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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 andmetallic, 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.
The ground beneath us trembles, sending cracks snaking through the ancient stones of the chapel floor, and parts of the ceiling start to fall, dust billowing into the room.
I lie frozen in terror and pain, unable to tear my gaze away from the surreal scene unfolding before me. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum of impending doom. I feel as though I am on the precipice of something unimaginable, something beyond the realm of human or godly comprehension.
As the chanting reaches a deafening crescendo, a blinding light erupts from the cauldron, illuminating the chamber in a sickly green glow. Shadows twist and dance along the walls, taking on grotesque forms that seem to leer at me with malicious intent.
And then, with a final, ear-splitting shriek that pierces the air like a knife, the ritual reaches its climax. The ground tremors intensify, threatening to swallow us whole as the very fabric of reality seems to warp and twist around us.
The cracks in the aisle split open, right down the middle, just feet away from me.
A large, long arm emerges from the crack.
All black fur with long, red claws.
It’s then I feel my horns being grabbed again, this time closer to my head. I yelp, trying to move out of the way, afraid I’ll be dragged to the creature waiting in the fissure, but instead, not-Hanna is dragging me away from the altar, to the back of the crypt.
“You’ll meet your grandfather some other day,” my mother says to me while all the statues behind her grin in unison. “Better to introduce you slowly. I wouldn’t want him to eat you all at once.”
And at that, I’m taken straight to the nearest cell and thrown in there in a heap. The last thing I hear before I pass out is the sound of the cell being locked with a key, and then a deep, animalistic growl coming from inside the crypt.
Chapter 17
Lovia
The Old Gods
The bell should be ringing, I think.
