Page 49 of Goddess of Light
The storm intensifies, flakes coming faster, heavier, as if the sky itself conspires to hide our fate. The wind picks up a mournful note, whistling through arrow slits, tugging at Louhi’s old banners that hang limp and frosted. I might need to talk to my father about keeping the visibility open, but this might not be all of his doing.
I make one last round, checking that the troops along the western walls are in place. They nod to me as I pass, their eyes weary but resolved. My father must be expending so much energy to keep them in line, and I have to wonder how much they truly understand. I know they’re afraid, but they still don’t have total autonomy.
Luckily, I know my father will follow through with what he said, that in the end, he will reward all of them with seats and places across the land when they eventually die. Hopefully, that won’t happen here, but rather when they return to the Upper World when they’re ninety. They won’t even go to the City of Death—if there is to ever be a City of Death again. They will be gods in their own right.
I stand near the battlements once more, sword at my hip, and try to imagine dawn breaking over this field. Will it be a dawn of victory or a pyre for us all?
How much longer do we have?
No answers, only silence, snow, and the distant hush of shifting wind.
But I have something more than I had a moment ago: the memory of that gentle kiss, a reminder that even here, at the edge of doom, there can be tenderness. It sparks a tiny flame of hope in me—hope not for promises or certain outcomes, but for the strength to face what comes and find meaning in our struggle.
I close my eyes, focusing on that feeling, and wait in the deepening night, heart steadying. Let the enemy come. We have our plans, our courage, and the quiet bonds between us—even those forged in silence and star-swirled shadows.
That will have to be enough.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LOVIA
A horn sounds softlyfrom a watchtower, waking me from my slumber.
I sit up fast and straight. I’m in the grand hall, having fallen asleep in the chair next to the fire. Across from me is Vellamo, her watery eyes wide and gleaming in the firelight. She’s dressed in armor that once belonged to my mother, black steel covered in spikes. She would look formidable if not for the fear in her eyes.
The horn sounds again, and now, I’m fully awake, hit with a spear of terror.
“Something is happening,” Vellamo says to me, quickly rising to her feet.
I pick up my sword, adjust my own armor, and hurry up a winding staircase to a balcony high in the castle’s spires. Soldiers with bows and spears line the battlements. I lean over the stone railing, straining my eyes into the darkness. The snowfall lessens here, as if a dome of clearer air surrounds the castle, granting us visibility.
Beyond, in the gloom, shapes move.
Oh Gods.
They’re already here.
They come from the top of the ridge that slopes down toward the swamp, dark figures that move quickly, running toward us. I estimate we have only a few minutes before they’re upon us.
“They’re here!” I yell. “On the other side of the swamp! They’re here!”
My cry is carried on the wind, amplified by the troops and generals and other Gods, followed by another blast of the horn.
“Where is your father?” Vellamo asks, looking around.
“I don’t know,” I cry out, holding my sword so tightly, I’m afraid my palm might fuse to it. I thought I was strong and brave and ready to be a general, but I’ve never been so afraid in my entire life. I can barely breathe.
This is it.This is it.
They come closer, enough for me to start picking out their forms amid the dark and blowing snow. The first line is one of skeleton warriors, their bones rattling, swords and axes in bony hands. They wear piecemeal armor, and in the dim light, their hollow eye sockets glow with eerie green fire, a sign of Louhi’s control. Behind them, towering silhouettes loom—a mass of Old Gods with too many limbs, twisted heads, and bodies that ripple as if made of shadows and nightmares. I see what might be antlered skulls floating atop writhing masses of bone. Strange, pulsing lights flicker around them as they advance.
Overhead, wingbeats fill the air, putting a chill down my spine. Looking up, I see dark shapes against the cloudy sky—flying unicorns, their bodies stripped to bone, manes of shadow, horns glistening with malice. They circle slowly, searching for prey.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper. I didn’t count on those. Gods, I hope Sarvi isn’t among them.
Louhi and Rangaista are not visible because of course they aren’t—they send their minions first. They must be holding back,waiting for a perfect moment, or simply letting their forces soften us before they strike themselves.
My mouth goes dry. We’re truly facing an army of nightmares. Below, soldiers shift nervously, muttering prayers and curses in equal measure. I scan the crowd for Rasmus, only to find him lurking near a supply wagon. He’s not fighting yet—he’s hesitant, or maybe just terrified. I can’t blame him, but if he wants to survive, he’ll have to choose a side soon.