Chapter 42
CHAPTER 42
LOVIA
The Library of 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.
He walks toward me, brushing his hands clean on the edge of his cloak. For someone who has spent so much of his life walking the line between betrayal and redemption, Rasmus seems oddly steady now. As though he has finally found his place—or at least a purpose—in the aftermath of war. I envy that steadiness. I envy a lot of things these days.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, crouching down across from me. His tone is light, casual, but I can see the careful way he watches me—like he already knows the answer.
I look away, focusing on a book in my lap. The leather is cracked, the lettering faded, but I trace it with my fingertips anyway. My throat feels tight.
“The Magician,” I say quietly.
Rasmus doesn’t respond right away. He waits, his gaze steady, letting the words settle in the space between us. Finally, he says, “You miss him.”
The admission comes before I can stop it. “Of course I miss him.”
I swallow hard, frustrated at how weak I sound. I haven’t allowed myself to say those words aloud until now. I haven’t let myself speak of him at all. I thought holding it inside would make it easier—that if I ignored the hollow ache in my chest, it might go away.
It hasn’t.
“I didn’t even know what he meant to me until he was gone,” I continue, my voice quiet. “He always knew. He knew, Rasmus. He acted like such an arrogant, maddening…oh, I don’t know what the hell he was, but he was something all right. And all the while, he knew this was his fate. And I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t change it.”
Rasmus’s expression softens, though he doesn’t say anything. What could he say? There is nothing to be said. I grip the book in my hands tighter, feeling the edges bite into my palms.
“I keep expecting him to step out from the shadows,” I go on, fully unloading now. “To smirk at me and say something cryptic. To ask if I’m still following the plan—his plan. Because he always had one, didn’t he?” My voice shakes, and I hate myself for it. “He always knew what to do, and I’m left here trying to make sense of it all.”
I stop speaking, realizing my hands are trembling. I set the book down carefully and press my palms flat against the floor, grounding myself. The Magician wouldn’t want me like this. He wouldn’t want me falling apart.
“He would say something infuriating, wouldn’t he?” Rasmus says gently, and when I look up at him, his lips are curved into a sad smile. “Something about fate and consequences and how it had to be this way and how everything is one big fucking tapestry. And he’d act like it didn’t matter that he was gone, as if his own sacrifice was inconsequential. As if it didn’t hurt you.”
I nod, my throat tightening again. Rasmus understands more than I thought he would. He’s been here before—been the one left behind, wrestling with grief and guilt. Maybe that’s why it’s easier to talk to him now, why I can say these things that I’ve held onto for the past week.
“He was infuriating,” I agree, forcing a weak laugh. “I hated how much he always seemed to know. How he never gave a straight answer. Made me want to scream sometimes.”
“And yet you loved him for it,” Rasmus says softly.
I freeze, my heart stuttering in my chest. The word hangs between us, sharp and undeniable. Love.
I want to deny it. I want to tell him he’s wrong, that I didn’t love the Magician—couldn’t possibly love someone so enigmatic. He was the damn universe. He even knew that I didn’t love him, like he knew everything else.
But the words die in my throat, because the truth is written all over my face, and Rasmus knows it.
“I don’t know what I felt for him,” I tell him. “Maybe it was love. Maybe it wasn’t. But whatever it was, it’s gone now. And it fucking hurts.”
Rasmus leans back slightly, resting his arms on his knees. He doesn’t push me to say more. Instead, he reaches for one of the books beside him and turns it over in his hands, as though inspecting it. His gaze remains thoughtful, distant.
“Grief isn’t supposed to make sense,” he says finally. “You can spend years trying to define it, trying to make it smaller, trying to understand why it hurts so much. But in the end, it’s just…there. Like a shadow that follows you no matter where you go.”
“Great. That’s comforting,” I mutter.
He snorts softly. “I’m a shaman, not a poet. Forgive me if I don’t have the right words.”
I manage a small, tired smile. “No. You’re doing good.”
“He wouldn’t want you to sit in this forever,” he says after a moment.
I nod, though it doesn’t make the ache any less. “I know. But it’s still hard.”
“Then let it be hard,” Rasmus says simply. “Let yourself miss him. Let yourself hate him for leaving. And let yourself remember him. Because the alternative is forgetting, and we both know he deserves better than that.”
His words hit harder than I expect. My chest tightens again, but this time it doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like release—like something inside me is finally breaking loose. I wipe at my eyes quickly, pretending it’s just dust, but Rasmus doesn’t comment. He just goes back to sorting books, his movements slow and deliberate.
The silence that follows is different. Lighter, somehow. The shadows in the corners of the library seem less oppressive, and the faint glow from the windows feels brighter, like the sun is reaching us for the first time.
I pick up another book, my hands steadier now. Rasmus works beside me, muttering incantations, his quiet presence a strange comfort. And for the first time since the Magician disappeared into the stars, I let myself hope that maybe, someday, this ache will be something I can carry—a shadow, yes, but one that doesn’t swallow the light entirely.
For now, it’s enough to keep rebuilding. To put the pieces back together, one fragile step at a time.
That night, I stand by my window, staring out into the inky darkness. The world beyond Shadow’s End is quiet, cloaked in stillness, the sea crashing beneath us. For a long while, I see nothing but endless shadow and the faint outline of the distant mountains. My breath fogs the glass as I lean forward, my forehead resting against it.
Then, faintly, something catches my eye.
A shooting star.
Then another one, lighting up the sky before disappearing.
The stars are brighter tonight, as though the heavens themselves have been scrubbed clean. They glimmer like shards of silver, scattered across the black canvas. I stare at them, my chest tightening as I recall his voice—the Magician’s steady words, his infuriating not-smile.
And for a heartbeat, I swear the stars wink at me.
I stare, breath catching. My hands curl against the windowsill.
It’s him. I don’t know how, or why, but I know it.
He’s up there, watching.
He’s all of it, everything.
“You always knew, didn’t you?” I whisper to the night.
The stars don’t answer. They just gleam, constant and eternal. But it’s enough. A small smile tugs at my lips, the ache in my chest easing ever so slightly.
“I miss you,” I say softly, the words carried away by the wind.
The stars shimmer once more—a silent acknowledgment, a promise that he’s not truly gone.
And for the first time in days, I don’t feel so alone.