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 reach a broad hallway lit by pale, phosphorescent fungi growing between cracked stones. A door made of iron bars stands at the end. The generals hesitate, so I prod their minds gently, pushing them forward. We must see what lies beyond.
The door is locked. I run my hand over the iron, feeling the residue of old spells. Louhi’s magic lingers like a stale perfume. Torben kneels and studies the lock, muttering softly. After a moment, he presses his palm to it, whispers a few words, and the iron creaks and yields. One of the generals shoulders the door open, and we step into a chamber that reeks of rot.
It’s a dungeon of sorts, or a torture chamber, or perhaps both. Chains dangle from the ceiling, old stains mar the floor, and along one wall is a raised platform, half-covered in dusty animal pelts. Lying there is a figure, barely moving, chained at the wrists and ankles, the sound emanating from him a low, wheezing breath. We approach, lanterns held high, illuminating a face as pale as bone, cheeks hollowed, eyes sunken, bearded chin crusted with old blood and saliva.
“Ilmarinen?” I say, more to test the name than anything else. He doesn’t respond. I glance at Torben, who tries a gentler approach.
“Ilmarinen,” Torben says softly. He steps closer and places a palm on the man’s forehead. The shaman flinches but is too weak to pull away. I notice his ribs pressing against his skin, as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks. His hair is matted, and scars crisscross his arms, strange marks carved into his flesh.
A flicker of recognition passes over Ilmarinen’s dull eyes. He tries to speak, but only a ragged cough comes out. Torben waves a hand, and one of the generals passes a canteen of water. We help Ilmarinen drink, tilting it carefully. After a moment of choking and sputtering, he manages a rasping whisper. “Who…who are you?”
I straighten. “You don’t know,” I say, feeling humbled by his ignorance. “I am Tuoni, the God of Death. The very God Louhi left for you.”
His eyes widen slightly. “D-Death…? Why are you here?” He coughs again, voice cracking. “She’s…gone. Left me. Needed…my magic. Used me up.”
“How did she use you?” Torben asks quietly, wiping some grime from the man’s brow. “Tell us.”
Ilmarinen licks his cracked lips, and I see now that runes have been etched into his skin. Not just random patterns—they look like siphon marks, sigils that drain a person’s essence. “She…took me from the Upper World,” he croaks. “Said she needed mortal power. Blood. Soul. She bound me, carved these runes so my magic would bleed into her. She…consumed it, every day, growing stronger until…she had enough.”
My fists clench. Louhi’s cruelty never surprises me, but I feel a fresh surge of disgust. She weaponized this mortal, stole his energy and twisted it into fuel for her conquests. “Where is she now?” I demand, voice colder than the ice outside.
Ilmarinen’s head lolls. His eyes focus somewhere past me, on the chains rattling in a faint draft. “Don’t know,” he murmurs. “She left. Said she had what she needed. Something about…Hanna and power awakening.”
His words strike me like a hammer.
I lean over Ilmarinen, letting him see my eyes, letting him feel a fraction of my influence. “What else do you know?” I say, this time softer, cajoling. “What are her plans? How can I stop her?”
The chained shaman shudders and tries to lift his head. “She…she said the Underworld would be hers,” he wheezes. “She wants to rewrite death…turn it into something monstrous. A place of eternal suffering. No rest, no peace. And Hanna… She fears Hanna. Or…needs her. I don’t remember.” His voice breaks, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. “My mind…fuzzy. She took so much. I can’t remember everything.”
I swallow thickly. The idea that Louhi wants to change the nature of death itself enrages me. Death should be a release, a transition, not endless torment. That’s not how I designed Tuonela. I might be arrogant, might delight in reminding mortals of their mortality, but I am not cruel for cruelty’s sake. Death must have order, purpose. Louhi is destroying that order. She is usurping my domain and the one mercy we’ve allowed humans after they die.
I realize I’m trembling, fury coursing through my veins. I glance at Torben, his mouth set into a hard line. The generals stand mute, not understanding what any of this means but ready all the same.
“Ilmarinen,” I say, voice steady now. “We will free you, but you must tell us how we can fight her.”
His gaze flickers with a hint of gratitude, but then it dims. “You can’t fight her directly,” he says on a cough. “Not now. She’s too strong. She’s gathered Old Gods to her side, gave them freedom from their slumber. She’s twisting the Underworld’s energies, feeding on them. You’d need something else. Allies.” He laughs weakly, a sound like bone scraping stone. “If there are any left.”