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)
Meanwhile, Kaleva continues to tear Yggthra apart with a roar as the soldiers hack off the roots, the mycelia dragging them into the ground. The skeletons keep coming, jabbing spears, swinging cleavers, their mouths clacking. Soldiers cry out, and I bark orders, trying to keep them organized. Lovia fights valiantly, cutting the undead into pieces while Torben and Rasmus try to protect pockets of soldiers with shimmering wards.
Suddenly, the sky darkens. Clouds race overhead, and within moments, we are plunged into blackness, like a candle being snuffed.
“What’s happening?” Tellervo yells, green vines growing from her fingertips.
Someone else cries out, confused by the sudden night.
But I know this trickery can only belong to one Old God. Zelma, the Night-Binder, has arrived. Zelma thrives in darkness, weaving webs of shadow that drain life and hope. I feel a crushing lethargy settling on my limbs, soldiers nearby yawning and drooping, as if under a spell. A total eclipse swallows what little light filtered through the canopy, and Hanna’s faint glow and the embers from the fires are all that remain.
Hanna’s eyes meet mine, wide with fear. She knows this darkness will demand more light from her if we hope to survive. She clenches her fists, golden veins flickering under her skin. Another memory risk. Another test of her resolve.
Then, a horrible, otherworldly cry joins the fray—a swirling, spectral storm at the edge of our camp. I have heard of this one too, an Old God called Thaerix, the Screaming Vortex. It howls with the voices of lost souls, driving some soldiers to clutch their heads in agony. The wind tears at tents and flings debris. The darkness is absolute, the screams mind numbing. Skeletons advance, Zelma’s shadows weigh us down, and the spectral winds of Thaerix scatter our formation. We are pinned beneath a perfect storm of horrors.
I slash blindly, feeling my sword bite into something solid—bone or bark, I can’t be sure. Soldiers shout and fall silent. The Magician tries to form a barrier of starlight, but Zelma’s darkness and Thaerix’s shrieks shatter his concentration. Lovia curses, swinging her sword wildly. Tapio’s and Tellervo’s powers wane in the suffocating gloom.
Hanna stands near me, trembling with indecision.
“Hanna,” I say, voice cracking. “If you can, we need more light.”
She hesitates, tears in her eyes, torn between saving us and saving herself. I want to tell her we’ll find another way, but I know time is slipping through our fingers. Skeleton blades clatter against shields, and I hear Ilmarinen shout from the darkness. I can’t see him, only sense he’s in trouble. The sampo must be protected. If we lose it, we lose our only chance to end all the Old Gods at once.
Zelma’s laughter is a low hum, and I feel sleep tugging at my mind. The spectral storm’s scream threatens my sanity. My sword arm grows heavy. Around us, soldiers slump, eyes rolling back into unconsciousness while Bone Stragglers finish them off with their spears and cleavers.
I glance back at Hanna and she gives me a stiff nod then closes her eyes, tears glittering on her lashes. Her aura brightens. At first, it’s just a faint glow—enough to see her face. Then, it becomes brighter, brighter still, forcing back Zelma’s darkness. Threads of shadow recoil, and skeletons stagger.
I hear Hanna gasp. Her face contorts with pain and fear. She’s tapping into the sun now, summoning power that could unravel all she has worked for. I reach for her, grabbing her hand, and it’s like grabbing a hot poker, searing through my skin.
“I’m here,” I whisper. My voice is lost in the chaos, but maybe she hears it. Maybe this is enough for her to stay.
A flash of brilliance tears through the camp, revealing the grim tableau: soldiers wounded, some dead, skeletons cringing at the sudden glare, Zelma shielding itself with spidery arms of darkness, and Thaerix’s funnel thinning, as if under a strong wind of its own. We have a chance. If Hanna can hold this for just a moment longer, Ilmarinen might plant the sampo. We might turn the tide.
I move toward Ilmarinen to clear a path for him. The Magician and Lovia fight at my flank, their swords and illusions carving through the confusion. Tapio and Torben rally a few soldiers, skeletons shattering under blades and guns and fists. Zelma hisses, trying to weave new shadows alongside the screaming vortex.
Hanna’s radiance flares again, a heartbeat of pure, blinding light. In that moment, I catch a glimpse of her face—anguished, determined, and terrified. She’s losing herself. I can feel it—memories slipping, tears falling, her sense of self fading away.
“Hanna,” I tell her. “Stay with me little bird. You can do both.”
Then, the light dims. Darkness encroaches again, not as absolute as before but still strong. The eclipse hasn’t passed. Hanna’s strength wavers. She stands rigid, and I can tell she’s trying to keep her identity intact, to remember why she fights.