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)
“My queen. My little bird,” I add. “Be with me.”
She steps forward, her hand tightening around the doorframe before letting go. She has regained her dark hair, her eyes their familiar chocolate brown.
“Where have you been?” I ask.
“I’ve been trying to think,” she whispers, voice low. “I know what we have to do next, but I’m…” She hesitates, words catching in her throat. “Well, I’m fucking scared, Tuoni.”
I reach for her hand, and she lets me hold it. I feel the tension thrumming in her fingertips. “I know,” I answer gently, curling her fingers between mine. “Your powers saved us, but they took something from you as well. No one expects you to wield them lightly again.”
Or at all.
She swallows, nodding, her eyes glistening like dark pools. “It’s like a living nightmare. I can’t stop seeing it play out like some bad movie. I remember looking down at you all and feeling nothing. It was as though the sun’s power scorched away my ties to this place, to you, to even my own father. That can’t happen again. If I forget myself, if I forget you…” Her voice trembles. “Well, I think I’d rather die than face that emptiness.”
My little bird has always had a flair for the dramatic, but I don’t like how grave she sounds.
“You won’t lose us again,” I promise, though I feel it’s a promise that might not be kept. “We will find another way. We have new allies to consider, remember?”
I gesture down to the courtyard, where soldiers re-pack supplies. Further down in the armory, Torben and Ilmarinen refine the sampo, their device to purify the ley lines and take down the rest of the Old Gods. If that works, maybe we can fight without relying so heavily on Hanna’s solar wrath.
She nods, biting her lip. “Yes, the sampo thingy. Whatever the hell that is. And the trolls, right?”
“That’s right.”
Her eyes dance with disbelief. “Like, for real? Actual trolls? Like straight from the Hobbit, or…?” She pauses. “Wait, you’ve probably never seen that one.”
“I have seen all three Hobbit movies, thank you very much,” I tell her. “That was a whole day I’ll never get back. And yes, like those ones. Maybe a little less ugly, and certainly not dumb. They’ll be good to have on our side.”
She laughs, a sound I’ve missed so terribly much. “Well, that does make me feel better about not being able to go full Goddess for you when you need it. So where are these not-ugly trolls?”
I smile wryly. “They arrived earlier. I have word they’re in the war room currently. We’ll go meet them together.”
The Keskellis are twenty-foot-tall trolls who once roamed lands beyond the Star Swamp. They got our message late, or so they claim, having sheltered in ice caves within the Frozen Void. Now, they come to offer their help. I’m curious what shape that help will take.
Hanna and I leave the tower, walking side by side through the halls, torches sputtering in drafty corners. Soldiers salute quietly as we pass. Some smile at Hanna with relief and respect—she is the one who turned the tide of the battle, after all. Others still show fear in their eyes, awed by her brief transformation. She acknowledges them with a nod, face carefully composed.
Such a queen, especially with her wearing one of Louhi’s leftover dresses, this one black with silver trim that matches my eyes. They look a million times better on Hanna. Everything does.
I sigh internally.
I’m certainly smitten, aren’t I? Certainly doomed, at any rate.
We enter the war room where the others are waiting. Lovia leans against a pillar, arms folded, trying to look calm, but I sense her impatience. Tapio and Tellervo sit close together, the Forest God’s beard threaded with leaves that have lost their color and grown brittle from stress. Tellervo’s antlers are adorned with a few stubborn flowers, wilted but still clinging to life. Vellamo stands a bit apart, her gaze distant, as though listening to unseen ocean waves. Torben is at one corner, staff propped beside him. Ilmarinen sorts through a crate of small metal components—arrowheads, runes, possible artifacts for the sampo. Rasmus, that redheaded weasel, hovers near Ilmarinen, eager to help, trying to prove himself. The Magician drifts near the back wall, galaxies swirling in his hood, inscrutable as always.
And in the center of it all, standing because there are no chairs sturdy enough to seat them, are the Keskellis.
All five of them.
Only five of them.
They are broad-shouldered, with rough, bluish skin, tusked underbites, and thick fur-trimmed garments. Their eyes gleam with curiosity and a certain gentleness you wouldn’t expect from twenty-foot-tall trolls. We exchange nods as we approach.
One Keskelli raises a hand in greeting, and his voice rumbles like distant thunder. “Greetings, Tuoni,” he says, pronouncing my name with unexpected familiarity. “I am Kaleva, elder of our small clan.” He taps his chest with a weathered hand. “These are my kin: Uljas, Mieli, Sihvo, and Tenko.” He points to each in turn.