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 feel the sun-gift flare inside me. If I unleash it, I might burn through this darkness—briefly. But what if I lose control and scorch my allies too? That would be even worse than losing any sense of my humanity.
The thought paralyzes me.
“Help!” Tapio’s voice scrapes the air. Panicked, I step forward and raise a trembling hand. I could fire a clean beam of sunlight, cutting the snare off him.
Do something! Anything! I yell at myself.
I hesitate, heart pounding, before I raise my sword and run at him. I start hacking away at the root, trying to slice it in half. I call for help, for someone to pull Tapio away while I try to get the monster to let him go.
Tapio cries out again, weaker, being dragged downward. Zelma’s eclipsing night thickens, shadowy shapes closing in. My muscles shake as I continue to hack away at the root, panicking, unsure of what else to do. A soldier runs over and grabs Tapio, holding on to him, but that soldier is dragged away too, heels carving ruts in the dirt.
“Father!” Tellervo yells, running toward him. Her palms are out, coaxing the forest to help, but only a few vines shoot up and wrap around his arms, not enough to make a difference. The rest of the forest is too weak and corrupted by the battle.
I force a spark of light onto my palm—I could free him.
The fear has me in a vice, but I know what I must do.
I raise my hand.
Too late.
In that instant, an Old God I’ve never seen before erupts from the dark—a looming silhouette of chitin and tendrils. It moves too fast. One dreadful slash, and Tapio’s scream cuts through me. A wet crack, a splatter—then silence. The Old God vanishes as swiftly as it appeared, leaving nothing but dripping gore and empty space where Tapio once stood.
I surge forward, grasping at nothing. Tears sting my eyes; I had the power to save him, but fear held me back. Now, he’s gone. He’s gone, torn apart in seconds.
“No,” I whisper, hands shaking. “No!”
But my useless words are swallowed by Tellervo’s awful scream as she collapses to her knees beside what remains of her father.
“Hold the line!” someone shouts nearby. Everything becomes a blur while my heart lurches in horror. My own father’s voice rises in strange syllables, and I glimpse faint glowworm lines of ward magic taking shape. Rasmus joins him, their chants blending. Together, they push back Zelma’s crushing shadows and Thaerix’s shrieking winds—not banishing them entirely, but carving out a bubble of safety. Soldiers stumble into this pale sanctuary, gasping with relief.
But the relief doesn’t reach me.
I stand at the edge, shaking, guilt clawing at my throat. Tapio is dead because I froze. The wards flicker around my father and Rasmus, my father barking orders, Lovia’s blade flashing, the Magician twisting galaxies beneath his hood. They all rally as best they can.
Ilmarinen appears, bloody and breathless, clutching the sampo. “I must try now! The ley line’s here!” he yells. My father, battered and grim, nods. Ilmarinen sets the sampo down, runes glinting, and I stand there, hollow, replaying Tapio’s death again and again. I can’t stop seeing it.
My father and Rasmus deepen their chant, straining to hold this fragile bubble of calm as the skeleton army hammers at the wards. Soldiers brace for another strike. The Magician mutters about fate. Lovia paces, staring down the enemy, blade at the ready.
A soft chime from the sampo cuts through the chaos. The ground trembles, energy racing up my legs as the sampo’s crystal core swirls with color, tapping into the ley line. The Old Gods sense it—Zelma’s shadows tremble, Thaerix’s vortex howls in panic, skeletons rattle forward. The wards waver.
“Hanna!” a voice cries out. I can’t tell who, but I know I’m needed. My fear still grips me, but I force out a faint glow of warmth, just a drop of sun. It fuses with the ward, holding back spears and clawing hands. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.
Ilmarinen works frantically. The ground cracks, ley energy sparking like fireflies. The Old Gods recoil; Zelma’s eclipse loosens, Thaerix’s winds falter, skeletons stumble.
For the first time, hope surges.
Then, the sampo’s glow flickers. Ilmarinen curses, adjusting the spheres. A crack appears in the crystal, and he tries to steady it, but it’s too late. The sampo vibrates, fractures webbing across its surface. “I can’t hold it!” he shouts, leaping back.
A flash of multicolored light blinds us, hurls us to the ground. I gasp for air. When my vision clears, I see skeletons collapsing into bone piles, Zelma’s darkness thinning, Thaerix’s vortex narrowing to nothing. The Old Gods, momentarily sealed away by the broken sampo’s surge, are sucked into the cracks, vanishing underground. Silence falls, broken only by ragged breathing.