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)
We have too many mortals and not enough Gods.
Then, a bright light appears in the sky above the castle, cutting through the swirling snow. It’s blinding, pure, and warm. At first, I think it’s a trick, another illusion put forth by the Magician to blind our enemies. But then, I feel heat radiating from it, a gentle warmth that pushes back the cold and the darkness. Soldiers stop fighting to stare upward, mouths agape as skeletons recoil, their glowing eyes dimming.
“Hanna,” I whisper, heart pounding. It must be her. It has to be her. The Sun Goddess’ blood flows in her veins. If she has returned, maybe we have a chance.
The light intensifies, casting long shadows of bones and broken weapons across the courtyard. Under its radiance, I see Father lift his head, disbelief and hope mingling across his face. Tapio and Tellervo gasp, and Vellamo’s eyes shine with something like relief as Torben lowers his staff, awestruck. The Magician tilts his hooded head, as if he knew this would happen but still marvels at the sight.
The enemy army halts, uncertain. The light grows brighter, and I can almost see a figure within it, wings of radiance and flames streaming from her hair. The snowstorm falters, flakes glowing gold before they melt into soft droplets. The darkness that clung to the castle recedes.
We needed a miracle, and we got one.
Hanna is here.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DEATH
The sky ignites with a brilliance and beauty that defies this world. Moments before, the fields around Castle Syntri lay dim beneath storm-wracked clouds and swirling snow, the world reduced to howling winds, desperate screams, and the relentless clatter of the undead. Now, the darkness recedes, and a radiance too pure for twilight spills over the battlements, painting every broken stone with shimmering gold.
I stand atop a fractured parapet, the wind tugging at my cloak, ice crusting in my beard. Pain throbs in my shoulder from an earlier clash, and sweat freezes on my brow. I dare not look away from that sky, not now. I know that light. I know the shape emerging from it as intimately as I know my own breath.
It’s Hanna.
My wife.
The Queen of Tuonela.
But she doesn’t descend. Instead, she hovers high above, wreathed in halos of shifting color—pinks, oranges, ambers. Her silhouette is tall and regal, arms outstretched. I see her hair aflame with strange brilliance—chestnut and amber and blonde—and though I cannot make out her face, I imagine her eyes shining with sunlight. The cold wind softens slightly in the radius of her glow, melting the flakes into droplets. Yet, she stays distant, as if observing from a height.
A gasp echoes along the battlements, and I hear Lovia choke out her name. Soldiers pause mid-strike, undead falter mid-lunge, and even the Old Gods waver, their monstrous forms twitching uncertainly in the sudden glare. The darkness Louhi’s hordes brought with them quivers before Hanna’s arrival.
My heart pounds. Relief, joy, and a thousand unanswered questions surge through me. Weeks of fear and loss peel away at the edges of my mind as I stare into that luminous figure. Hanna is back. She returned.
Yet, this isn’t over. The battle has not ended.
We must still fight.
Thankfully, with her at our side.
Snarls and screeches rip me from my reverie. The enemy hasn’t vanished—far from it. Old Gods flail tentacles and chitinous limbs, shrieking to rally the undead ranks. Flakes of grey snow swirl on the far edge of the battlefield where Hanna’s light does not yet reach. Skeleton legions, rattling swords and spears, try to press their advance. They push back against the sudden warmth, steeling themselves with the ancient hatred that animates their bones.
I tighten my grip on my sword. We must seize this moment. “Hold the line!” I shout, voice cracking across the courtyard. “Don’t falter! The sun is with us!” It’s a phrase I never thought I’d use, but now, it feels right. Hanna is the sun, or at least touched by it. We must stand firm.
My allies respond with renewed courage. Torben lifts his staff into the sky, runes flaring brighter than before. Ilmarinen traces shapes in the air with his fingertips, creating pockets of protection here and there. Lovia leaps onto a ledge, her blade gleaming, rallying the soldiers around her. Tapio and Tellervo draw upon what remains of their power to summon roots, vines, and birds to harry the enemy flanks. Vellamo clenches her jaw and coaxes streams of water from melting snow, forming icy shards to hurl at encroaching horrors.
The Magician stands at a crooked tower’s edge, face obscured by his hood. He conjures illusions that glimmer with flecks of sunlight, tricking the enemy into stumbling into ambushes. Rasmus struggles to reload a crossbow with trembling fingers. Though he was a traitor, he now fights beside us, the fear of death etched into his face. The redhead might be good for something yet.