Stella stands in the center of the cell, the half-eaten bread still heavy in her stomach. The taste lingers—dry, chalky, like chewing the ash of her old life. The collar is quiet now, but the warmth under her skin hasn't faded. It sits there, patient, like a second heartbeat she can't outrun.
She looks at the door. Iron, solid, no handle on this side. The lock is a simple mechanism—she's seen Winfried open it with a key twice now. Simple, but not simple enough.
Her eyes drop to the straw mattress. Beneath it, hidden under a loose stone she pried free with bleeding fingernails two nights ago, lies the brass leaf pin. The one she kept from the raid. Small, sharp, the only thing that still feels like hers.
She kneels. Lifts the stone. The pin glints in the violet light from the slit window. She picks it up, turns it between her fingers. It's thin enough, strong enough. She's never picked a lock before, but she's watched the stable boy do it once when he lost his key to the feed bin. Push, twist, feel for the click.
She walks to the door. Presses her ear to the iron. No footsteps. No voices. Just the distant drip of water somewhere deep in the stone.
She slides the leaf into the keyhole. Feels for the pins inside—three, maybe four. Sweat beads on her forehead almost immediately, a thin sheen that stings her eyes. The cell is cooler than her body temperature; the heat comes from inside, from the fear that her heart is beating too loud, that someone will hear the tiny scrape of metal on metal.
She pushes. Twists. Nothing.
Sweat trickles down her temple, drips onto the floor. She wipes her face with the back of her hand, breath shallow. The collar warms—slowly, curiously, as if it's watching her struggle. She ignores it. Pushes harder. The pin bends slightly. She grunts—low, frustrated—pulls it out, straightens it against the wall with shaking fingers.
Again.
And again.
The fourth time, one pin lifts. She feels it give. Her heart slams against her ribs so hard she thinks it might bruise them. She twists—slow, careful.
The lock doesn't turn.
She tries a different angle. The leaf slips. Scrapes metal. A tiny sound—sharp in the silence.
Footsteps.
Not close. Not yet. But coming.
She yanks the pin free, heart in her throat. Drops to the mattress, shoves the stone back into place, smooths the straw. Lies down, back to the door, breathing slow and even, forcing her body to relax even though every nerve is screaming.
The footsteps stop outside.
The lock turns.
Winfried enters.
He carries the same small clay jar—unglazed, still warm. The smell of honey and witch-hazel drifts across the room. He stops just inside the threshold, looks at her curled on the bed, then at the door.
He doesn't speak at first.
He simply stands there, gray eyes studying her face.
The frustration is still written there—brow furrowed, lips pressed thin, jaw tight, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to her hairline even though she tries to smooth her expression away.
"Are you all right?" he asks quietly.
The question snaps her out of the spiraling what-ifs.
She blinks, forces her face to relax.
"I'm okay," she says, voice flat.
A lie.
But she doesn't want to share the bent pin, the failed twist, the what-if scenarios that keep circling in her head like trapped birds.
She doesn't want to give him anything.
He studies her a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly.
Then he nods once—slow, not convinced, but not pressing.
"Your feet are bleeding again," he says instead, glancing down at the fresh red lines on her soles.
She glances down too.
Small, angry cuts from where she pressed too hard against the stone.
She hadn't noticed.
Winfried kneels beside the bed. Lifts one of her feet. The cuts are fresh—small, red lines. He works the balm in with careful strokes. It's cool at first, then warm, sinking into the skin like rain into dry earth.
She watches him. Sweat still clings to her hairline, cooling now. Her mind races.
If the lock had turned, she would have slipped out.
She would have moved through the corridors—quiet, barefoot, sticking to shadows.
She would have found stairs, followed the draft of air that always carried the smell of moss and distant water.
She would have reached the upper levels, the crowded dark-elf city—streets of black stone, torches burning violet, faces like smoked glass turning to watch her pass.
She would have kept her head down, cloak pulled tight, avoided the patrols with their glowing eyes.
She would have followed the flow of people, the pulse of the city, until she found a gate, a tunnel, anything that led out.
And then?
She doesn't know.
She doesn't know how far the city stretches.
She doesn't know how many levels lie above this one.
She doesn't know if the air ever turns fresh, if the sky ever appears.
The thought makes her stomach twist.
Even if she escaped the cell, she would still be inside the Hollow.
Still inside his world.
And the collar…
She glances down at it. The sigil is quiet now, but she remembers how it flared when Yuggul said her new name. How it warmed when she tried to fight it. How it listened.
She huffs—short, frustrated, a sound that escapes before she can stop it.
If she's caught—if anyone sees her outside this cell—the collar sticks to her throat like a brand.
In the dark-elf city, any violet-eyed stranger who spots it will know exactly who she belongs to.
Yuggul's mark.
Yuggul's property.
They'll drag her back without hesitation, without question.
And he can simply command her.
One word, and her legs will stop moving.
One word, and her arms will fall limp.
One word, and she'll kneel, or crawl, or stand still while they carry her back to this room.
She grunts—low, angry—fingers curling into the straw.
All of it—every step, every scrape, every heartbeat—could be undone with a single syllable from him.
The realization burns hotter than the collar ever could.
What if she made it to the city streets?
What if she ran?
What if the collar tightened and forced her to turn back?
What if Yuggul simply spoke her new name and she dropped to her knees in front of a crowd of violet-eyed strangers?
What if she fought the command and the mark punished her—roots tightening under her skin until she couldn't breathe?
What if she reached a gate, only for the collar to hum and make her stop mid-step, turning her around like a puppet on strings?
What if she hid in an alley, heart pounding, and someone still saw the sigil glinting under torchlight—someone who smiled, knowing exactly who she was, and called for the guards?
What if she tricked Yuggul into removing it—played the broken girl, waited until he was close enough to touch the clasp—and he simply laughed, said "Belinda," and watched her freeze?
What if she succeeded, tore it off, ran free—only to feel the mark beneath it pulse harder, roots already too deep, whispering his name in her blood?
She huffs again—sharper this time, almost a silent scream behind clenched teeth.
Her shoulders rise and fall in quick, frustrated breaths.
She wants to scream.
She wants to throw the pin at the wall.
She wants to tear the collar off with her bare hands.
But she doesn't.
She just sits there, staring at the bent leaf in her palm, feeling the weight of every "what if" settle like stones in her chest.
Winfried finishes one foot. Moves to the other. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere deep in the stone.
When he's done he stands. Wipes his hands on his apron.
"Tomorrow," he says. "Eat something. You need strength."
He turns to leave.
The door closes. Lock clicks.
Stella stares at her feet—clean, bandaged, no longer bleeding. She flexes her toes. No pain.
She looks at the door.
Then at the window slit.
Then at her own hand—still holding the bent leaf pin.
She huffs once more—quiet, defeated.
She presses her palm to the collar. The sigil is warm, almost eager.
She whispers, barely audible:
"Stella."
The birthmark answers—slow, satisfied throb.
She closes her eyes.
And for the first time, she doesn't flinch away from it.