Page 113 of Goddess of Light

She gives me a small, tired smile. “I will be.”

“Do you feel anything? Other than all of this?” I gesture to the emotions flying around us.

“Maybe,” she says, thinking it over. “A kernel of something, deep inside in my gut. I think I have some power left. Could be indigestion, though. It’s hard to tell.”

I can’t help but laugh, the sound booming across the garden.

Fuck, that felt good.

From across the way, Tapio approaches me. He reaches out, clasping my arm in a warrior’s grip.

“You brought us back,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t me,” I reply, glancing at Hanna, who now leans against her father Torben, utterly spent. “It was her.”

Tapio bows his head toward her in silent respect before stepping back, his family gathering around him.

Rasmus and Tuonen are laughing with Lovia now. She still looks a little broken, but with them back, I think she’ll manage.

The soldiers begin to mingle, laughter and tears mixing as they embrace, as they realize they have been given a second chance. Beyond the garden, the portal that Torben opened remains open for anyone that wants to go back.

And above us, even in the blue sky, you can see the stars. They burn brighter, shimmering like a thousand watchful eyes. I know the Magician is there, among them, guarding the void as he promised.

Hanna moves closer to me, her face soft, peaceful despite the tears still tracking her cheeks. “We’re whole again,” she says quietly.

I nod, glancing around the garden at all we had lost and all we gained. “We are.”

CHAPTER 42

LOVIA

The Libraryof the Veils was once a place of quiet majesty, a sanctuary of knowledge, an encyclopedia of lives and souls. Now, it feels hollow, as though the air itself mourns its desecration. The stained glass windows still hold their vibrant colors—pale golds and violets, deep blues and greens—but the light they cast is dulled by dust and grime. Broken shelves and scattered books lie everywhere, some pages torn free and others soaked with dark stains. The lingering residue of Louhi’s foul magic hangs in the corners, like cobwebs spun of shadow.

It has been a week since the final battle.

A week since we lost the Magician.

And we have so much cleaning up to do.

I kneel beside a heap of books, carefully sorting through them, running my fingers over frayed bindings as though they’re fragile, living things. The act of rebuilding this place, of putting the pieces back together, gives me something to focus on. Something to keep my hands busy while the weight in my chest festers quietly.

Rasmus works nearby, his voice a low hum as he mutters shamanic incantations. He moves along the edges of the library,casting charms to cleanse the space of lingering corruption. Pale smoke drifts upward from his hands, curling through the air like silvered thread.

I watch him for a moment. He’s focused, eyes narrowed, brow furrowed. The scars on his arms—old burns from Rangaista, etched like veins of memory—seem to gleam faintly under the light filtering through the windows. For all the sorrow I feel over the Magician, it can’t compare with how happy I am that Tuonen is back, and Rasmus too.

The silence between us is comfortable, or at least I want to think it is. I pick up another book and carefully wipe the dust from its cover.

“You’re staring at me,” Rasmus says suddenly, not looking up from his work.

I blink, startled. “I’m not.”

He glances over his shoulder, one brow raised, the faintest ghost of a smirk on his lips. “You were. Am I not performing the magic to your satisfaction?”

“I’m sure it will do,” I reply. “I was just…thinking.”

Rasmus straightens, letting the spell settle into the air like a gentle exhale. “Dangerous habit, that. Especially for you.”

I glare at him, though there’s no heat behind it. He teases me a lot like the newfound brother that he is. A real nuisance, if you ask me.

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