Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

DEATH

The palace looms before us in jagged lines, each spire and parapet silhouetted against the murky sky. From a distance, it looked imposing, but now that I stand at its threshold, it feels like some wretched animal carcass picked clean by vultures—a place devoid of warmth or comfort, Louhi’s evil having seeped into the bones.

I order the troops to remain outside in the snow, to dig trenches, fortify positions, set guards. They obey wordlessly, rifles slung over their shoulders, the frost clinging to their eyelashes. The Star Swamp lies not far behind them, a shimmering deathtrap now mercifully iced over, but the air is bitter, the cold unrelenting. It doesn’t bother me now that I’m in my realm, but it must bother them. I know they are weary; humans always are. They last so briefly, burn so quickly. Yet, here they stand, mine to command. My coercion holds them to a strange neutrality—no one protests my decisions, no one asks the obvious questions. Without my influence, they would be terrified. I’m doing them a kindness, I think.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Torben shuffles at my side, his shoulders hunched against the chill. Beyond the towering black gates, the palace beckons, its doors ajar, as if opened in haste long ago and never shut. A layer of grime and frost coats the threshold, old footprints still visible.

For some strange reason, I had hoped that perhaps fate, if there is such a thing, would have brought me straight to Hanna. But of course, that was a foolish thought to begin with. The portal Hanna went through would have dropped her out somewhere else, not here.

I close my eyes and test my connection to her, but it comes up blank.

My heart twinges in response.

It can’t mean anything. Perhaps this place dampens my power.

I try to reach Lovia, Tuonen, even Ahto, but again, there is nothing.

“Are you all right?” Torben asks quietly from beside me.

I open my eyes and glance down at him, surprised by his concern.

“I can’t feel any of them,” I admit in a hush.

He nods solemnly. “Neither can I. It’s this place. It’s laced with wards and black magic. Don’t take it to mean your family isn’t out there.”

I nod, my jaw clenching. “I’m worried about Hanna.”

“You shouldn’t be,” he says. “I’m not.”

I frown at him. “How can that be? You’re her father.”

“And she’s a Goddess,” he reminds me. “She’s the prophecy. You don’t become that for nothing. She’s somewhere and she’s fine. We’ll find her when the time is right.”

And now, I feel bested by the shaman. I’m the one who should have such steady, stoic feelings here. I’m the one who is supposed to be an unstoppable, hardhearted God.

That’s what you get for having feelings for her , I tell myself, my chest tightening, revealing that my heart has grown so much softer than I’d like.

Hanna—fierce, clever, mortal-born, but with a lineage and a purpose that still mystifies me. She made me feel things I am not supposed to feel—hope and longing, frustration and tenderness, all muddled together. There is something in me—something old, stubborn, and proud—that resists admitting love, but I know I cannot bear to lose her. Not now, not when so much is already lost.

I push these thoughts aside. I have a more immediate goal I need to focus on: Ilmarinen, Louhi’s consort, the shaman she left me for. I have never met this mortal—I would have killed him and probably prevented this whole uprising if I had—but rumor has it she was siphoning him for his magic, letting it fuel her own power. Louhi was clever and had a demon’s power all her own, but she needed mortal magic, mortal blood, to amplify hers enough to take over my shadow self and raise the Old Gods.

Ilmarinen is supposed to be a sad excuse for a man, like a dog she kicks around, and I have a hard time believing she took him with her if she already gained the power she needed. If he still lives in this forsaken palace, he may have crucial answers. If she has discarded Ilmarinen, that might mean he’s still here, drained of power, somewhere in these halls.

I summon a few generals to accompany Torben and me inside. Three of them follow, their minds heavily influenced by my power. They carry rifles and lanterns, spreading a weak golden glow over the black stone walls and warped floors. This palace is a labyrinth of twisted corridors, many caked with frost and something darker—old blood, perhaps. Rusted chains hang from walls, hooks that once held tapestries now covered by dangling cobwebs. An odor of stagnant rot lingers, as if the place itself is decaying already.

“This is pleasant,” Torben says dryly, his breath steaming from his lips. His eyes dart around warily. “I’m guessing Louhi never bothered with housekeeping.”

“She had servants for that, though it’s curious how quickly this place has crumbled.” I trace a claw-like fingertip along the wall, where old carvings depict strange scenes—twisted faces, ominous symbols. The place was crafted to unnerve, to impress upon any who entered that they are in the domain of someone powerful and cruel. “If we’re lucky, we’ll find Ilmarinen quickly. I have no desire to linger here longer than necessary.”

Torben nods and gestures to a corridor branching off to the right. “This way feels…heavier,” he says. I trust his instinct; he can sense magic resonances. If Ilmarinen is a conduit of power, Torben might feel it.

We move down a spiral staircase carved from volcanic stone. The generals’ boots clink softly on the steps, lanternlight striking facets of black crystal embedded in the walls. My nerves feel taut—something is wrong here, some old echo of suffering that puts me on edge. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that everything is in jeopardy: my realm, my family, Hanna. It has all slipped out of my control, and I cannot abide that. I am the God of Death. I rule the afterlife. I am supposed to be on top, unchallenged, and yet here I am, sneaking through my ex-wife’s palace, praying I can find some half-dead mortal who might help me.

I hate feeling powerless. I hate that without Hanna at my side, without my loyal subjects, I feel hollowed. The desire to see her again is sharp, almost painful. It’s not just because she was useful to me, either. She’s something else. She touched something deep within me I thought long dead. If I let myself think on it too long, I might lose my composure, and I cannot afford that now.

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.”

“Enough,” I say gently. “Rest.” I motion to Torben to help me remove his chains. With some effort, the shaman’s bindings come loose, and Ilmarinen cries out as his arms fall free, fresh blood welling from where the iron cut his flesh. One of the generals pulls out a strip of cloth, and I use it to wrap his wrists. I may be Death, but I’m not heartless. This man suffered for Louhi’s gain.

Now, he’s our best source of information.

Ilmarinen watches me warily. “You…you’re different than I imagined,” he says, voice parched. “I thought the God of Death would be colder, crueler.”

I almost laugh at that. “I can be cruel,” I say. “But cruelty without reason bores me. I prefer order, and I would have you alive rather than lost in Oblivion.” I nod at Torben, who nods back. We help Ilmarinen stand; he’s weak, barely able to hold himself upright, so I instruct one of the generals to support him.

“Do you know of anything in this palace we can use?” Torben asks. “Weapons, relics, something to give us an edge? We have the Finnish army outside waiting to do our bidding.”

Ilmarinen shakes his head slowly. “She took most of what mattered with her, but…the armory might still hold scraps. Old blades, talismans. Not enough to defeat Louhi outright, but perhaps something to protect yourselves. There’s a library upstairs too—maybe some knowledge there? My powers are too weak, but I recognize a fellow shaman when I see one.”

I press a hand to my temple. More delays, more detours, but what choice do I have? I need every advantage.

“Ilmarinen,” I say, surprised by the gentleness in my voice. “Come with us. Show us the armory. Help us if you can. I’ll see you safe, I promise.” A hollow promise in a realm of shadows, but I mean it as much as I’m able. He nods, resigned, leaning heavily on the general’s shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Torben whispers as he leans in to me. “He is too weak to travel. He can just tell us where the armory is.”

I give him a steady look. “I know he’s weak and discarded, but I don’t trust him yet. I can’t leave him alone unchained. Louhi’s influence runs so much deeper than one would believe. I should know.”

He thinks about that for a moment and then nods.

“Let’s go,” he says. “I’ll help my fellow shaman.”

He moves to Ilmarinen and, together with the general, supports him.

“The armory is in the basement,” Ilmarinen says, voice a deep rasp. “Follow the stairs all the way down, then to the left.”

I lead the group out of the chamber, back through the iron door, and into the half-lit corridor, General Pekka behind me. We hurry down the stairs as quickly as we can without leaving them behind. Amidst the echo of our boots, the palace groans softly, as if resenting our presence.

Hanna’s face drifts before my mind’s eye—her fierce determination, the way she challenged me. Damn it, I want her by my side again. I need her, and that alone shocks me to my core. I’ve never needed anyone. Is that love? Perhaps. If it is, let it be a weapon. Let it drive me forward, push me beyond my limits. If I have to stare down Old Gods, break apart Louhi’s schemes, and tear down reality itself to reach her, I will.

We reach the end of the stairs and head to the left. As we move, Ilmarinen’s breathing hitches. He points down a side passage, where a door carved with sigils stands slightly ajar. “There,” he says hoarsely. “Past that hall, down a staircase. The armory is below.”

I nod, pressing on. Whatever scraps of power and weaponry we can salvage, we will. Then, we’ll leave this forsaken place. Outside, my borrowed soldiers build barricades, ready to hold back whatever nightmares might wander in while we’re here. I wonder how long they will last once I release their minds. Long enough, I hope, to matter. Long enough to save Tuonela.

Which, in turn, will save their own world.

But just as I’m about to enter the armory, I hear a stampede of footsteps, and a general calls out from behind us.

“Uh, sir? There are people approaching the castle.”

Fuck.