Chapter 18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LOVIA

I stand in a corner of the main hall, arms crossed, staring at a map pinned to the wall with a dagger. The hall is lit only by torches, their flames sputtering as the wind sneaks in through cracks in the stone. Snow drifts against the tiny, high windows of the castle, and the walls seem to hum with tension. The others—my father, Torben, Vellamo, Tapio, Tellervo, the Magician, a handful of generals—are gathered around a long table. They talk in hushed, urgent tones, planning what’s to come. Soldiers move quietly down the corridors, checking armor straps, sharpening swords, and muttering prayers.

I tap my foot, exhaling hot breath into the cold air. Outside, it’s snowing more heavily, the weather shifting, pulled by my father’s emotions. The snow muffles all sound, dampening every noise except the crackle of torches and the scrape of metal.

The tension in my chest builds. I know what I want to say, what I think we should do—I’m just afraid to put it into words, afraid to be wrong.

I take in a deep breath and stride forward, inserting myself into the huddle. The generals make space for me, cautious respect in their eyes. I nod at Tapio and Tellervo; they look weary, grief etched into the lines of their faces, but determined all the same. Vellamo stands beside them, her eyes distant and sad. Torben clutches his staff, frowning at the map. Rasmus is down in the armory, helping Ilmarinen forge the sampo, the device that will apparently help uncorrupt the ley lines. He’s been given a bit more freedom now, though he’s still guarded by the Magician. At least I trust him .

My father stands at the head of the table, arms folded, face set. He looks calm, but I know him well enough to see the strain in his posture, the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He glances at me as I approach, his gaze expectant.

I clear my throat. “We know they’re coming,” I say, voice steady. I’m trying not to let my frustration seep out. “We know the Hiisi Forest is infested with Old Gods, probably Bone Stragglers. We know they’re marching, that boats are coming down the river. Why are we still sitting here, practically waiting to be attacked? We should advance toward the forest and strike first.”

My father’s jaw tightens, as if he expected me to just blindly agree with his strategy. The generals look at each other, brows raised.

I press on, my voice rising. “Tapio and Tellervo’s powers are greatest in the forest. They can wield trees, roots, and vines against the skeleton armies. Vellamo can control the river and the beasts within—turn their approach against them. If we push into the Hiisi Forest before they set their ambush, we can catch them off guard, make them regret coming at us.”

No one says anything, so I keep talking. “We need to hurry. Don’t you feel the urgency? The snowbird told us they’ve halted, but for how long? We need to move, and we need to move now.”

“We are still waiting to hear from our allies,” Torben says.

“Well, how long are we supposed to wait? Forever? What if they never come? What if they’re…”

I don’t want to say gone, but from the hollow look in Vellamo’s eyes, I know she’s thinking it. She might be the last of our kind from the sea.

For a moment, I think my father might agree. His eyes flick to the Magician, who stands off to the side, galaxies swirling beneath his hood, silent and unreadable.

Then, my father’s voice comes, quiet but firm. “No.”

The single word makes my heart sink. He doesn’t snap or shout, but his tone leaves no room for argument.

“Why not?” I demand, hands on my hips, feeling less like a general and more like a petulant child who isn’t getting her way.

“Because of what Torben just said. We are waiting for allies; without them, we don’t have the numbers,” he says, meeting my gaze. “We’re too few, too fragmented. Fighting in the forest leaves us vulnerable to being surrounded. Tapio told us how his wards no longer work there, which means the forest itself has been compromised. We know Louhi’s forces are brutal and numerous, if not cunning. If we leave the safety of Castle Syntri, we gamble on controlling terrain that might already be corrupted beyond recognition.”

My frustration sparks. “But the forest Gods?—”

He shakes his head. “Tapio and Tellervo are weakened by what’s happened. They can still use their powers, but not like before, and Vellamo’s hold on the river is tenuous without Ahto. We risk too much by going out there. Here, we have walls, high ground, and time. Torben can unfreeze the Star Swamp at the right moment, turn the terrain into a deathtrap beneath their feet. We control this place, Lovia. If we leave, we control nothing.”

I clench my fists, wanting to argue. I want to remind him that being passive is what got us into trouble before—all those decades of my mother slowly forging her plan, piece by piece, while we sat back and let it happen.

But I see the logic in his eyes, the grim resolve. He’s right—we’re outnumbered, something Louhi would be counting on. My pride and fury struggle against his reason, but in the end, I inhale, hold my breath, and slowly exhale.

“Fine,” I say, forcing calm into my voice. “We’ll do it your way.”

A relieved murmur passes among the generals. Torben gives me a sympathetic nod, as if thankful I didn’t press the fight. Tapio and Tellervo look disappointed but resigned while Vellamo closes her eyes, perhaps remembering a time when we held more certainty, more power.

We finalize the plan. We’ll stay in Castle Syntri, use the swamp as our trap. Torben will hold his magic in reserve until the army is fully committed and then break the ice beneath them. Vellamo and Tapio will assist by luring them closer then striking with their own magic. If the sampo is ready before then, the shamans might be able to open the ley lines to lure and swallow the Old Gods.

If Rangaista happens to be amongst them, all the better.

Night falls down on us like a final curtain. Earlier, I felt impatient that we were doing nothing, sitting still, waiting for allies who might never show. But then, there was still daylight, even one covered in snow, and that brightness was enough for me to ignore my fear and focus on the things that needed to be done.

But now that darkness has fallen, everything has changed. The fear creeps in with the cold, and I’m not the only one who feels it.

I stand off to the side in the main hall, trying to steady my breathing as the others scatter to make final preparations. The torchlight quivers over worn stone, throwing shadows that dance like uneasy ghosts. The firelight glints off battered armor and sharpened steel, off anxious eyes and trembling hands. Outside, the snowfall thickens as the storm intensifies with my father’s brooding mood, and a knot of worry tugs at my stomach.

“Lovia,” my father calls softly, and I turn to face him. He’s at the table, still pouring over the map with Torben and the generals. He knows Tuonela like the back of his hand, but I feel he’s busying himself to keep his mind off the same things I am. At least it won’t hurt for the mortals to know the land by heart.

He nods at me, a wordless instruction to head to my assigned position. The tension thrums between us—he knows I disagree with waiting, but I must obey his orders. After all, I’m the head general for a reason, and it’s not just because I’m strong. It’s because he’s my father, and I’ll support him no matter what. I give a curt nod and step away, allowing them space to finalize the plan.

I move slowly through the corridors, passing soldiers hunched in quiet prayer or steeling their nerves by whispering amongst themselves. The air smells of metal and lamp oil, and my breath fogs in the chilly drafts. I slip into a storage alcove where I can be alone for a moment. For a few heartbeats, I let the tension roll through me, trying to release it as I exhale into the dim light.

I think of Hanna, my friend, my mother-in-law—a fact I still have a hard time wrestling with—somewhere beyond these wars, transformed by the sun’s power. Will she return? And if she does, what form will she take? I picture her smiling face as I remember it—bold, warm, reassuring. A little cocky, too. If she arrives too late, or not at all, we must face the enemy alone. I push that fear down. There’s no room for helplessness now. If my father can manage to stay strong without her, so can I. It’s a slippery slope to put all your hope into one person.

I straighten and head outside. The courtyard is filled with hushed activity: soldiers carrying bundles of arrows brought from the armory, a makeshift hospital corner where Tellervo arranges bandages and herbal salves, already anticipating casualties. I catch her eye, and she gives me a determined nod. She has been quiet ever since the loss of her mother and brother—using her healing powers is probably a good distraction for her.

It's not just her who looks determined. I see it grimly painted on every face. No one jokes or jests; the night smothers all levity. Snow swirls over broken flagstones and grotesque statues made in my mother’s image, all bat wings and curled ram’s horns. I watch the flakes dance in the torchlight then turn toward the ramparts.

On the walls, archers test their bowstrings and squint into the distance. The forest and swamp lie hidden by whirling flurries.

The trap is set.

All we need now is for the enemy to come. The waiting is a slow torment, each second stretching like hours, and the longer it takes, the more fear seeps into my marrow.

A hush spreads through the halls, a hush that gnaws at my nerves until they’re left exposed. Soldiers march quietly along the corridors, the metal of their swords and spears dulled with soot and ash to prevent unwanted gleams. Some of them check and recheck their rifles and ammunition. I see a young soldier, barely more than a teenager and so painfully mortal, fumbling with the straps of his breastplate. He sets his jaw, trying to hide trembling fingers.

We all wait.

We are all afraid.

A familiar hum of energy fills the air, and I glance sideways to see the Magician emerging from the gloom of the castle and out into the weather. He glides toward me with that silent grace of his, snow gathering on his hood. If he knows what will happen tonight, will he say anything? When it was us in the forest, I felt closer to him than ever before, but ever since we’ve arrived at the palace, I’ve felt distance between us. I know it’s because we’re both busy, but I still need him, especially in ways I don’t quite understand.

“Lovia,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry. He stands close, and my shoulders immediately drop with relief, grateful for his presence. Everyone else is too wrapped up in fear to offer comfort. He’s still calm and distant, yet somehow reassuring.

“You know what’s coming,” I say softly, studying the swirl of impossible stars, “don’t you? Will you tell me if we survive this night? Can you tell me if I survive this night?”

A faint shift of colors plays across the darkness within his cowl—indigo to silver, constellations rearranging themselves. He tilts his head. “You know I can’t,” he replies gently. “Some futures must remain uncertain, even to those who can see them. To speak them aloud would risk changing their course.”

Of course, he would say that. I clench my jaw. I want to beg him for reassurance, for a hint that all won’t be lost, but I know better than to press. He’s made of secrets and cosmic riddles and things far beyond my limited understanding. It’s who he is.

The tension in my chest doesn’t ease, though. The wind picks up, tugging at my cloak, sending a flurry of snowflakes dancing around us. My fingertips are numb against my sword’s hilt. “I hate this waiting,” I admit softly, voice shaking a little. “I hate standing still, letting fear crawl under my skin like bugs.”

The Magician raises a hand as if to comfort me, but he hesitates, uncertain. Then, as if making a quiet decision, he steps closer. The scent of old books and smoldering fire clings to him, or maybe that’s just my imagination. He lifts his other hand, fingertips brushing gently against the curve of my jaw. It’s a small, unexpected kindness in a night filled with dread.

“You carry too much weight, Loviatar,” he murmurs. “Courage and doubt are both heavy on your heart.” His voice, so calm and quiet, seems to still the snow for a moment. “I wish more than anything I could show you the path ahead, relieve you of this burden, but I cannot. To do so would change what needs to be.”

I growl internally at his cryptic prose. I want to cry, to demand he stop talking in riddles, to just tell me something real and certain. But looking at him, I see understanding in that shifting darkness, as if he truly cares.

Before I can respond, he leans in and presses his lips to mine—a sudden, gentle kiss, warm and unexpected in the icy night. For a heartbeat, I yield to it, closing my eyes, forgetting the storm, the enemy, the weight of everything. The world narrows to the soft press of his lips, a spark of beauty in a chaos of gods and monsters.

He pulls back slowly, galaxies still swirling in that hood. I’m breathless, heart pounding. I knew he was solid thanks to his hands, but I’d never touched his face before, let alone his lips. As I stare at him, I find no features at all, but I felt his lips like I would any other.

He’s manipulating matter to become real.

He’s becoming what I want him to be.

What I need him to be, even if just for a moment.

“Thank you,” I whisper, voice cracking slightly. I don’t know what I’m thanking him for—the kiss, the moment of comfort, or for just being present in a landscape of uncertainty. Maybe all of it.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says softly, reaching for my hand. We stand a moment longer in silent accord, snow drifting around us, holding on to each other. In the distance, I hear a muffled clang as a soldier drops a shield, a hushed curse as another fumbles with arrows, the sound of a rifle being loaded. Reality seeps back in. The Magician’s galaxies swirl slower, as if reluctant to leave this shared instant of warmth.

“I must go,” he says at last, regret in his tone. “There are illusions to prepare, positions to take. We are all needed tonight, every single one of us.”

I nod, biting back the urge to beg him to stay, to tell me more, to give some final reassurance. I won’t trap him in my fears, though. He has his role. We all do.

He fades into the gloom, disappearing soundlessly down stone steps. I lean against the parapet, the icy stone pressing through my cloak. The taste of his kiss lingers, a strange sweetness amid bitterness. For a moment, I feel braver—not because I know what’s coming, because I don’t, but because I know I’m not alone in my anxiety, in this silent vigil before the storm.

I take a steadying breath and return to my patrol, footsteps crunching softly on newly fallen snow. I pass the archers and gunmen again, meeting their eyes with a firmer gaze. I must show them strength, must be ready to lead. My father has put me in this position because he believes in me. If the Magician can offer comfort without certainty, I can at least offer courage, even without guarantees.

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.