, having fallen asleep in the chair next to the fire. Across from me is Vellamo, her watery eyes wide and gleaming in the firelight. She’s dressed in armor that once belonged to my mother, black steel covered in spikes. She would look formidable if not for the fear in her eyes.
The horn sounds again, and now, I’m fully awake, hit with a spear of terror.
“Something is happening,” Vellamo says to me, quickly rising to her feet.
I pick up my sword, adjust my own armor, and hurry up a winding staircase to a balcony high in the castle’s spires. Soldiers with bows and spears line the battlements. I lean over the stone railing, straining my eyes into the darkness. The snowfall lessens here, as if a dome of clearer air surrounds the castle, granting us visibility.
Beyond, in the gloom, shapes move.
Oh Gods.
They’re already here.
They come from the top of the ridge that slopes down toward the swamp, dark figures that move quickly, running toward us. I estimate we have only a few minutes before they’re upon us.