Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“You will pay for this,” I growl at her, fury rising inside me even though my heart is shattering like glass.
“Ha!” she says with a smirk. “I’ve already paid. I’ve made my sacrifices; I have since day one. Do you think I wanted to marry your father? I didn’t. I did it to please my own father and to service the family line. And today, I will finally reap the rewards of all that I waited for. I shall start by bringing him back from the dead.”
Who? Sarvi asks, voice shaking.
“So the unicorn finally decides to speak,” she says. “If you had been paying attention at all, you would already know.”
Rangaista, Sarvi says through a gasp.
“Yes. My demon father,” she says with a nod. “One of the oldest of the Old Gods. Both of you will be instrumental to the process.”
At that, she swiftly raises the sword above Sarvi’s head.
“No!” I scream, breaking free of not-Hanna’s grasp.
I run down the aisle, but it is too late.
The sword comes down.
Not on Sarvi’s neck, but on Sarvi’s horn, slicing it in half.
Sarvi lets out a brutal scream, and the half-horn clatters to the floor.
I holler, running full speed at my mother just as she turns the sword toward me.
I can see my own death, see that I’m about to be impaled and sent to Oblivion, and that will be all that I will ever know.
But at the last minute, my mother moves the sword out of the way.
She quickly brings it up and across, severing my own horns at the tips.
The impact knocks me off my feet, and I fall to the ground, just to see her catch the tips of my horns in her hands. She then picks up Sarvi’s horn and takes them to the altar.
I never thought my horns would hurt if they were cut, but the pain is so excruciating, I can barely think, barely breathe. It may be even worse for Sarvi, whose screams still fill the crypt, burning my ears.
I writhe on the ground and glance up at the unicorn. Sarvi has collapsed to their knees, head hanging on the ground, twitching. I don’t think this injury will kill me, but I don’t know about Sarvi. It’s possible that removing that much of the horn is akin to losing a limb.
“You’ll want to be quiet, or you’ll lose your wings too,” my mother snaps at him. Then she nods at not-Hanna. “Make sure neither of them do anything stupid.”
“Should I take them to the dungeon?” Not-Hanna asks.
“Wait,” she says. “I want them to see how the Old Gods become the new gods. I want to them to see the downfall of their underworld as they know it.”
This would be the time to run. If only I could just get up and run or attack my mother and kill her, kill Salainen, put an end to what they’re about to do.
But the pain has me in a chokehold. I can’t do anything but lie here and squirm and watch as my mother places a gold cauldron on the altar’s table.
She starts to chant, pouring in various liquids from multi-colored vials, stirring them together with Sarvi’s horn. My vision starts to blur, becoming grey at the edges, her voice going so high that the glass vials and containers start to shake and then, so low, the crypt itself starts to rumble.
At one point, the liquid in the cauldron starts to cast green shadows on her face, and in those shadows, I see the false face of my father fade. I see hers emerge.
And yet, it’s not my mother anymore. She’s becoming someone else, something else, something she’s always kept hidden behind her already deadly façade.
The air is becoming heavy and musty now, smelling of dirt and decay. As the ritual progresses, the smell of death becomes stronger, filling my nose with a sickening stench, and it gets harder to breathe. The taste of magic lingers in the air, sharp and metallic, almost tangible on the tongue. It’s as if the very air is charged with darkness, ready to be unleashed.
I will be the witness.
My mother is making sure of that.
Finally, she picks up my horns and a dagger and starts shaving off bits into the cauldron. Sparks and smoke emerge, floating up through the air, and my mother bellows, arms held out to the sides.
Then she laughs and laughs and laughs.
The statues of dead saints that line the aisle begin to move. They lift their legs, marble and stone come to life, and walk to the altar with heavy, shaking steps to stand behind my mother. Their eyes gleam with a malevolent light as they raise their arms in a synchronized motion, their mouths opening in eerie unison. Their voices drone on and on until I have to press my hands over my ears, until it becomes louder and louder, impossible to keep out. It’s no longer just words, but this frantic buzzing sound, like a million insects coming to the surface.