Resurrection, p.1
Resurrection, page 1
PRAISE FOR HANNA PARK
Reading Resurrection reminded me of Sarah J. Maas’s A Court of Thorns and Roses, but with a sharper mythological backbone and a darker and more haunting atmosphere rooted in Irish folklore. What struck me was the writing itself. Park has a way of spinning language that feels alive, almost like it breathes.
LITERARY TITAN
Author Hanna Parks begins ‘Resurrection’—the extraordinary follow-up to her jaw-dropping debut ‘The Scald Crow’—in an overloaded explosion to my senses. I didn’t simply slide into the tactile, aural, visual, and scent of the narrative; I was launched, landing fully submerged in the fantastical worlds only Ms Parks can deliver. THIS IS SUCH A GREAT BOOK!
MORALLY GRAY NOLA
PRAISE FOR HANNA PARK
From ancient gods to a host of otherworldly magical creatures, Resurrection has everything to make it an absolute treat for fantasy lovers. The lore of this world is simply fascinating. The plot is fast-paced and features twists and turns that keep pulling the rug out from under your feet.
READERS’ FAVORITE
I wish I could visit the worlds Hanna Park brought to life
BOOKSIREN’S READER
RESURRECTION
BEYOND THE FAERIE RATH
BOOK TWO
HANNA PARK
BAISONG PRESS
Resurrection
Copyright © 2025 by Hanna Park
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. While some characters are inspired by Irish mythology and historical figures from the 1500s, they have been adapted and fictionalized for the purposes of storytelling. Any historical references have been interpreted creatively, and this book is not intended to be a factual or scholarly representation of history or mythology.
All characters, events, and settings are either purely fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies in accordance with Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790. Baisong Press expressly reserves this work from the text and data mining exception. Only brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews may be allowed.
Cover Art by Niki White www.nikiawhiteart.com
Visit Hanna Park at www.hannapark.ca
Baisong Press, Box 291, Port Carling, ON P0B1J0
First Edition, 2025
Digital ISBN, 978-1-0696340-0-9
Paperback ISBN, 978-1-0689975-8-7
Paperback Large Print ISBN, 978-1-0696340-1-6
Hardcover ISBN, 978-1-0689975-7-0
Published in Canada
to those who believe
Author’s Note
Resurrection is a tale woven with threads of magic, love, and ancient power—but even in Faerie, darkness finds a way in.
Within these pages, you’ll find a scene depicting a graphic attempted sexual assault. It is a key part of Calla’s journey and is handled thoughtfully, but I understand that some moments have a lasting impact.
If this is a sensitive subject for you, please read with care or consider skipping the scene altogether. Your well-being is more important than any story.
Thank you for walking between worlds with me,
—Hanna Park
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Untitled
Sneak Peek
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Hanna Park
1
Calla
Fog clung to the earth, drifting in a circular formation, shielding me from whatever dangers lived within the dark wood. I lifted my hand and extended my fingers. The mist responded, flowing backward, then drifting closer, playing a game of cat and mouse. The haar lived and breathed and had a purpose. The life breath of a being unknown within the mortal realm, called upon to collect and bring me here, to this unknown land, this Otherworld, the one the Irish whispered of in hushed tones.
I scoured the darkness for any entity accountable and found none, neither ghostly nor human. I was alone, and yet I was not.
I stared upward into a lacy green veil, tried to piece together the last few moments, and came to one conclusion—this was a different Ireland, untouched by the hand of man, by civilization. Lush ferns captured the forest’s spirit, and emerald fronds wafted in a still breeze. Red squirrels chittered overhead, leaping from one gnarled branch to another, rustling the broad leaf canopy.
Colm—the copper-haired Celt who had promised me forever. His fingertips leaving mine were the last thing I remembered.
The sky shivered, and thunderbolts had struck the sea. Ice pellets shot down, and balls of hail battered the sand, striking everything in its path.
I turned away from Colm’s anguish, from his love. A greater force had called to me, and I was helpless against it. No, that was a lie. I wanted to know. I needed to know. Who I was. What I was.
The haar wrapped me in warmth and swallowed me whole, the whorling sea giving me up to the sky. The needle bounced out of the groove and, everywhere, became elsewhere. One moment I was grounded—the next, I found myself thrown into a sparkling abyss, like a fly caught on a gust of wind. I had fallen from the sky, landing in superhero fashion—crouched on my heels, fists flailing. How far I had traveled, I could not say—this place was that and so much more. The aroma hit me first—damp earth touched by a faraway sea.
I stood, taking stock of my current condition, running my hands over my bones and finding none broken. My leggings had ripped at the knees. I gazed at my bare feet, toes curling into the soft earth. The oversized caramel-colored work shirt had held up. My silver link bracelet—still dangling from my wrist, not a single sapphire out of place from the dangling horseshoe. But where were my shoes? I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to tame the Kraken, realizing I had lost my hair scrunchie, leaving me no choice but to let my hair fall naturally, untamed in all its snake-like glory.
When I was young, I would chase the wind, leaping into the air and relishing the sensation of flight. Arms outstretched, I would soar high above the tall grass, unafraid of where I might land. I would lie on my back, lost in the rolling skies, at one with the universe. The earth would whisper, and I would listen.
What happened on the strand in Ardara brought back those same sensations.
My gaze followed the moving shadows and the stray sunbeam illuminating a man in its path. Dressed in soft leathers, with an archer’s bow slung over his broad shoulders, stood a man—Finvarra, the King of the Faeries.
I rubbed my eyes and looked again. He was the man from Ériu’s vision—my biological mother, the Princess of the Dead. The thought of opening that door filled me with dread.
I held my head high, anticipating the moment our paths would cross. This meeting was inevitable. Orlaith had confirmed the impossible—this immortal being was my natural father. Was it only yesterday that the older woman served tea to Colm and me in her sister’s flat in Dublin and, in no uncertain terms, revealed the truth? I had sisters. I was the progeny of a Faerie King.
He stood taller than any mortal man, thick-limbed and broad-shouldered. His nose was straight, and his lips were full. But his eyes—nothing could prepare me for those. Shimmering silver streams circled dark pupils of a crushed velvet hue. Banded in smoke and framed by long lashes, those lustrous orbs held me captive.
His jet-black hair swept away from his face with a leather thong, revealing the sharp, chiseled features of a respected king. A golden diadem adorned with blood-red rubies rested upon his regal head.
I folded my arms across my chest and swallowed the rock lodged in my throat.
“Rioghain, may I have a word?” He called me by my middle name, Ree-an, his golden voice piercing the silence. Even the squirrels listened—they sat at attention, twitching their tufted ears, awaiting his royal command. Leaving the footpath, he joined me among the ferns and, with a slight bow, presented himself. He seemed ageless.
I found myself caught in his silver-eyed gaze. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He should be dead if he ever existed at all: myth, legend, the Faerie Folk. This Other Crowd, this Otherworld the Irish whispered of, existed. I recalled the words of a believer—what is faith but belief in the unseen?
In the twelfth century, in an act of revenge, the Milesians invaded Ireland and defeated the Tuatha Dé Danaan. Many Tuatha left, but some, led by Finvarra, stayed. The man standing before me negotiated a truce with the Milesian High King, Érimón. The Tuatha would inhabit the world beneath the ground, building cities, kingdoms, and palaces of gold. More than that, they would instill fear in the hearts of men. Finvarra became King of the Daoine Sidhe of Western Ireland.
Yeah, I looked him up.
“What are you?” I hesitated at each word, rage coating my tongue. How dare he enter my life uninvited? How dare he take me from mine?
“I am Finvarra, and I am your father.” Simple, gentle words that spoke to my heart. He held my gaze. He saw right through me.
Huh. He could lure the unsuspecting away, trusting his languid expression and ethereal beauty. And yet, the idea of family wrenched my heart in a million directions. I crossed my arms over my chest and swallowed my last breath, acknowledging the awe flowing over me.
I had lived a happy and privileged life, sent away from Ireland as a babe to an unsuspecting family across the seas in Canada. My adoptive parents did not know the oddities I exhibited as a child were because I was not human. They passed away in a plane crash, oblivious that I was the halfling daughter of a Faerie King.
Twenty-nine years after my birth, a letter arrived. Dermot Sweet, a man with the same name as mine, had left his estate in the town of Ardara, Donegal County, Ireland, to me. I left in a heartbeat, thrilled to escape the nightmare my life had become, but the nightmares only worsened and the visions intensified. The last few weeks have weighed on my mind—those I had met and touched.
Saoirse, the young witch, grieved the loss of her beloved.
Colm, the man I wanted more than anything.
And Ciarán, the one they both missed, was taken by the Faeries many years ago.
Those I encountered brought the truth closer—their horrors were connected with mine.
“I asked what you are, not who. And my name is not Ree-an. It’s Calla, but you already know that.” I dropped my arms and stretched my fingers, cracking each knuckle, and then turned my gaze to the cloud-capped mountains, hugging this green vale to avoid confronting my past.
My visions began with Orlaith and ended with Ériu and the man standing before me—my ability to foresee was not a curse. It was something else.
Finvarra stole Ériu from the mortal realm, taking her from Dermot Sweet on their wedding day. Orlaith was there when Ériu delivered three daughters: one light, one dark, and one touched, and when Ériu died in the arms of her Faerie lover. A bad birth, Orlaith had said—were we to blame, my sisters and I? My thoughts spun. Ériu had called herself Princess of the Dead. What did that make me? I had so many questions.
The ferns parted as I circled the man, the mossy undergrowth soft beneath my feet. The aura surrounding him was imperceptible—one might almost believe him mortal. And now I stood face to face with the man who could answer my questions. It was almost a relief.
Colm’s voice screamed in my head, filled with such pain, demanding retribution. I stared at the man responsible for tearing me away from the man I loved, setting our connection aside for now. I looked with my heart and knew I would return. I would hold Colm in my arms again.
A waterfall ran down a rock face into a shimmering pool. Bluebells draped the forest floor, wood sorrel, archangel, and creeping underfoot, a carpet of golden saxifrage. Birds chirped, singing a song I had always known. A rhapsody filled my ears, the angelic strains of a harp. I shut Finvarra out, breathing in the sweet fragrance of wildflowers.
“We are the Aós Si, and this is our world.” He extended his gloved hand toward the ancient wood.
The threads loosened, and the knots unraveled. This moment had to come, and I didn’t know what to do with it. Family. Kith and kin. Bloodline. Ties that bind. Ériu sent me away from all of this. Why?
“What does that mean? Am I dead?” I looked at him, unbelieving.
“I would speak with you, Rioghain.” He lifted one side of his mouth in a thoughtful manner, as if this meeting were but a brief pause from his idyllic day, not one engineered by him.
“You’ve been spying on me, haven’t you? From the very beginning. Are you Seamus? How did you do it? How did you change into a different being?” I remembered the little man in the threaded red vest, short navy pants, and buckled brogues who welcomed me to Seldom Inn, the property left to me by Dermott Sweet. He had bent at the waist, sweeping his felt hat in a wide arc, his pert lips lifting. “Your father wishes to meet you. Would you come with?” He had offered his hand, his amber eyes reflecting a kingdom of dense woods and lush green fields.
It seemed so long ago.
“Seamus is in my employ. He is always with you, Rioghain. To keep you safe.” He motioned toward the forest.
I followed his gaze and beheld the little man concealed in the shadows of an old-growth pine. He seemed to step right out of the tree. Had he been there all that time?
“Lord King.” Seamus tipped his felted head in my direction.
“What is this? Who are you people? You don’t get to spy on me. Steal me away from my world. This isn’t right. Send me back.” I breathed through my nose, throwing Seamus a dirty look. He smiled back—his shimmering eyes filled with laughter. Then he dipped his head and was gone. I stared, open-mouthed.
“There are things you must know before you give your gift to a mere mortal.” His gaze did not leave mine—black pupils surrounded by a silver iris flecked with hard steel.
“Excuse me?” If he were a king, then I would be a princess. All those fairy tales rushed back to me, and then the pages of that storybook slammed shut. No fairy tale prince was coming to my rescue. I planted my feet in the lush forest and took on his regal persona.
His glamor flickered in the subdued light, exposing the true horror of Faerie.
The ever-changing eyes of a wolf-like creature, with fur as black as the darkest night, held its massive head low, yellowed fangs glistening in the half-light, ready to rip me to shreds. Its authoritative gaze demanded submission—the king of the glen in more ways than one. Go figure.
“A Dire Wolf? Huh. You’re quite the trickster, Fin. You don’t mind if I call you Fin, do you?” I maintained my position, refusing to blink or show any sign of fear. That would not do. I held the wolf’s gaze.
Still, that he transformed into another form in the blink of an eye? I was more than impressed.
The shapeshifting bastard lifted his lips, revealing a hint of a snarl.
I willed myself to think. The Tuatha Dé traveled to Ireland from four mythical cities, bringing mystical treasures and magical abilities. They were a force to be reckoned with. He had just proved it.
The air shivered, and the beast vanished, replaced by the archer in the hood. His tanned skin was almost too beautiful to gaze upon. This ancient had lived in the underworld for millennia. God only knew what persona he preferred: man or wolf. Both were dangerous beings, predators in their own right.
“You did well, dear one. You possess your mother’s bravery.” He nodded.
“Ériu?” My palms tingled as silver scales formed and vanished in the dappled light. My heart stuttered. Did I possess those same abilities? I gazed at my palms, smooth-skinned and devoid of any reptilian scales. If his familiar was a wolf, then what was mine?
I looked into those silver orbs, willing him to share his secrets.
“Let me be clear. Our people revel in pleasure, but pleasure is one thing—union is another. A king, a proud warrior, or at the very least a prince, awaits you, my dear.
I didn’t know what to do with that.
I left him staring after me and circled the thick tree trunk from which Seamus had emerged. I tapped the rough bark. No one answered.
“Are you referring to sex? The birds and the bees? Listen up, Fin. That conversation should have happened ages ago.” I ignored his sudden intake of breath and focused on this Otherworld, losing myself in the enchanted forest, a fairyland. “All right, I’ll play your game. What did you do with Colm? And what is this place?”
“Some would call this the land of the young, the land of pleasure. You need not worry. You will be safe within our world.” He gave me a look, lifting a single eyebrow.
“Safe from what? And how did I get here?” My thoughts returned to the one left behind. Showing weakness would not do, not in a place like this.
“You are referring to the féth fíada. One of many skills you will learn to call upon.” He cracked a smile, bewitching me with those shimmering eyes.
