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)
But the woman across from me wouldn’t care for those words. They wouldn’t mean anything.
I swallow the thickness in my throat. “If there is a way for me to bring the Hanna I desire to the surface, would you let me do it?”
She ponders that for a moment. “Only if you recognize the risks. That, in exchange, I might not be able to use my full powers, perhaps no powers at all. Then how would you battle Louhi and win? How will you get your son back?”
“We will figure something out. You saved us once, and that might be enough for us to save ourselves next time. Besides, maybe your father can grant you some of his magic, enough to keep some of your powers accessible. It might not be such a black-and-white situation.”
“I see,” she says. “What do you propose, then? How could you bring me back?”
I give her a sly grin. “In the most debased, primal way humans do to connect. One of the most human acts we have.”
She gives me a blank look. “You are talking about sexual coupling.”
“However you want to say it,” I tell her. I raise an expectant brow, having no idea if this course of action appeals to her. “Does that…entice you?”
Shit, I sound like a fucking imbecile.
She smiles faintly, and I swear I see something glittering in her eyes, though that’s probably just her powers. “Perhaps. I might need some time to consider.”
“Take all the time you need,” I tell her, getting to my feet.
“Something tells me you’re not a very patient God either,” she says, staring up at me.
“I’m not,” I say gruffly. “But I’ve learned to be one for you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LOVIA
The aftermath of battle is always quieter than you expect. The sounds don’t vanish; they just change. Instead of clashing steel and roaring commands, we have the moans of pain, soft weeping, hushed prayers, and the shuffle of boots on blood-stained stone floors. Instead of bellowing horns, we have the wheezing breaths of wounded soldiers and the distant crackle of fires still burning in the wreckage—fires sparked by Hanna’s radiant blasts. Yes, we’ve won, here within the broken walls of Castle Syntri, but it doesn’t feel like victory. It feels like survival.
And it’s a fragile fucking thing.
I pass through the ruined courtyard where the fighting was fiercest, stepping over fallen beams and twisted scraps of armor. Parts of the castle halls are now open to the sky, smashed by Old Gods, letting in a greenish haze of filtered daylight from the swamp beyond. We made our stand here when Hanna returned—changed, distant, haloed by strange light—and with her help, along with the rest of us, we pushed back Louhi’s invading forces. The cost was steep. The bodies of our allies lie in hastily cleared alcoves while the wounded occupy what remains of the castle’s interior chambers.
My sword hangs at my side, scabbard rattling slightly as I navigate collapsed corridors and toppled stone arches. What was once a hidden stronghold is now a half-ruined sanctuary. I should be grateful Hanna is back; her solar magic helped turn the tide, shattering enemy lines and scorching their ranks, but I haven’t really spoken to her since she returned. She has become a distant figure, a sunlit presence hovering in the old gallery windows, her emotions unreadable. I’m glad she’s alive, but I wonder what she’s feeling, if anything. She’s more goddess than mortal now, and while I know my father has been spending most of his time with her, I don’t know if he has been able to reach her. I sure wasn’t able to.
I head toward the first aid area—one of the old banquet halls near the eastern wall. The roof there collapsed when one of the Old Gods was shot down, and we’ve strung tarps and canvas between cracked columns. Vines from the swamp have already begun creeping inside, called forth by Tellervo’s green magic to aid her. Lanterns hang from broken rafters, and fresh moss and ferns have been laid as bedding. Not only is there not enough bedding to go around in the castle, but Tellervo says the organic matter will be better for healing.
As I approach, I hear muffled sobs and Tellervo’s hushed, soothing voice echoing off the stone. The daughter of Tapio is kneeling among the wounded, her antler-like horns now entwined with withered blossoms instead of fresh ones—she has been working tirelessly for hours, exhaustion circling her eyes.
I duck under a sagging tarp and step inside. The smell hits me first: sweat, dirt, blood, and the sharp tang of poultices. Rows of makeshift cots line the edges of the chamber, where soldiers lie moaning or unconscious.
Tellervo hovers her hands over a soldier’s abdomen. Vines of chartreuse light spiral from her fingertips, coaxing torn flesh to knit and blood to flow evenly again. The soldier’s grimace softens, and soon after, his breathing steadies. The lanternlight flickers over helmets piled in a corner, shields propped against fractured walls, uniforms stained with mud and crimson.