Kitobni o'qish: «A COURT OF FROZEN HEARTS»

Chapter 1

I should have listened to old Eila.

That morning, when we'd stopped to buy supplies at the village's only shop, she'd caught my wrist with bony fingers. Her grip had been surprisingly strong for a woman well past seventy.

"Don't go into the Old Forest, girl," she'd hissed, staring directly into my eyes. "Especially when the mist is rising."

"Why?" Chloe had giggled, pawing through packages of biscuits. "Are there ghosts?"

The old woman hadn't taken her gaze off me.

"Worse," she'd said grimly. "Things that were here before ghosts. Before people. Before everything."

Chloe had rolled her eyes, and I'd smiled politely, easing my arm free. Local legends, of course. Every village had its "cursed forest" or "haunted house" to lure in tourists.

How wrong I'd been.

Now, standing at the edge of that very forest with my camera in hand, I could have given the old woman a medal for accuracy. The mist was indeed rising—thick and unnaturally white, creeping between the trees like something alive.

"Elise, are you coming or are you going to stare at that fog all day?" Chloe called from the top of the hill. Her bright pink jacket stood out against the gray-green landscape like a neon sign.

"Coming!" I called back, adjusting my camera bag's strap.

We'd arrived in this backwater last night. Chloe was here to escape London's madness and "find herself" after another painful breakup. I was here for shots for my graduation project. "Wild Scotland" was supposed to be my ticket into the world of serious photography.

Assuming I lived to graduate, of course.

The first warning signs came even before we reached the forest. The birds that had been cheerfully chirping in the bushes fell suddenly silent. Complete, dead silence. Even the wind died, as if nature itself had held its breath.

"Strange," I muttered, raising my camera.

Through the lens, the forest looked even more ominous. And when I checked the shot I'd just taken on the display, I nearly dropped the camera.

In the photo, between the trees, I could make out vague silhouettes. Tall figures, too thin to be human.

But when I looked up, there was nothing there.

"Camera's glitching," I told myself, but my voice shook.

Chloe had already disappeared around a bend in the path, and I stopped at the very edge of the forest. The air here was different—denser, saturated with the scent of moss and something sweetly cloying. Beneath the beauty of autumn colors lurked a barely perceptible smell of rot.

The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees. I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter, and checked my watch.

Half past two.

The mist thickened with every step deeper into the forest. At first it was just light wisps playfully coiling around my ankles, but soon it rose to my waist, transforming the world into a ghostly copy of itself. Trees loomed out of the milky veil like giants from nightmare tales.

"Chloe?" I called, but there was no answer.

The pink jacket had vanished into the white haze.

I stopped, listening. The usual forest sounds had dissolved into silence. My camera stopped its quiet hum—the autofocus thrashing frantically, unable to find a point to lock onto in this sea of white.

"Chloe!" I called louder.

My voice echoed back, but strangely distorted—as if my words were bouncing off invisible walls. And then... another voice.

"Elise..." Faint, distant. "Elise, where are you?"

Chloe! She was calling from the right. I bolted in that direction, pushing through the thickening fog.

"Elise!" Now the voice came from the left.

I stopped, feeling goosebumps crawl down my spine. Chloe couldn't be in two places at once.

"Elise..." Now the voice sounded directly behind me, soft and insinuating.

But it wasn't Chloe's voice. Similar, but... different. More melodious. Too perfect.

I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers. No signal, as expected. But worse—the time on the screen still showed half past two. The seconds weren't moving.

Time had stopped.

Panic began to creep in, but I forced myself to breathe steadily. Just fog. Just lost. Chloe was somewhere nearby—I needed to find her and get back to the car.

I moved at random, trying to keep a straight line. Each step fell dully on the soft earth carpeted with fallen leaves. Branches caught at my clothes with almost deliberate persistence.

Then the ground beneath my feet changed. Instead of moss and leaves—bare, black earth. And tracks.

Footprints in the mud. But not human—too long, too narrow, with marks from claws at the end of the toes.

The sensation of being watched became so strong that my skin prickled. I slowly raised my head.

And saw the tree.

It towered before me like an ancient sentinel—a massive oak with a crown that disappeared into the mist. The trunk was so wide that six grown men couldn't have circled it with their arms. And the bark...

The bark was covered in scars. Deep grooves that were definitely not natural. They formed patterns—spirals, interlacing lines, symbols that hurt to look at, though I couldn't understand their meaning.

"You shouldn't be here."

I jumped, spinning around. A figure emerged from the mist—a boy about fourteen with dark hair and eyes the color of autumn sky. He wore simple brown clothing that looked as if it had been sewn several centuries ago.

"Who are you?" I breathed. "Where did you come from?"

"That doesn't matter." His voice sounded muffled, as if coming from underwater. "What matters is that you're standing at the Summoning Tree in the hour between worlds. Leave. Now."

"Summoning Tree?" I glanced back at the oak. "It's just a tree..."

"Nothing here is 'just' anything," the boy shook his head, and pity flickered in his eyes. "Especially in the Old Forest. Especially when hungry things wake."

"Listen, I'm just lost..."

But he was already dissolving into the mist, as if made of the same milky vapor.

"Don't touch the tree," his voice drifted from the emptiness. "If you value your human soul—don't touch it..."

And I was alone.

Alone with this cursed tree and the thickening fog.

In the silence, other sounds began to emerge. Rustling. Whispers in an unfamiliar language. Music—a wordless melody, beautiful and terrible at once, that made my blood move faster.

And laughter. Silver, melodious, inhuman.

I pulled out my camera, more to calm my nerves than anything. Aimed at the trunk with its mysterious scars, pressed the shutter.

On the display, I didn't see an empty forest.

Figures surrounded the tree—tall, graceful, with faces too beautiful and too alien. Their eyes glowed in the half-light like predators'.

They were looking directly into the lens. Directly at me.

My hands shook so badly the camera nearly slipped. I looked up—nothing. Looked at the display again—the figures were closer.

Animal fear struck like lightning.

I stumbled back from the tree, tripped over a protruding root, and fell. Instinctively I threw out my hands to break the fall, and my right palm slammed hard against the oak's rough bark.

The pain was sharp—I'd scraped skin on some particularly rough protrusion. Blood welled immediately, and several drops rolled down my palm, feeding one of those ancient scars on the bark.

The world exploded with sensation.

Not light, not sound—hunger. As if something vast, ancient, and unspeakably ravenous had suddenly awakened and caught the scent of fresh blood.

The tree beneath my palm became alive. The bark pulsed like skin, drinking in the blood with the greed of a parched sponge. The scar-symbols flared with a dull red light, and waves rippled through the trunk, as if a giant heart beat beneath the bark.

The mist erupted into motion. It spun into a vortex, and through its tatters they broke through.

The Fae.

Even without knowing the word, I understood what they were. Tall, otherworldly beautiful, with sharp features and eyes where constellations swam. Their skin glowed with a pearlescent sheen, and their movements were so graceful that human locomotion would seem pathetic in comparison.

But their beauty was predatory. Too-sharp teeth flashed in their smiles, and their gazes promised things that could shatter a mind.

The music grew louder—wild melodies that made you want to dance until death. Someone laughed, someone sang in a language older than human speech.

And then one of them stepped forward.

He was taller and more beautiful than the rest. Platinum hair flowed over his shoulders, eyes blazed the color of winter sky, and his skin seemed carved from the finest marble. A crown of ice and thorns glittered on his head.

When he smiled, the temperature dropped so sharply my breath became visible.

"What an... unexpected gift," his voice was melody and menace at once. "A mortal daughter of blood has come to us of her own accord."

I couldn't move or speak. His gaze held me like a snare.

"Welcome home, Elise Thorne."

He knew my name.

His smile widened, baring sharp fangs.

"It's been so long since I hunted fresh prey. I do hope you'll run faster than the others."

Every cell in my body screamed: run. Run without looking back, run as if your life depends on it. And it probably did.

The spell of his gaze broke, and I bolted.

Branches whipped my face, roots caught at my feet, but I didn't stop. The mist parted before me and closed behind, and the music pursued me—now louder, now softer, but never silent.

Their laughter echoed in my ears, merging with the pounding of my wildly racing heart.

I ran without watching where I was going, crashing through bushes, stumbling over roots, scratching my face on branches. The forest seemed to come alive and try to stop me—the path disappeared beneath my feet, trees bent to block my way, and roots crawled from the earth like tentacles.

"Elise..." drifted from the mist behind me. "Don't run, child... We've waited so long..."

The Fae king's voice grew closer, then farther, as if he were playing cat and mouse with me. Perhaps he was.

Time flowed strangely. It seemed I'd been running for hours, but the sun hadn't moved. Or the opposite—I'd only run for a minute but had covered miles.

My lungs burned from lack of air, my side cramped, my legs buckled. But fear was stronger than exhaustion. Fear and the strange sensation that if I stopped, I would never be able to run again.

The mist began to thin. The music faded. And suddenly before me opened a familiar scene—a narrow road, a shoulder, our rented blue car.

Chloe stood beside it, leaning against the hood and concentrating on typing something into her phone. She looked completely calm—no trace of panic or searching.

"God, Chloe!" I burst from the forest, gasping and swaying. "Where were you? I looked everywhere for you! There was... there was something..."

"Elise?" She looked up, blinking in surprise. "What are you talking about? I've been waiting here for half an hour. Thought you'd decided to do a photoshoot until dark."

I stopped dead.

"Half an hour? Chloe, I was running around in there for over two hours!"

She looked at me like I'd lost my mind, then glanced at her watch.

"Elise, it's quarter to four. We split up at three twenty." Chloe frowned, looking me up and down. "And anyway, what 'there' are you talking about? You said you wanted to photograph that old oak at the edge, I went to the car. We were apart twenty minutes, tops."

"What old oak?" I whispered, turning toward the forest.

Behind me stretched an ordinary Scottish forest—young birches, rowans, shrubbery. No giant oaks. No mist. Not even traces of my mad flight visible on the flattened grass.

"That one right..." Chloe waved toward the forest but didn't finish. "Huh, strange. Where is it, actually?"

I looked at my hands. My right palm was clean—no scratches, no dried blood, no dirt. My clothes also looked as if I hadn't pushed through underbrush. Even my breathing had already recovered.

"Chloe," I began carefully, "did you see anything strange? Hear anything?"

"Like what?" She put her phone in her pocket. "If you mean that stupid fog, then yes, I saw it. Rolled in about ten minutes ago, then cleared. Probably rose from the lake."

I pulled out my camera, barely controlling the trembling in my hands. The last photos...

On the display were ordinary landscapes. Trees, grass, autumn colors. No mysterious figures, no ancient oaks with symbols on the bark. As if nothing had happened.

But when I scrolled further, my heart skipped a beat.

One frame was different. Blurred, dark, but in the very center—the silhouette of a man with platinum hair. He stood between the trees and looked directly into the lens. Directly at me.

And in his eyes, constellations swam.

"What's that?" Chloe peered over my shoulder.

"Don't know," I lied, quickly scrolling past. "Accidental shot."

"Looks like that actor from Game of Thrones," she snorted. "Let's go. It's getting dark, and I don't want to drive mountain roads after sunset."

I nodded but couldn't tear my gaze from the photograph. As the car pulled away, I looked back at the forest one last time.

And for a second—just a moment—I thought I saw a tall figure with platinum hair flash between the trees again.

But it was my imagination.

Of course.

Chapter 2

Mrs. McGill froze halfway to the sitting room, holding a tray of teacups.

I'd tossed aside the travel blanket and risen from the armchair, stretching after the long drive, when her face contorted with an expression of genuine horror. The tray slipped from her hands and crashed onto the stone floor. Porcelain shattered into fragments, and hot tea spread in dark stains.

"Merciful God," she whispered, backing toward the wall. "What... what is that?"

Chloe jumped from the sofa.

"Mrs. McGill! What's wrong?"

But the old woman couldn't take her eyes off me. Her face had paled to a deathly white, and her lips trembled.

"You... on you..." She extended a shaking hand in my direction but didn't dare come closer.

"On me what?" I looked down at myself in confusion. Ordinary clothes, slightly rumpled from the road, nothing special.

"Shadow," Mrs. McGill breathed. "Their shadow lies upon you. How... how is this possible?"

Chloe frowned.

"What shadow? What are you talking about?" She circled me, examining me closely. "I don't see anything."

"Because you don't have the Sight," the old woman pressed a hand to her heart. "But I do. And I see... Lord, what have you done, girl?"

Cold crept down my spine.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"You've been with Them," her voice dropped lower, but that only made it sound more terrifying. "Touched the world of the Elder Folk. Their mark is on you, like a brand."

"Mrs. McGill," Chloe approached the old woman and carefully took her shoulders, "you need to calm down. Elise hasn't met anyone, we've been together all day."

But the old woman continued to stare at me in horror.

"The shadow is silvery, cold. It wraps around you like a shroud." Her voice shook. "It's the mark of the Winter Court."

"What does that mean?" I whispered.

Mrs. McGill silently walked to the cupboard, pulled out a bottle of whisky, and took a long drink straight from the bottle.

"It means they're interested in you," she said finally. "And they'll come for you."

***

The rest of the evening passed in tense silence. Mrs. McGill cleaned up the shards, prepared dinner, but barely spoke at the table. Only occasionally casting frightened glances my way.

Chloe tried to lighten the mood with jokes, but even her usual optimism showed cracks.

"Maybe we should go to the pub?" she suggested when we went up to our room. "Meet some locals?"

"No," I answered, pulling my camera from my bag. "I'm tired."

But that wasn't the only reason. Something pulled me to look at those photos again. To understand what I'd really seen in the forest.

Chloe went to take a bath, and I sat on the bed and turned on the camera.

The first shots were ordinary—landscapes, hills, autumn colors. Then came the forest. Mist between trees, play of light and shadow. Everything normal, everything explainable.

And then...

***

Cold.

That was the first thing I felt. Not ordinary cold, but something alive, penetrating to the bone. The stone floor beneath my bare feet was covered with a thin layer of frost that crunched with each step.

I stood in a long corridor lit by torches with blue flames. Walls of black marble rose to a vaulted ceiling, disappearing into darkness. The air smelled of winter—snow, pine, and something else I couldn't identify.

I looked down at myself and gasped.

A white silk dress barely covered my knees. The fabric was thin, almost transparent, and offered absolutely no protection from the cold. My feet were bare. Dark hair fell in heavy waves over my shoulders and chest—I usually kept it tied back, but now it was loose, creating a stark contrast with the snow-white fabric of the dress and the paleness of my bare shoulders.

But worst of all was the wreath on my head.

I raised trembling hands and carefully touched the adornment. Flowers... but not ordinary ones. White roses with petals cold as ice. Silvery twigs with blood-colored berries. And thorns. Countless sharp thorns that pricked the skin.

"What the hell?" I whispered, trying to remove the wreath.

But the moment my fingers touched the thorns, sparks of pain shot through them. The wreath seemed to have grown into my skin. Every attempt to remove it caused unbearable agony.

Tears welled in my eyes. What was happening to me? Where was I? How did I get to this place?

I tried to remember. The inn. Chloe. Photographs. I'd been looking at photos and... fallen asleep?

"This is a dream," I said aloud, and my voice echoed off the marble walls. "Just a very vivid dream."

But the cold felt too real. The pain from the thorns—too sharp. And the smell of winter and danger made every instinct scream to flee.

The corridor stretched in both directions, disappearing into darkness. I chose a direction at random and walked along the icy floor, shivering from the cold.

My footsteps echoed hollowly. Torches with blue flames followed one after another, but between them gaped pits of absolute darkness. Sometimes I thought something moved in that darkness, but every time I turned around, there was nothing there.

The corridor forked, tripled, became a labyrinth. I walked randomly, obeying some inner compass. My feet had already gone numb from the cold, and the wreath's thorns dug into my skin with every movement.

When I tried to tilt my head, the sharp ends scratched my forehead, and a thin trickle of blood ran toward my eyebrow. I froze, wiped the blood away with trembling fingers. The wreath seemed to be warning me—attempts to remove it would end in pain.

And suddenly I heard a sound.

Music. Laughter. Voices.

I quickened my pace, almost running along the icy floor toward the source of the sounds. The corridor ended at enormous double doors of black wood, decorated with silver carvings. They were slightly ajar, and warm golden light streamed from within.

And also—sounds of merriment.

I crept to the gap between the doors and peered inside.

And forgot how to breathe.

The throne room stretched to infinity. Pillars of black ice rose to a dome where unfamiliar constellations glimmered. Between the pillars burned thousands of candles, but their flames were cold, blue.

And in the center of the hall, madness reigned.

Fae danced to music that sounded like a mixture of harp and howling wind. Their movements were too fast, too fluid for the human eye. Dresses and cloaks billowed as if woven from mist and moonlight.

But the dancers themselves were nightmares.

A woman with the lower body of a snake slithered between couples, her scales shimmering in the candlelight. A man with a deer's head whirled a lady whose face was half human, half wolf. A creature that looked like a tree with eyes danced with itself, and its branch-arms left trails of green fire in the air.

By the other walls, they feasted. At long tables sat Fae of all kinds and sizes. They ate things that moved on their plates. Drank from goblets that smoked and sparked. Their laughter was like cracking ice and tinkling bells.

And on a dais at the far end of the hall stood a throne.

A throne of black ice and... bones. Human bones, polished to a shine. And on the throne sat him.

The king with platinum hair and eyes the color of winter sky.

Even at a distance, his beauty was stunning. He sat casually, one leg thrown over the armrest, watching the revelry of his subjects. He wore a cloak of black velvet with silver embroidery, and a crown of ice and thorns shone in the candlelight.

I backed away from the door, but it was too late.

The heavy doors swung open on their own with a loud creak.

The music cut off. The dancing stopped. Every head turned toward me.

Hundreds of eyes looked at me. Human, animal, utterly inhuman. Some held curiosity, others hunger. And in some—open hostility.

I stood in the doorway in my thin dress, barefoot and shivering from cold, and felt like a mouse that had wandered into a nest of serpents.

The crowd of Fae began to part, forming a corridor from the door to the throne. Some hissed and pointed fingers at me. Others whispered in their melodious language.

"Come," someone whispered near my ear, though no one was nearby. "Come to him."

My legs moved on their own, as if someone controlled them. I walked down the corridor between the Fae, feeling their gazes like physical touches. The floor beneath my bare feet was covered with frost that crunched with each step.

Someone reached out and touched my shoulder. The fingers were icy and left a burning mark on my skin.

"Pretty," hissed a woman with cat eyes. "Can I have her bones when you're finished?"

"After me," growled a wolf-man. "My cubs need meat."

I quickened my pace, but the corridor seemed endless. And the Fae grew more curious.

"Bow!" someone shouted from the crowd. "Disrespect to the king!"

Someone's hands roughly shoved me in the back. I stumbled but at the last moment stayed on my feet, throwing out my arms for balance. Instinctive fear made me straighten and lift my chin.

A displeased hiss rippled through the Fae.

"Insolent mortal!"

"How dare she!"

"Teach her manners!"

Hands reached for me from all sides. Claws, icy fingers, tentacles—everything merged in a nightmarish dance. I cringed, bracing for pain.

"ENOUGH."

The voice rolled through the hall like thunder. All the Fae froze instantly, as if turned to statues.

The king rose from his throne.

He moved with that fluid grace that was too perfect for a human. Each step echoed in the silence of the hall. His cloak billowed though the air was still, and his crown shone with cold light.

"Don't touch her," his voice was quieter, but that only made it more menacing. "She's new. Doesn't yet understand where she is."

The Fae parted, clearing a path for him. Some bowed low, others averted their eyes. But I saw how their hands trembled with restrained fury.

The king stopped a few steps from me. Now that he was so close, I could make out the details of his inhuman beauty.

His skin was pale as first snow and seemed to glow from within with a soft silvery radiance. Cheekbones sharp as a statue's, lips perfectly defined. But his eyes... his eyes were the color of winter sky before a storm, and in them swam constellations that didn't exist in the world of humans.

"Elise," he spoke my name, and it sounded like music. "At last you've come to my house."

I opened my mouth to answer, but my voice caught in my throat. The cold of his presence filled my lungs, making each breath painful.

"Where... where am I?" I forced out.

"In the Winter Court," he extended his hand, as if inviting me to dance. "In my domain."

I didn't take his hand. Self-preservation instinct screamed that touching him would mean the end.

The king didn't insist, but something like approval flickered in his eyes.

"Smart girl," he murmured. "Already learning to survive."

Quiet laughter sounded from the Fae around us.

"This is a dream," I said, more to myself than to him. "All of this is just a dream."

"Dream and reality—for beings like me, the boundary is conditional." He began to circle me, never taking his eyes from my face. His gaze slid over me slowly, studying—lingered on the dark hair falling over my shoulders, on the brown eyes wide with fear, on the pale skin that seemed even whiter in the cold light of his court. Something flickered in his inhuman gaze—curiosity? Surprise?

"Dark eyes," he murmured, as if to himself. "Like night amidst winter. Unusual for a mortal in my domain."

With each of his steps, the temperature dropped. My breath became visible, and the thorn wreath on my head frosted over.

"What do you want from me?" My voice shook, but not only from cold.

"Want?" He stopped before me, tilting his head with the curiosity of a predator studying prey. "Interesting choice of words."

Someone in the crowd tittered.

"You spilled blood on the Cursed Tree, child," his hand rose toward my cheek but stopped an inch from my skin. "Now there's a bond between us."

"What bond?" I tried to step back but bumped into someone from the Fae with my back. Icy hands gently but insistently pushed me back.

"The tree sensed your wish," his eyes gleamed with inhuman interest. "Your heart's most secret desire. What you hide even from yourself."

Excited whispers ran through the Fae. They moved closer, forming a tight circle. Their scent—winter, danger, something sweetly cloying—filled my nostrils.

"I didn't wish for anything!" Panic gave my voice strength.

"Liar," his hand finally touched my cheek, and my skin burned with cold. "The tree doesn't make mistakes, dear. It senses what we fear to acknowledge."

Ice from his touch spread across my face in a pattern of frost crystals. It hurt, but at the same time... strangely compelling.

"And created a contract," he continued, not removing his hand. "Unbreakable, eternal contract."

"I didn't agree to anything!" Tears welled in my eyes but instantly turned to ice crystals.

"Blood is consent," he answered coldly. "The ancient laws of magic know nothing of human concepts of fairness."

Approving exclamations in their melodious language rang through the crowd.

"And now we play," he removed his hand, and a pattern of frost remained on my cheek. "If you win—you get your wish and freedom."

"And if I lose?"

His smile bared perfectly white teeth.

"You stay with us forever. Become part of the Court."

The Fae around stirred in anticipation. Some licked their lips, others rubbed their hands.

"As what?" I whispered, though from their faces I already guessed the answer.

"We don't favor humans," he shrugged with feigned regret. "Usually they become slaves, toys, food. Depends on their luck."

Horror gripped my throat like a vise.

"And if I refuse to play?"

The temperature in the hall dropped several more degrees. The Fae froze, holding their breath.

"Then you die right here," his voice became softer, but more terrible for it. "The contract can't be broken, only fulfilled."

"Kill her!" someone from the crowd shouted gleefully. "Kill her right now!"

"Humans don't deserve chances!" the snake-woman picked up, her forked tongue flicking in the air.

"Blood! Blood for the Tree!" howled Fae children, clapping their hands.

The crowd stirred, bloodlust sparking in their eyes. They began to approach, and I felt their thirst for violence like a physical wave.

"Yes, king!" the wolf-man snarled. "End this quickly! We want to see her die!"

"Let her scream!" giggled a lady in a dress of spider silk. "Haven't heard human screams in so long!"

Hands reached for me from all sides. Claws, icy fingers, tentacles—a nightmarish tangle ready to tear me apart.

"SILENCE!"

The king's voice rolled through the hall with such force that several Fae fell to their knees. The rest instantly stepped back, lowering their heads.

"She is MY prey," his words held deadly menace. "And I decide what to do with her."

The Fae cringed under his gaze, but disappointment still swam in their eyes.

"Forgive us, king," the snake-woman mumbled. "It's just been so long since we had fresh meat..."

"There will be," his lips curved in a cruel smile. "If she loses. But for now..."

He turned to me, and the temperature dropped several more degrees.

"For now we'll play my favorite game," his eyes gleamed with anticipation. "The Hunt."

The word sounded like a sentence. Approving exclamations rang through the crowd of Fae.

"The Hunt?" I whispered.

"Why a hunt?" I clung to details, trying to push away panic. "Why not something else? Why are you playing with me?"

The king laughed—a sound like cracking ice.

"Because it's winter now. My time," he circled me, not taking his gaze away. "Each season one of the Courts gets the right to amuse itself with humans. And I choose trials to my... taste."

"And your taste is hunting?"

"My taste is fear," he whispered, leaning toward my ear. "I live for the sound of a heart pounding with terror. The sight of eyes wide when the prey realizes it's caught."

His breath burned the skin behind my ear, and I shuddered involuntarily.

Admiring sighs sounded among the Fae.

"Seven days in our world," he continued. "If you can avoid all dangers, not get caught by anyone—you've won."

"All?" My heart plummeted.

"Our world is full of predators, dear," his hand landed on my shoulder, fingers squeezing like an icy vice. "Wild Fae, forest spirits, creatures from your worst nightmares. Most aren't bound by the game's rules."

"So they can kill me?"

"If they catch you," he smiled wider. "But I'll give you a head start. I promise to hunt fairly—no ancient magic, no summoning helpers."

Someone in the crowd sighed disappointedly.

"How... noble," I whispered bitterly.

"Not noble," his hand slid to my throat. "Just not interesting. Prey that's too easy quickly bores me."

His fingers closed on my neck—not squeezing, but making it clear how easily he could.

"And if I don't run? If I just surrender?"

His eyes darkened, becoming the color of lead clouds.

"Then you'll bore me very quickly," the fingers on my throat squeezed slightly harder. "And boring toys I break. Slowly."

Admiring sighs sounded among the Fae.

"You see, child, I'm tired of routine and boredom," his voice became almost dreamy. "Centuries of the same thing. Balls, intrigues, politics. I need... entertainment. And you..."

He leaned closer, and his breath burned my cheek.

"With you, it will be fun."

"Don't disappoint me, Elise," he whispered. "I want you to run as long as possible."

The hall began to dissolve at the edges, like watercolor in rain.

"When..." I began, but he pressed an icy finger to my lips.

"Tomorrow night," his figure became increasingly ghostly. "Prepare yourself, study our weaknesses. You'll need every advantage."

The last thing I saw—his eyes, burning with cold fire in the dissolving world.

And then darkness swallowed me, and I woke in my bed, covered in sweat but with the sensation of arctic cold beneath my skin.

On my cheek, a pattern of frost still burned.

Chapter 3

I didn't sleep all night.

I lay in the darkness with eyes wide open, feeling the patterns on my cheek pulse in time with my heartbeat. The cold wouldn't let go—it sat deep in my bones, making me shiver even under two blankets. And when I closed my eyes, I saw his face. Ice-blue eyes, predatory smile, heard the voice promising a hunt.

Chloe slept in the next bed, snuffling into her pillow. I envied her—her sleep, her normal, ordinary life without fae, without cursed trees, without survival games.

By morning I'd made my decision.

As soon as dawn broke through the window, I jumped out of bed and began feverishly gathering my things. I stuffed clothes into my backpack without looking, without sorting. Grabbed my camera, phone charger, makeup bag.

"What... what's happening?" Chloe mumbled, propping herself up on her elbow.

I darted to her bed, grabbed her shoulders.

"Pack. Right now. We're leaving."

"Elise, it's six in the morning..."

"I don't care!" My voice came out hysterical, but I didn't care. "Pack your things. Right now. We don't have time."

Something in my tone sobered Chloe. She saw the panic in my eyes and nodded.

"Okay. Okay, I'm packing."

We tore around the room like madwomen, shoving things into bags. I didn't even change—stayed in my pajama pants and hoodie. Pulled on sneakers over bare feet, grabbed my jacket.

"Elise, maybe we could at least have breakfast?" Chloe tried.

"In the car! We need to go!"

I ran out of the room, Chloe hurrying after me. We descended the stairs, trying not to make noise. I didn't want to explain to Mrs. McGill why we were fleeing like thieves.

But the old woman was already waiting downstairs.

She stood by the front door in an old robe, gray hair braided. In her hands she held something, pressing it to her chest.

"Girls," she said quietly.

"Mrs. McGill, we... we need to leave urgently," I began, but she raised her hand.

The old woman was silent for several seconds, looking into my eyes. Then she slowly descended to the door and opened it.

"Go."

We rushed out onto the porch. The morning air was cold and damp, smelling of peat and mist. Chloe ran to the car, opened the trunk, began stuffing in bags.

I got in the car and had already closed the door when I heard knuckles rapping on the glass.

Mrs. McGill stood by the passenger window. In her hands she held a book.

I lowered the window.

"Take this," the old woman extended the book through the window. "It might help."

I took the book with both hands. It was heavy, bound in worn leather that smelled of old paper and dust. The gold lettering on the cover was almost worn away, but I could make out:

Tales and Legends of the People of the Hills

"What is this?" I whispered.

"Everything you need to know about Them," Mrs. McGill answered. "Their weaknesses. Their rules. Ways to survive in their world."

Her hand landed on mine, squeezed.

"Read carefully, girl. Every word could save your life."

"Thank you."

The old woman smiled sadly and stepped back from the car.

"Go. And remember—in their world, nothing is what it seems. Trust your instincts, not your eyes."

Chloe started the engine, and the car lurched forward. I turned around—Mrs. McGill stood on the threshold of her cottage, a small and fragile figure against the stone walls. She raised her hand in a farewell gesture.

And for some reason I felt I was seeing her for the last time.

***

The first half hour we drove in silence. Chloe gripped the wheel with whitened fingers, casting short glances at me. I stared out the window at the passing landscape, pressing the book to my chest.

Finally Chloe couldn't take it:

"Elise, what the hell is going on? Why did we run like thieves? And what's that book?"

"I'll explain later."

"No, not later! Now!" Chloe hit the wheel. "You dragged me out of bed at six in the morning, made me pack in five minutes, and we're racing somewhere, I don't even know where!"

I stayed silent.

"Elise!"

"Fine," I sighed. "Just don't yell."

"I promise."

I took the book Mrs. McGill had given me and opened to a random page, showed Chloe an illustration—an engraving depicting tall, graceful beings with sharp facial features.

"Fae," I said quietly. "They're real. And one of them... is hunting me."

Chloe was silent for several seconds. Then she laughed—nervously, hysterically.

"You're joking, right?"

"No."

"Elise, this is insane! Fae? Seriously?"

"I know how it sounds..."

"Like the ravings of a lunatic!" Chloe shook her head. "Look, I get it, yesterday you were stressed, that weird old woman with her tales, fog in the forest..."

"They're not tales."

"They're legends for tourists!" Chloe pulled over to the shoulder and turned to me. "Elise, look at yourself. You didn't sleep all night, you have dark circles under your eyes, you're shaking. Maybe you really caught a cold and have a fever? Delirium?"

I ran my hand over my cheek—where this morning I'd seen patterns of frost. Now they weren't visible, but the skin remained cold, as if I'd really touched ice.

"It's not a cold, Chloe. And not delirium."

My friend looked at me with a long gaze.

"Let's say," she said slowly, "let's say something strange is happening to you. But fae? Elise, you're an atheist! You don't even believe in God, and now suddenly mythical creatures!"

"Yes, I didn't believe," I admitted. "Until yesterday."

"Fine. What exactly are you running from?! From your dream?!"

"It wasn't a dream!"

"THEN WHAT?!" Chloe shouted, and desperation broke through in her voice. "Elise, I don't understand! Explain to me, PLEASE!"

We stared at each other. In her eyes I read worry, fear for me, confusion. She thought I was losing my mind.

Maybe I was.

"Chloe," I said more quietly, "I understand how this sounds. I understand you don't believe me. But I'm asking... just trust me. Let's leave here. As far away as possible. Okay?"

Chloe looked at me for a long time, then sighed.

"Fine. Let's go." She started the engine and pulled onto the road. "But you're going to tell me. Everything. Right now."

"Okay," I nodded, pressing the book to my chest.

***

We drove for several hours, stopping only at gas stations. Chloe periodically cast worried glances at me, but asked no more questions—apparently deciding I really had caught a cold and was delirious from fever.

And I read the book.

The pages were yellowed, covered in small, cramped text. Illustrations—black and white engravings depicting fae, forests, ancient stones. Some pages were marked with bookmarks, others scribbled with pencil notes in the margins.

"The People of the Hills, also known as the Good Folk, the Good Neighbors, the Elder Folk, live in a world parallel to ours. They are beautiful and cruel as nature itself. They know no pity or mercy, but are bound by ancient laws they cannot break..."

Further came a list—what repels fae, how to protect yourself, how to behave in their world.

Iron. Salt. Rowan. Running water. Consecrated ground.

Don't give your name. Don't eat their food. Don't accept gifts. Don't thank. Don't apologize.

I absorbed the information like a sponge, turning page after page.

And then I came across a chapter that made my heart stop:

"On the Hunt of the Unseelie Court"

I began reading aloud, almost in a whisper, and with each word the cold in my chest grew stronger.

"Once a century, the lords of the Unseelie Court choose a mortal for the Great Hunt. This is an ancient ritual, a game in which a human becomes prey and the fae become hunters. The rules are simple: for seven days and seven nights the mortal must survive in the fae world, avoiding all dangers. If they survive—they receive a reward and freedom. If not..."

Further came a description of what happens to those who lose. I flipped past that part—didn't want to know the details.

But the next page caught my attention:

"Only three cases are known when mortals won the Hunt. The first—in 1534, when a girl named Eileen used an iron knife to wound the Winter King himself and force him to back down. The second—in 1702, when a youth managed to cross a river seven times in a row, and the fae lost his trail..."

"What nonsense?" Chloe couldn't help rolling her eyes, hearing my mutterings.

I didn't answer, continuing to read to myself:

"...The third case occurred in 1847, but the circumstances of the victory remained unknown. The only thing the survivor said—that she found a way to outplay the king at his own game. But what way exactly, she took to her grave."

I flipped a few more pages and froze.

On the spread was an engraving—a portrait of a man with platinum hair and a crown of ice. Under the portrait was a caption:

"Caelan Morfraust, King of the Winter Court, Lord of Night Thorns. Age unknown (estimated over a thousand years). Character: cruel, sadistic, loves mind games. Weaknesses: unknown. Warning: do not enter negotiations, do not look in the eyes too long, do not..."

The list of warnings took up half the page.

"Wonderful," I muttered. "Just wonderful."

***

By noon we stopped at a large gas station off the highway. Chloe went to fill the car, and I went to the convenience store.

Inside smelled of coffee and fresh pastries. I grabbed a basket and began methodically gathering everything that might be useful.

First, food. Lots of food.

I remembered the rule from the book clearly: "Don't eat their food. Not a crumb, not a sip. Whoever tastes fae food remains in their world forever."

So I needed supplies. For seven days. Seven days I had to hold out without their food.

I began sweeping everything off the shelves:

Jerky—five packages. Beef, pork, some venison. Didn't matter, as long as it kept.

Nuts—almonds, cashews, peanuts. Caloric, nutritious, doesn't spoil.

Dried fruit—apricots, raisins, prunes. Energy in concentrated form.

Crackers—three large boxes. Dry, bland, but filling.

Energy bars—ten of them. In case there's absolutely no time to eat properly.

Canned goods—stew, pâté, fish. Heavy, but reliable.

Chocolate—dark, no additives. For maintaining strength and morale.

I hauled food to the register in three trips, loading it into two large bags. The attendant watched me with curiosity.

"Going hiking?"

"Something like that," I muttered.

Then water. Water was the hardest part.

I took six liter-and-a-half bottles of ordinary mineral water. That's twelve liters—about two liters a day for a week. Not enough. Very little. But I physically couldn't carry more.

And then I remembered another rule: "Running water protects against fae. They cannot cross it without losing strength."

So any water wasn't just drinking water, it was also a weapon.

I added three more smaller bottles to the basket—liter bottles I could carry with me.

Next—protection.

Salt. Three large packages of table salt. *"Salt repels fae and breaks their enchantments."*

Matches. Two boxes. Fire is always good.

And finally—the souvenir rack.

A small iron horseshoe on a string. *"Iron burns them like acid."*

An amulet in the form of a Celtic cross—also metal, cold to the touch.

A bunch of dried herbs in transparent packaging—lavender, rowan, thistle. *"Rowan protects against charms and illusions."*

I swept all of this into the basket.

"Interesting selection," came a voice behind me.

I turned around. The attendant—a man about fifty with a gray beard and penetrating eyes—was looking at my pile of purchases.

"Tourist?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"Heading to the mountains?"

"Possibly."

He looked at me more closely, and his face became serious.

"Don't go into the Old Forest. Especially if there's fog."

Frost ran down my spine.

"How do you..."

"Shadow," he nodded in my direction, though he was looking not at me but as if through me. "I feel it. Old magic. Cold."

He leaned closer, lowering his voice:

"You need protection stronger than these toys."

The attendant reached under the counter and pulled out a small leather pouch.

"Take this. Iron nails, consecrated at an old church. And this," he set down a small vial of water. "Holy water from Saint Brigid's well. It's stronger than ordinary. Even a drop can drive Them away."

I stared at him, not understanding.

"Why are you..."

"Because I've seen people like you. Marked. Doomed." His eyes became sad. "My sister was one of them. Forty years ago. She didn't come back."

He looked at my purchases—at the pile of food, at the water, at the salt.

"Smart girl. Preparing not to eat their food. Right." He nodded. "But that's not enough. Take this too."

He pulled several packages of freeze-dried food from under the counter—the kind people take on long hikes.

"Light but filling. Three of these packages will replace a full meal. And they don't take much space."

He also handed me several packets of powdered isotonic drink.

"Mix with water—you'll get a drink with electrolytes. Will sustain your strength better than plain water."

"How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," he shook his head. "This isn't for sale. This is a gift."

I remembered the rule: *"Don't accept gifts. Every gift creates a debt."*

"I can't just take this."

The attendant smirked:

"Smart girl. Already know the rules." He thought. "Then let's trade. Give me something in return. Something that has value to you."

I rummaged in my pocket and pulled out a photograph—one I always carried with me. Me with my parents, I'm about ten, we're at the sea. One of the few happy family photos I had left.

"This," I held it out to him.

He took the photograph, looked at it, and nodded.

"Fair exchange. Your memory for my protection."

I took the pouch, the vial, the freeze-dried food and powders, put everything in bags with the rest.

"Good luck, girl," the attendant said as I paid. "And remember—they lie. Always. Even when they tell the truth. Don't believe anything you see or hear in their world."

I nodded and dragged the heavy bags to the exit.

***

When I returned to the car, Chloe was already waiting, leaning against the hood. Seeing two huge bags packed with food, water bottles, canned goods and other purchases, her eyes widened.

"Elise... did you rob the store?"

I struggled to load the bags into the trunk.

"Got food supplies."

"Supplies?" Chloe peered into one of the bags. "This is supplies for a month! Jerky, canned goods, crackers... Elise, are we going to a deserted island?"

"Maybe," I muttered, settling into the passenger seat.

Chloe got behind the wheel, shaking her head. Then she saw the rest of the purchases on the back seat—the horseshoe, amulets, herbs, pouch of nails, vial of holy water.

"Seriously?" Skepticism sounded in her voice. "Elise, we're running from your dream, and you bought out the whole store—from canned goods to amulets?"

"These aren't souvenirs," I answered tiredly. "This is survival."

"From what? From mythical fae?"

"Yes."

Chloe started the engine and smirked:

"Didn't know you were so impressionable. One night with a scary dream, and you're already preparing for the apocalypse."

I said nothing, pressing the book to my chest. It was written clearly: seven days without their food, without their water, without their gifts. Seven days, relying only on what I brought from the human world.

"Think what you want," I said finally. "But when it gets dark... you'll see for yourself."

Chloe snorted:

"Yeah. I'll see you have a picnic in the middle of your nightmare."

But I noticed how her gaze lingered on my face—on the pallor of my skin, on the dark circles under my eyes, on how I was trembling despite the warm jacket.

And I knew that somewhere deep inside she was also beginning to doubt.

***

By evening we reached a small town on the border of Scotland and England. Chloe rented a room at a roadside motel—cheap, with peeling walls and creaky beds.

"We'll spend the night here," she said, tossing her bag on the bed. "And in the morning we'll decide what to do next."

I nodded, but was already thinking about something else.

While Chloe went to shower, I pulled all the purchases from the trunk and dumped them on my bed. The pile of food, bottles, amulets and other junk took up half the mattress.

Now I had to decide what to take with me.

I pulled out my hiking backpack—the very one I took on photo expeditions. Sturdy, roomy, with many pockets.

I began methodically packing.

Food:

- Jerky—three packages (light and caloric)

- Nuts—two large packages

- Dried fruit—one bag

- Crackers—one box (the rest too bulky)

- Energy bars—all ten

- Freeze-dried food—three packages from the attendant

- Chocolate—two bars

- Canned goods... no, too heavy. Would have to do without.

Water:

I looked at the six liter-and-a-half bottles and realized—they wouldn't fit. Even one weighed a fair amount, and six... with such a load I wouldn't get far.

I opened the book again, flipped to the section on water:

"Running water protects against fae enchantments. Water from streams and rivers in their world is drinkable if it's moving. Still water—lakes, ponds—can be enchanted. Never drink from a stagnant source."

So in the fae world there was water I could drink. Running water. From streams.

I exhaled with relief and took only two liter bottles—for the first period. The rest would have to stay.

But the vial of holy water from the attendant—definitely. This wasn't for drinking, this was a weapon.

Protection:

- Salt—one package (the rest too heavy)

- Iron nails from the pouch

- Iron horseshoe

- Bunch of rowan

- Celtic amulet

- Vial of holy water

Other:

- Matches—two boxes

- Flashlight (found in the car)

- Spare batteries

- Isotonic powders

- My camera—with a full memory card

I took the camera not from sentimentality. This was part of me, my work, my life. And if I was fated to end up in the fae world, I would document everything I saw.

If, of course, I survived.

And last—a tourist knife with a fixed blade that I took on hikes. Not the most fearsome weapon, but better than nothing.

I pulled it from the luggage, tested the sharpness of the blade on my nail. Sharp. Good.

The knife went into the side pocket of the backpack—where I could quickly reach it.

The backpack came out heavy but manageable. I tightened the straps, lifted it—about twenty pounds, no more. I could handle it.

Chloe came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, with wet hair.

"What are you doing?" She stopped, looking at me and the backpack.

"Packing."

"Where to?"

"I don't know," I answered honestly. "But I need to be ready."

Chloe shook her head but said nothing. Went to get dressed.

I looked at my watch. Half past six. Sunset in an hour.

I quickly changed: jeans, warm t-shirt, fleece sweater, jacket on top. On my feet—trekking boots I'd brought for mountain hikes. Sturdy, comfortable, with good soles.

Gathered my hair in a tight ponytail and hid it under a cap.

Chloe came out of the bathroom and stopped, staring at me.

"Elise... are you serious?"

I stood in the middle of the room in full hiking gear, backpack in hand.

"Serious."

"You're going to sleep in boots and a jacket?"

"Yes."

"With a backpack?"

"Yes."

Chloe snorted, then laughed—not meanly, but with some hysterical note.

"God, Elise, you're definitely sick. You have a fever, delirium, paranoia... Tomorrow morning we're going to the nearest hospital, and that's that."

I didn't answer. I lay on the bed on top of the blanket, pressing the backpack to my chest. Wrapped the straps around my arm—if I had to run, it wouldn't slip off.

Put the camera next to me on the nightstand—within reach.

The knife in the backpack pocket pressed slightly into my side, but it was a comforting sensation. Weapon. Protection.

***

Chloe lay on her bed, pulled the blanket over herself, and turned off the light.

"Good night, Elise. I hope your nightmares end."

"Good night," I whispered into the darkness.

But I wasn't going to sleep. I lay with open eyes, listening to every sound.

The ticking of the clock on the wall. The noise of cars outside the window. Chloe's breathing, which gradually became more even—she was falling asleep.

And I waited.

Minutes dragged slowly. The cold inside me intensified, spreading through my veins like an icy river.

Seven o'clock. Seven fifteen. Seven thirty.

Outside the window it grew dark. The last rays of sun painted the sky blood-red.

Seven forty-five.

I squeezed the backpack straps tighter. My heart pounded so loudly it seemed audible throughout the motel.

And suddenly the temperature in the room dropped sharply.

My breath became visible. Frost instantly appeared on the windows, turning the glass into a matte pattern. The nightlight bulb on the nightstand flickered and went out.

Chloe muttered something in her sleep and pulled the blanket higher but didn't wake.

And then I heard a sound.

Distant, barely distinguishable. Like an echo coming from somewhere infinitely far away.

The sound of a horn.

Prolonged, low, primeval. It rolled through the world, making the air vibrate. The motel walls trembled, the glass in the windows rang with a thin crystalline sound.

Chloe jerked in her sleep but didn't open her eyes. As if the magic of the sound kept her in oblivion.

The horn sounded again—louder, closer.

This time it passed through me, resonating in my bones, in my heart, in my very soul. The cold in my chest flared in response, and I understood—it was calling me. Me specifically.

I sat up in bed, clutching the backpack. My hands were shaking.

A third time the horn sounded even closer—now it seemed the sound came from somewhere beyond the walls, from the space between worlds.

And then fog began seeping into the corner of the room.

Not ordinary fog, but that very one—milky white, thick, alive. It oozed through the walls, as if the fabric of the world had thinned and could no longer contain it.

Wisps of fog spread across the floor, rose upward, filling the space. With each second there was more of it.

The temperature continued to drop. Frost covered the walls, floor, furniture. My breath turned into thick clouds of vapor.

"Chloe!" I called. "Chloe, wake up!"

But my friend didn't even stir. She slept a deep, unnatural sleep, as if her consciousness had been sealed by magic.

A fourth sound of the horn—louder, more commanding, more inevitable.

The fog filled the room to the ceiling. I stopped seeing the walls, windows, door. Only white, impenetrable haze around. And somewhere in it—ghostly shadows, moving silhouettes.

I stood from the bed, pulling the backpack onto my shoulders. Grabbed the camera. Felt for the knife handle in the backpack pocket.

A fifth time the horn sounded so close I squeezed my eyes shut from the pain in my ears. The sound filled the world entirely, leaving no room for anything else.

And the fog began to move.

It swirled in a vortex, sucking me inside. The floor disappeared beneath my feet. The walls dissolved. Reality broke at the edges, turning into a kaleidoscope of light and darkness.

I tried to scream, but there was no voice. Tried to grab onto something, but there was nothing to grab.

The world was collapsing.

A sixth sound of the horn—and the fog compressed around me like a cocoon.

I fell through space, through time, through the boundary between worlds. My body became weightless, as if I were turning to smoke.

The last thing I saw before the fog completely swallowed me—Chloe's sleeping face, peaceful and calm against the backdrop of collapsing reality.

And then darkness closed over me.

Chapter 4

The fall ended suddenly.

I crashed to my knees, and the impact knocked all the air from my lungs. For a second the world turned into a white veil of pain—the backpack slammed into my spine, the camera hit my ribs, my palms scraped against something sharp and slippery.

I gasped, trying to breathe, but the air wouldn't come. My lungs burned. My heart pounded so frantically it felt like it would burst from my chest.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Finally a convulsive inhale—and air rushed into my lungs.

But it wasn't the same air.

It was different. Denser, heavier, saturated to the limit. As if I'd inhaled not oxygen but something alive, almost viscous. It seared my throat, settled in my lungs with leaden heaviness.

And cold. Searingly cold.

I coughed, doubling over. Each breath came with difficulty, freezing me from within. My breath emerged in thick clouds of vapor.

What's wrong with me? Why is it so cold? Why can't I breathe?

Panic began rising in a wave, but I forced myself to calm down. Slowly. Inhale. Exhale. Again.

Gradually my lungs adjusted. The air stopped burning, but the cold remained. Icy, piercing, reminding me with each breath—you're not home anymore. You're in another world.

I slowly raised my head.

And forgot how to breathe again.

The sky.

My God, the sky.

Three moons hung above the horizon, enormous and impossible. Silver, gold, blood-red. They illuminated the world with shimmering, cold light, casting triple shadows from every object.

Between the moons—stars. But not the stars I'd seen all my life. These were too bright, too close, as if I could reach out and touch them. Some moved slowly across the sky, tracing luminous arcs.

This is impossible. This isn't real.

But it was real. Too real.

I lowered my gaze to the ground—and understood why my palms stung so badly.

Beneath my hands wasn't soft earth but moss. Thick, dark green moss covered with a layer of frost. Slippery, icy, numbing my fingers instantly.

I tried to stand—my feet slipped on the frozen surface. I fell back to my knees, hitting them painfully.

Everything's covered in ice.

I looked around, trying to understand where I was.

Forest.

But not the forest where I'd spilled blood on the tree. And not the green, warm forest I'd somehow expected to see.

This was a late autumn forest, dying under winter's advance.

The trees were gigantic—trunks three or four times the width of a human embrace, rising so high their crowns were lost in darkness. But they were almost bare. Black branches reached toward the sky like skeletons, covered with frost and thin icicles that clinked in the icy wind.

Only some trees still clung to their last leaves—crimson, golden, blackened by frost. They trembled and fell, landing on the ground with a quiet rustle.

The bark glowed with a faint greenish or silver radiance—the only reminder that this wasn't an ordinary forest. That magic lived here.

Roots protruded from beneath the moss, thick and gnarled, covered with a layer of ice. They formed arches and tunnels, but stepping on them was impossible—too slippery.

Cold. So damn cold.

I stood up, carefully, holding onto a tree trunk. The bark was icy under my palm, rough with frozen lichen.

The smell.

The frosty air smelled sharp and cutting. Cold pine needles somewhere in the distance. Rotting leaves under a layer of frost. Earth locked in frost. And a barely perceptible sweetness—cloying, strange, hiding beneath all the other scents.

It all mixed together, creating the aroma of a dying world that made my insides clench with melancholy.

Sounds.

The rustle of bare branches—harsh, like bones scraping against each other. The tinkling of icicles. The crack of ice somewhere in the distance. The howling of wind that pierced through my jacket to my very skin.

And silence. Dead, oppressive silence between sounds.

I tried to take a step—my foot slipped on the moss. I barely kept my balance, grabbing the tree.

This is too much. Too much.

The world around me was too cold, too alien, too wrong. Every sensation struck my nerves.

I can't handle this. I won't make it.

Panic came in waves, filling my chest with icy terror.

Chloe. Mom. Home.

But there was no more home. There was only this freezing forest, these three moons, this icy air cutting my lungs.

I pressed my hand over my mouth, holding back a sob.

No. I can't. I can't break down now.

My hands fumbled for the backpack. I frantically unzipped it, rummaged inside with trembling fingers. Water. Food. Salt. Knife.

And a pack of cigarettes.

I didn't even remember when I'd put it there. A month ago? Two? I'd confiscated it from my father, who'd promised to quit but secretly smoked on the balcony. Shoved it in the backpack pocket and forgot about it.

Cigarettes. Foolishness. I didn't smoke. Never had. Hated the smell of tobacco.

But now...

I pulled out the pack with numb fingers. Crumpled but intact. Pulled out one cigarette, tried to light it with a match.

The first match went out in the wind. The second too.

"Damn it!" I hissed through my teeth, shielding the flame with my palm.

The third one caught. I brought it to the cigarette, inhaled.

And coughed so hard I nearly vomited.

The smoke burned my throat, my lungs protested, my eyes watered. But I forced myself to take another drag. And another.

The bitterness of tobacco overpowered the cloying sweetness of the air. The sharp smell of smoke drowned out the dead smell of the frozen forest.

My head spun—but differently. Familiarly. Humanly.

I exhaled smoke, watching it mix with the vapor from my breath and drift in the still air.

And for the first time since falling, I could think clearly.

Okay. Fine. I'm in the fae world. That's a fact.

Another drag. Another exhale.

Panicking is useless. I need to survive.

I smoked the cigarette down to the filter, stubbed it out on an icy stone protruding from the moss. Put the pack back in my backpack—might need it later.

I stood up carefully, testing each step on the slippery moss.

Looked around again, trying to understand where I was.

Late autumn forest. Bare trees. Frost. Cold.

But not true winter. Not a snowy wasteland, not an icy kingdom.

This is... this is a border. The edge of his power.

Here autumn still resisted winter. Nature clung to life, fought against his frost.

Between the bare trees, lights flickered. Small glowing points the size of coins circled in the air, leaving sparkling trails behind them. They moved too deliberately—approaching then retreating, as if studying me.

One of the lights flew very close, hovering before my face.

I made out a tiny figure inside the glow—humanoid, with transparent icy wings. Fae. A real fae, the size of my thumb.

She smiled at me, baring teeth sharp as needles.

And I suddenly remembered a line from the book: "Lesser fae are as dangerous as greater. Their bites are poisonous."

I swatted sharply. The light flew away with an indignant squeak and dissolved into the darkness.

Everything here is dangerous. Absolutely everything.

In the distance a howl rang out—prolonged, eerie, making my blood freeze in my veins.

Then another howl answered the first. And another. And another.

Hunters.

I adjusted the backpack on my shoulders, checked the camera—intact. Felt for the knife in the pocket.

And heard his voice.

Not nearby. Not from the forest. The voice sounded everywhere—in the rustle of bare branches, in the howling wind, in the crack of ice.

"Welcome to my world, Elise Thorne."

Each word echoed between the trees, cold and commanding.

"You stand in the Dark Forest, on the edge of my domain. Ahead lie seven days and seven nights."

The howling grew closer.

"Run, child. Run fast. Run far."

Laughter rolled through the forest—cold, cruel, savoring my fear.

"Because the hunt has begun. NOW."

Somewhere very close, a couple dozen meters away, a branch cracked.

Then—a low growl that made the earth tremble.

Something was moving between the trees. Something big.

And in that moment, from the darkness between bare trunks, two yellow eyes flashed, burning with inhuman fire.

The creature stepped into the moonlight.

Huge. With the body of a wolf but the size of a bear. Fur black as night, covered with frost that sparkled in the light of the moons. From its maw dripped not saliva but something like liquid silver, which smoked in the frosty air.

It looked at me.

And growled—a sound so low I felt it not with my ears but with my whole body.

I didn't think. Didn't analyze.

I just turned and ran.

Away from the creature. Away from the howling. Away from the laughter that still echoed between the trees.

Behind me a howl rang out—close, triumphant.

And then—the sound of pursuit.

The hunt had begun.

***

I ran without choosing a path.

Bare branches whipped my face, leaving burning scratches. Roots covered with frost caught at my feet. I stumbled, fell on slippery moss, jumped up with scraped hands and knees, and ran on.

The backpack hit my back painfully with each jump. The camera pressed against my ribs. My breathing became ragged, my side stabbed with pain, my lungs burned from the icy air.

Run. Just run.

Flashback—Chloe, sleeping in the motel. Her peaceful face in the warm room.

Mom, waving goodbye. "Be careful, sunshine."

Tears blurred my vision, but I blinked, shaking them off. They instantly froze on my cheeks in a thin icy crust.

No. Not now. Later. If I live to see "later."

Behind me sounded trampling—not one beast, several. Growling, barking, the crack of breaking branches.

I glanced over my shoulder—and saw them.

Shadows between the trees. Huge, fast, with burning yellow eyes. Clouds of vapor burst from their maws in the frosty air.

They were driving me like a wolf pack drives a deer.

Fear was a living thing in my chest, demanding I surrender control and just lie down, give up.

No. No. No.

I ran faster, faster, until my muscles began burning with pain.

And suddenly the trees parted.

I burst into a clearing and nearly fell—the ground here was even more slippery.

The clearing was covered with a thin layer of first snow mixed with frost. Beneath it showed dead, blackened grass. The air was even colder, burning my face.

And in the center of the clearing ran a stream.

Not narrow—four or five meters wide. Fast, noisy. The water hadn't frozen despite the cold, running between stones, shimmering silver in the moonlight.

Running water.

The rule from the book flashed in my head: "Running water protects against fae. They cannot cross it."

I need to get to the other side!

I didn't think. I rushed toward the stream, ran up and jumped with all my strength.

The flight seemed eternal.

Icy water splashed on my feet—I barely reached the opposite bank. My hands clutched the edge, the slippery moss, my fingers slipping.

I pulled myself up, rolled over the edge.

Fell into the snow, slipped, hit my knee painfully on a stone. Jumped up and turned around.

From the forest they burst forth.

Three beasts.

Bodies like wolves but the size of bears. Fur black, covered with frost that wouldn't melt. Yellow eyes burning like hellfire. Maws open, full of fangs.

From their mouths dripped something silvery—not saliva but liquid metal. Drops fell on the snow and hissed, burning through it to the black earth.

God. What kind of creatures are these?

The largest beast—with a long scar across its muzzle—saw me and growled.

Then it charged.

I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting it to leap across.

But a screech rang out—piercing, full of pain.

I opened my eyes.

The beast had frozen in midair over the water. For a moment, as if time had stopped. Its body jerked, distorted, hitting something invisible.

Then it was thrown back—with such force it flew several meters and crashed into a tree.

The trunk cracked under the impact. The beast fell into the snow, howling and whimpering. The fur on its muzzle and front paws smoked, as if scalded with boiling water.

Water. The magic of running water. They can't cross it.

The relief was so strong I nearly burst into tears.

The two other beasts stopped at the bank, not approaching the water. One lowered its muzzle, sniffed. Vapor burst from its nostrils. It growled and retreated.

It works. The rule works!

But the beasts didn't leave.

The injured one rose, shook itself. The fur on its muzzle was burned, the skin beneath red, blistered. But it still looked at me with burning eyes.

They began slowly spreading out along the bank—one right, another left. The injured one remained in place, not taking its eyes off me.

They're looking for a ford. A place where the stream is narrower or shallower.

I have time. A little.

I rose on trembling legs. My whole body ached. My hands and knees stung from the falls. The cold pierced to my bones despite my jacket.

But I forced myself to move.

Along the stream. Downstream. Staying as close to the water as possible—my only protection.

Seven days. I need to last seven days.

It's impossible.

But there's no choice.

I walked, stumbling on the slippery bank, clinging to frost-covered roots.

And with each step I understood:

This is only the beginning.

The first night of seven.

And if I want to survive, I need to become stronger. Faster. Harder.

Because the fae world doesn't forgive the weak.

***

The stream was widening.

I trudged along the bank, feeling each step grow heavier. My legs filled with lead, my thigh muscles burned, my knees buckled. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only exhaustion and pain.

The cold ate into my bones. I trembled, my teeth chattered. My fingers were almost numb—frozen from the cold.

How long have I been walking?

The moons barely moved across the sky. Maybe ten minutes had passed, maybe an hour. Impossible to tell.

Howling sounded somewhere in the distance, echoing between the trees. The beasts hadn't abandoned the chase.

I stopped, leaning against a tree trunk. The bark was icy, but I pressed against it anyway—my legs wouldn't hold me anymore.

I need to eat. Drink. Restore my strength.

I pulled out a water bottle from my backpack with numb fingers. Unscrewed the cap—it barely gave way. Took several gulps.

The water was cold, almost icy, but seemed like a blessing.

Human water. From the human world.

I pressed the bottle to my chest.

This is all that's left of home.

The memory hit suddenly, sharp and painful.

Chloe, laughing behind the wheel: "I'll see you have a picnic in the middle of your nightmare!"

Mom, kissing the top of my head: "Call when you arrive."

Father, handing me the camera: "Show me when you get back."

If I get back.

A lump stuck in my throat. I swallowed, forcing myself to breathe evenly.

I can't think about home. I need to survive.

I put the bottle back and looked around.

The stream continued flowing onward, and the sound of water grew louder. It was flowing into something larger.

Maybe it's safer there? More water—better protection.

I forced my legs to move.

Another step. Another one. Carefully, checking each step on the slippery surface.

Just don't stop.

The forest was changing. The trees grew taller, more ancient. Their trunks were covered with strange patterns—spirals, symbols, runes glowing with faint green light.

Some trees whispered.

Not wind in bare branches. Real whispers—words in an unfamiliar language. They penetrated my mind, trying to say something.

Or lure.

I quickened my pace, not listening.

Don't pay attention. It's a trap.

The sound of water grew louder, turned into a roar.

The stream was widening. No longer four meters but six. Then eight. Ten.

A river.

The stream was becoming a river.

I walked along the bank, staying close to the water. Slipped on moss, clung to roots, but didn't stray far.

Water protects. As long as I'm near water, they won't approach.

But then I heard new howling.

Not from behind. Ahead.

I froze.

No.

More howling—now from another direction, from the forest to the left.

My heart dropped.

They've circled around. Found a place where the stream was narrower and crossed.

Panic struck my head.

I looked back—the howling was approaching from there too.

Ahead—howling.

Left—forest from which growling came.

Right—the river.

I'm trapped.

The howling grew closer. From all sides.

They're driving me to the river. Deliberately.

I ran forward along the bank, hoping to find an exit, but the trees parted and I found myself on the open bank of a wide river.

The river was enormous—twenty meters, maybe more. Dark water churned between sharp stones, foamed, roared. Moonlight turned its surface into a stream of liquid silver with black veins of shadow.

Beautiful. Frighteningly beautiful.

And absolutely impassable.

I dropped to my knees by the water, lowered my hand into the current.

Icy. So cold my fingers instantly went numb, turned into lifeless stumps. I jerked my hand back, shook it, but sensation didn't return.

Can't swim across. The current will drag me away, the cold will kill me in seconds.

The howling became very close.

I turned around—shadows moved between the trees. Many shadows. Not three beasts but more. Five? Seven?

A pack.

They approached slowly, savoring the moment. Knew I was trapped.

Cold sweat covered my back.

What do I do? Where do I run?

Downstream I could see stones protruding from the water. Maybe I can cross on them?

I took a step toward the stones.

"I wouldn't advise it."

The voice sounded so close I yelped and jumped, simultaneously pulling the knife from my backpack pocket.

On a large boulder three meters from me sat a figure.

A teenager, about sixteen in appearance, with dark tousled hair and mischievous amber-colored eyes. He was dressed strangely—a leather jacket decorated with feathers and bone amulets, pants of rough material, high boots.

And he had ears.

Not human ones. Pointed, protruding from his hair.

Fae.

I stepped back, gripping the knife with both hands.

"Who are you?!"

"Me?" He smiled, and the smile was too wide, baring sharp teeth. "Just a traveler. Like you, actually."

He jumped from the boulder—the movement was too smooth, too graceful for a human. Landed soundlessly on the snow, not leaving even a footprint.

"You're... one of them," I breathed, not lowering the knife.

"Technically yes. I'm fae." He tilted his head, studying me with curiosity. "But I'm not one of Morphrost's hunters, if that's what you're worried about."

"Then who are you?"

"Call me Fox," he shrugged. "Not my real name, but I don't want to know yours either. Dangerous thing, knowing real names."

He nodded at the stones in the river:

"Don't try to cross on them. They're slippery, and you'll fall. And in the water live river spirits." His amber eyes gleamed. "They're hungry. And angry. They'll drag you to the bottom before you can scream."

I stayed silent, not knowing whether to believe him.

Fox smirked:

"Don't believe me? Good. We fae, we always lie. Even when we tell the truth."

Behind my back a growl sounded—close, threatening.

Fox turned his head, his ears twitching.

"The Wild Pack." He clicked his tongue. "Stubborn hounds. They've cornered you."

I turned around.

From the forest emerged beasts. One. Two. Three. Five. Seven.

A whole pack surrounding the clearing in a semicircle. Their yellow eyes glowed in the darkness, vapor bursting from their maws.

They approached slowly, savoring my fear.

"You have thirty seconds," Fox noted calmly. "Then they'll attack all at once."

"Then what do I do?!" My voice broke into a scream.

He thoughtfully scratched his chin:

"Well... I could help. Transport you to the other bank. Magic, all that."

The book had stated clearly: "Don't accept help from fae. Every service creates a debt."

"What price do you want?"

His eyes gleamed—pleased, predatory.

"Oh! Smart girl. Knows the rules." He smiled wider. "Fine, honestly. You'll owe me a favor. One. Someday I'll ask, and you won't be able to refuse."

"What favor?"

"Don't know," he shrugged. "I'll think of something when I need it. Maybe steal something. Maybe kill someone. We'll see."

Cold crept down my spine.

"I'm not a killer."

"Not a killer yet," he corrected. "Seven days here change a lot."

The beasts took a step closer. Synchronously, as if on command.

"Clock's ticking, dear," Fox tilted his head. "Debt to me or death in their teeth? What do you choose?"

I gripped the knife, feeling my palm sweat.

Debt or death. Wonderful choice.

The beasts moved closer. I could see their fangs, hear their growling.

The largest one, with the scar, prepared to pounce.

"FINE!" I shouted. "Help!"

Fox smiled—triumphantly.

"Now we have a deal."

He stepped toward me, extending his hand.

I placed my palm in his—and the world exploded.

The warmth of his hand burned after the cold. His fingers closed firmly, commandingly.

"Hold tight."

The ground disappeared beneath my feet.

The sensation of flight, weightlessness. My stomach leaped to my throat, my ears rang. Wind roared, though we weren't moving—or were moving too fast.

The world turned into blurred streaks of light and darkness.

And then solid ground under my feet again.

I fell to my knees, gasping. My head spun, spots danced in my eyes. My stomach twisted—I vomited right into the snow.

Teleportation. He'd teleported me.

When my vision cleared, I raised my head.

We stood on the other bank of the river. About fifty meters downstream from where the beasts had been.

Fox released my hand and stepped back, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.

"Service rendered. Debt recorded." He tapped his temple with a finger. "Here. Won't forget."

I breathed heavily, wiping my mouth with my sleeve.

"Why... why did you help?"

He turned and began to leave, tossing over his shoulder:

"I like spoiling Morphrost's games. He's too overconfident."

"Wait!"

He turned, raising an eyebrow.

"What?"

"How do I survive?" Desperation broke through in my voice. "I don't know this world, don't know the rules..."

Fox thought, then smirked:

"Want advice? Free?"

I nodded.

"Don't trust anyone. Anyone at all. Not even me." His eyes gleamed. "We all lie. Always."

"That doesn't help!"

"It's not supposed to." He shrugged. "But if you want to try to survive—go south. There are the Borderlands. Morphrost doesn't hunt there."

"How do I find south?"

Fox pointed at the sky:

"See the red moon? It's always above the south. Follow it."

He turned and dissolved into the shadows—instantly, as if he'd never been there.

I was left alone on the riverbank.

On the other side, in the distance, I could see the silhouettes of beasts. They looked in my direction but didn't cross the river.

One howled—prolonged, calling.

Others answered.

They called more. They'll look for a crossing.

I need to leave. Fast.

I looked at the sky, found the red moon. Small, blood-crimson, low on the horizon.

South.

I adjusted my backpack and walked in that direction, staying far from the river.

Chapter 5

I walked, stumbling from exhaustion. My body demanded rest. My eyes were closing. But I couldn't stop.

A little more. Just a bit more. Find shelter, then you can rest.

The forest on this side of the river was different. The trees stood farther apart, with bushes of silvery leaves growing between them. The air was slightly warmer, not as dense.

I walked, counting steps to keep from going mad from the monotony.

One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred.

Suddenly rocks appeared ahead—a group of enormous boulders piled on top of each other. Between them gaped a crevice, wide enough to squeeze through.

A cave? Shelter?

I approached closer, stopped at the entrance.

The darkness inside was absolute. It smelled of dampness and earth, but nothing living could be sensed.

I pulled out my flashlight, turned it on and shone it inside.

A narrow fissure extended inward about three meters, then ended at a solid stone wall. The floor was covered with small pebbles. Empty.

This'll do.

I squeezed inside, dragged my backpack in after me. There wasn't much space—I could sit leaning against the wall, but not lie down. But the entrance was narrow—if someone tried to get in, I'd see them.

I turned off the flashlight, conserving the battery, and leaned my back against the cold wall.

Silence.

Only the distant sound of the river and my own pulse in my ears.

I closed my eyes.

And then it hit me.

Everything at once.

The fear I'd been holding back all this time. The terror of where I'd ended up. The despair from realizing the way home was closed.

Tears poured out in a torrent, hot and salty. I pressed my hand over my mouth, holding back sobs, but my body shook with convulsive gasps.

Mom. Chloe. Dad.

I'll never see them again.

I'll die here. In this alien, terrifying world.

I cried until the tears ran out, until my throat was parched, until I had no strength even to sob.

And then I just sat there, empty and hollowed out.

And from somewhere deep inside another feeling rose.

Anger.

Quiet, cold, steely anger.

I didn't want this. Didn't ask for it. Didn't deserve it.

I just wanted to take beautiful photographs. Just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And now I'm here. In this cursed world. Playing this cursed game.

But I won't give up just like that.

I wiped my face with my sleeve, swallowed with my parched throat.

Seven days. I need to last seven days.

And then... then I'll get my wish. And go home.

I have to. I must.

Because if I die here, Mom will go crazy not knowing what happened to me. Chloe will blame herself. Dad...

No. I won't die. Won't let them have that.

I pulled the water bottle from my backpack, took several small sips. Then a package of jerky, bit off a piece.

Chewing was difficult, swallowing even harder. But I forced myself to eat. And another piece. And another.

Food from the human world. My protection from their enchantments.

When I'd eaten, I took out the knife, placed it nearby—within arm's reach.

I leaned against the stone and closed my eyes.

Sleeping was frightening. But without sleep I wouldn't last long.

An hour. I'll just doze for an hour.

I closed my eyes. My breathing slowed. My body went limp, relaxing.

And I fell.

***

I woke to warmth.

Not the cold of the stone cave, but soft, enveloping warmth. Beneath my back something incredibly tender, smelling of lavender and something else—expensive, indefinable.

What?

I slowly opened my eyes—and saw a ceiling.

Not the stone vault of the fissure. A high ceiling of black marble with silver veins, illuminated by hundreds of candles in crystal chandeliers.

And a mirror.

An enormous mirror, embedded right in the ceiling above the bed.

In it I saw my reflection.

But not the me who had fallen asleep in the fissure.

I lay on an enormous bed. Sheets of white silk enveloped my body. And I wore a dress.

A dress of material resembling liquid silver, shimmering from deep blue to black. The bodice hugged my chest tightly, the skirt flowed in waves. Long sleeves, transparent, embroidered with silver. Deep décolletage, revealing collarbones and the hollow between my breasts.

Hair loose, spilled across the pillows like a dark waterfall. Hands folded on my chest.

I looked like... a dead princess from a fairy tale. Beautiful, cold, lifeless.

What the...

I sat up abruptly, and the reflection in the mirror repeated the movement.

I looked around.

A bedroom. An enormous, luxurious bedroom with black marble walls and tall windows, beyond which three moons shimmered. A fireplace with blue flames. Candles everywhere.

No. This is impossible.

Panic began rising in a wave.

Where am I? How did I get here?

Last memory—the fissure. Cold stone. The knife nearby, within reach. I closed my eyes...

He caught me. While I slept, he found me and took me.

Terror struck my head.

The game is over. I lost.

"It suits you."

The voice sounded from the corner of the room, and I jumped up, tangling in the sheets, nearly falling off the bed.

Caelan stood by the window, leaning his shoulder against the frame. Without a cloak, without a crown—only a black shirt with the top buttons undone and dark trousers. Hair loose, falling on his shoulders.

He looked at me with a satisfied smile.

"Especially the hair," he continued, surveying my reflection in the ceiling mirror. "Loose, they make you look like a sleeping beauty. Or a dead bride. Which, in essence, isn't far from the truth."

Something inside me exploded.

Not fear. Not panic.

Rage.

Pure, white, incinerating rage.

All the pain of the first night. All the terror of the chase. All the exhaustion from fleeing. And he—the cause of all this—stands here, smiling and making comments about my appearance.

I threw myself from the bed, not feeling how the skirt tangled in my legs.

"YOU!" I screamed, and my voice broke into a shriek. "YOU DID THIS!"

I grabbed the first thing within reach—a heavy vase with flowers on the bedside table.

"ALL OF THIS IS BECAUSE OF YOU!"

I swung with all my strength, aiming for his head.

The vase flew from my hands—and halfway to his face disintegrated into snowflakes.

Didn't break. Didn't fall.

Simply turned into thousands of tiny silvery snowflakes that swirled in the air and melted.

I froze, not believing my eyes.

"What..."

Caelan didn't even flinch. Just stood there, watching me with a slight smirk.

"Didn't work?" he asked softly. "Try again."

Rage still boiled in my chest. I grabbed a candlestick—heavy, made of something like silver.

"I HATE YOU!"

I hurled it at him with all my strength.

The candlestick flew half the distance—and turned into a shower of snow, which settled on the floor in a soft drift.

"What the hell?!"

I grabbed everything in sight—a book from the shelf, a statuette, a pillow from the bed. Threw them at him again and again.

And every time—the same thing.

Halfway there the objects turned to snow. To snowflakes. To silvery dust.

"WHY?!" I screamed, breathing heavily. "Why doesn't anything work?!"

Caelan pushed off from the window and slowly walked toward me.

"Because, darling," his voice was calm, almost tender, "none of this is real."

He stopped a couple steps away, gesturing to the room around us.

"This bedroom. This bed. The vases, candlesticks, even the dress you're wearing." His eyes met mine. "All of it—illusion. A dream."

The world tilted.

A dream?

"You're still sleeping in your little fissure, clutching your backpack to your chest," he continued. "Your body is there, in the cold and darkness. But your mind..."

He tapped his temple.

"Your mind is here. In my dream domain."

Reality slowly began assembling into a picture.

A dream. This is a dream. I didn't lose. He didn't catch me.

Relief mixed with new horror.

But if this is his dream... that means he controls everything.

I backed away, but my back hit the bed.

"You're beginning to understand," he smiled, taking a step closer. "Here, in dreams, I am god. I control every detail. Can create and destroy reality at will."

He snapped his fingers, and the room changed.

The walls expanded, transforming into an endless ballroom. The floor beneath my feet became mirrored, reflecting thousands of candles. Music filled the air—a waltz, slow and hypnotic.

Another snap—and we were back in the bedroom, but now it was snowing. Real snow, falling from the ceiling, settling on furniture, melting at the touch.

Another snap—the bedroom disappeared. We stood on the edge of a cliff above a bottomless abyss. Wind roared, tearing at clothes, but I didn't fall.

"See?" his voice sounded right at my ear, though he stood several steps away. "There are no rules here. No laws of physics. Only my will."

Another snap—and we were back in the bedroom.

I breathed heavily, trying to cope with the dizziness.

"Why?" I exhaled. "Why did you drag me here?"

"Drag?" He tilted his head. "Darling, I didn't drag you anywhere. You came yourself when you fell asleep."

He took another step, and now only a couple inches separated us.

"Every time you close your eyes, I can enter. Into your mind, into your dreams." His hand rose to my face but didn't touch—froze a millimeter from my cheek. "It's part of the game. In the real world I'm bound by rules. But here..."

His smile became predatory.

"Here you're completely in my power."

"What do you want from me?" My voice trembled.

"Just to talk," he lowered his hand. "Get to know you better. Understand what makes you run so desperately."

He stepped back, giving space.

"And yes, to have a little fun." Something dark flashed in his eyes. "Seven nights is a long time. It would be boring to just chase you through the forest."

He turned and walked to the window, gesturing for me to follow.

"Come, let's take a walk. I promise to behave... relatively decently."

"And if I refuse?"

He turned, and the expression on his face became harder.

"Then I'll stop being so courteous."

The threat rang clear.

I clenched my fists, feeling nails dig into palms. There was no choice.

Slowly, on trembling legs, I walked toward him.

And with each step I understood—this is only the beginning.

The first night in dreams.

And six more ahead.

***

The door opened by itself when we approached.

Beyond it stretched a corridor—the same one I'd seen in the first dream. Endless perspective of black marble, columns of ice, torches with blue flames.

But now, knowing this was a dream, I saw the details differently.

The walls breathed. Barely noticeably, but they moved, pulsed, as if they were alive. Shadows between columns shifted on their own, independent of light. And in the torches the blue flames sometimes formed faces—distorted, screaming, disappearing after a moment.

"Welcome to my consciousness," Caelan said, walking beside me. "Or rather, to that part of it I allow you to see."

I remained silent, trying not to look at the moving shadows.

"I've lived here for thousands of years," he continued. "Here are stored all my memories, all desires, everything I hide from the world."

Between the columns images began appearing. Flashes, like paintings on walls, but alive, moving.

Battles. Blood on snow. Armies of fae fighting under three moons.

Balls. Hundreds of fae in luxurious clothing, dancing in this very hall.

And humans. Many humans. Some fled in terror, others knelt, still others lay motionless.

"These are... your victims?" I whispered.

"Victims. Toys. Prey." He shrugged. "Call them what you want. In a thousand years there have been... many."

One of the images stopped, became clearer.

A girl. Young, with red hair and freckles. She stood in this same corridor, in a similar dress. Looked at Caelan with an expression of... adoration.

"This was Eileen," his voice became softer. "Three hundred years ago. She lasted six days."

"What happened to her?"

"On the seventh day she surrendered. Asked to stay with me herself." He looked at the frozen image. "I turned her into one of us. She served me for half a century, and then... became boring."

"And you killed her?"

"No." He shook his head. "Released her. She's still somewhere here, in my domain. Wanders through the forests, feeds on small animals, having lost her mind centuries ago."

Cold crept down my spine.

"You're a monster."

"I'm fae," he corrected calmly. "We don't know your morality. To us humans are toys. Beautiful, fragile, temporary."

The image disappeared, replaced by another.

A man. Tall, strong, with a sword in his hands. He fought something enormous and dark.

"This was Thomas," Caelan said. "A hundred years ago. He lasted four days."

"What happened to him?"

"The Wild Pack caught him on the fourth night." His voice was indifferent. "He tried to hide in a tree hollow. Didn't help."

The image faded, dissolved.

"The Wild Pack?"

"The Pack is the lesser of evils," his eyes darkened. "In my forests live creatures more dangerous than any nightmare. Spirits that devour flesh. Plants that suck blood. Fae exiles who don't obey me and hunt anyone who crosses their path."

He traced a finger along my cheek—an icy touch that sent shivers across my skin.

"And then there's me. And I don't need monsters to break you." His voice became quieter, more intimate. "I'll do it slowly. Every night, in dreams."

His hand slid to my chin, lifting it, forcing me to look into his eyes.

"I'll touch you. Kiss you. Study every reaction." Something dark and promising swirled in his gaze. "And gradually you'll begin to wait for it. Dream of it."

"Never," I hissed.

"We'll see," he leaned closer, his lips an inch from mine. "By the way, I have a question."

"What?"

"What did you wish for at the Tree?" His breath touched my lips. "What wish?"

"I didn't wish for anything!"

"The Tree doesn't activate without a wish," his hand settled on my waist. "Even a subconscious one. Something deep in your heart responded to its magic."

He pulled me closer, so our bodies touched.

"I very much want to know what it was. What does Elise Thorne secretly desire?" His lips touched the corner of my mouth. "Love? Wealth? Power?"

"Let me go," my voice trembled.

"Or maybe adventure?" He ignored my request. "Were you tired of boring life? Wanted to break free, feel alive?"

His words hit too accurately.

"Then congratulations, darling." His smile became predatory. "You got what you wanted. A life full of danger and thrills. Isn't that what you dreamed of?"

"Not like this!" it burst from me. "Not this!"

"Then how?" He pulled back, looking into my eyes. "Tell me. What did you really want?"

The words stuck in my throat. Because deep inside I knew—he was right. I'd dreamed of something more than ordinary life. Of adventure, of passion, of feeling alive.

But not like this. Not in a nightmare.

"See?" he whispered triumphantly. "You can't answer. Because you don't know yourself."

He circled me, not breaking eye contact.

"The Tree showed me flashes of your life. I saw you sitting in your room, looking out the window and dreaming of escape. Saw you photographing beautiful landscapes, hoping that through the lens your life would become more interesting."

Every word struck like a blow.

"Saw your loneliness. Your friend Chloe, who lives a vibrant life while you remain in the shadows. Your parents, who love you but don't understand."

He stopped in front of me, his hand on my cheek.

"And I saw your secret dream. The one you hide even from yourself."

"What?" I whispered, though I feared the answer.

His eyes gleamed.

"You dream of someone who will see the real you. Not the mask you wear for everyone." His thumb traced my lower lip. "Of someone who will accept you wholly. With all your fears, with all the darkness inside."

Tears welled in my eyes, but I blinked, throwing them off.

"You know nothing about me."

"I know more than you think," he leaned to my ear. "And you know what's funniest? I see you. All of you. Without masks. With all your fears and desires."

His lips touched the sensitive skin beneath my ear.

"That's why it frightens you so much. Not because I'm a monster. But because I see what you hide from everyone else."

"Shut up," I hissed, but my voice broke.

"Make me," he smirked against my neck.

His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. I felt the cold of his body through the thin silk of the dress, his breath on my neck, the scent of winter and danger.

"Want to know what else I saw?" he whispered.

"No."

"Saw your curiosity." His lips moved to my shoulder. "You fear me, but simultaneously... you're intrigued. Part of you wants to know what it's like—to be with someone like me."

"You're lying."

"I never lie in dreams," his hand slid across my stomach. "There's no point here. Your subconscious knows the truth."

He turned me to face him, and his eyes pierced through.

"Admit it, Elise. Aren't you curious?" His hand tangled in my hair. "What it's like—to kiss a monster? To be desired by someone who could kill you with one movement?"

"You're insane."

"Maybe," he smiled. "But you're still standing here. Not running. Not screaming."

He was right. I wasn't running away. Because... because...

Because this is a dream. Here I can't escape.

Only for that reason.

His lips covered mine—softly, surprisingly tender for someone who'd threatened me with death.

The kiss was icy, but not burning. Slow. Exploratory. His tongue touched mine, and a wave of sensations ran through my body—cold and heat, fear and something else I didn't want to name.

I tasted winter on his lips. Snow, pine, something wild and ancient.

And I hated myself because part of me... responded to the kiss.

It's magic. Only magic. Not me.

Caelan pulled back, looking into my eyes. Triumph swirled in his gaze.

"See?" he whispered. "You're beginning to feel."

"It's your damned sorcery!"

"Perhaps," he traced his thumb across my lower lip, wet from the kiss. "Or perhaps you're just more honest with yourself in dreams than when awake."

He stepped back, giving me space.

"But we'll end here for today." He turned to the window. "Dawn is near. You'll wake soon."

"How do I... how do I wake up?" Desperation broke through in my voice.

"You don't," he tossed over his shoulder. "You'll wake when I allow it. Or when your body pulls you from the dream itself."

He turned, and the expression on his face became serious.

"But remember, Elise. Every night I'll come." His voice became colder. "And every night I'll go further. Touch more boldly. Learn more."

He took a step toward me, and the world began darkening at the edges.

"By the seventh night you'll be begging me not to stop."

"Never!" I screamed with all my might, and the scream tore free not only in the dream but in reality.

His laughter echoed as reality began to crumble.

"They all say that, darling. All of them."

***

I woke abruptly, crying out from residual terror.

Sitting in the fissure, pressed against the stone wall. My throat ached from screaming, my chest burned. My whole body was drenched in sweat, but I shivered from cold.

My legs ached—muscles tight after the night's flight. Palms stung—scratches from falls when landing in this world. My mouth was parched. My head spun from lack of sleep and stress.

A dream. It was a dream.

But my lips still burned from his kiss. My waist hurt where he'd wrapped his arms. And on my neck, where he'd kissed, the skin was covered with a delicate pattern of frost.

I touched it with trembling fingers—cold. Real.

The marks remain.

Horror gripped my throat. The traces of his touches... remain. Every night he'll leave more marks. By the seventh night...

No. Don't think about it.

Outside, dawn was breaking. Gray morning light filtered between the stones. The three moons had disappeared, yielding to a pale, cold sun.

The night was over.

The first night behind me.

But now I knew—the nights would be more terrifying than the days.

Because during the day I run from monsters outside.

And at night—from the monster who knows all my secrets.

And leaves his marks on my body, one after another.

Chapter 6

I needed to get out. Keep moving while it was light.

I reached for my backpack—and froze.

A sound came from outside.

Footsteps.

Light, almost soundless, but audible against the morning silence.

Someone was walking around the boulders. Slowly. Methodically.

My hand instinctively reached for the knife, fingers closing around the handle.

Who's there?

I held my breath, listening.

The footsteps were approaching. Circling the fissure, as if sniffing.

The Wild Pack? No, they couldn't have crossed the river.

The Fox? Come back for his debt?

Or something else?

The footsteps stopped right at the entrance.

Silence. Long, oppressive silence.

I gripped the knife tighter, feeling my palm sweat.

And then came a sound—a deep, noisy inhale. As if someone was drawing air through their nose, sniffing out a scent.

Another breath. Another.

"I know you're in there," a voice sounded.

Female. Melodious, like the ringing of bells.

But there was something... hungry in it.

My heart dropped.

"I smell human blood," the voice continued softly, almost tenderly. "Warm. Alive. Delicious."

Fae. This was fae.

"Come out, child," the voice drew closer. "Don't make me drag you out by force."

I remained silent, pressed against the wall, trying to breathe as quietly as possible.

Maybe she won't see. Maybe she'll leave.

But I knew—she wouldn't leave.

"Stubborn?" Satisfaction rang in the voice. "I like stubborn ones. Their fear tastes better when they finally break."

A silhouette appeared at the entrance.

Tall. Graceful. Backlit by the morning light.

The figure began bending, trying to peer into the fissure.

And then the light fell on her face.

I forgot how to breathe.

A woman.

No—not a woman. A creature that had taken female form.

She was beautiful in a way no human could be. Sharp cheekbones, perfectly outlined lips, pale skin, almost transparent, through which blue veins showed, forming intricate patterns.

Hair white as freshly fallen snow cascaded to the ground—long, thick, alive. It moved on its own, though there was no wind, as if each strand lived a separate life.

But her eyes...

My God, her eyes.

They glowed with golden fire. No pupils. No whites. Just two golden discs burning with inhuman, predatory light.

She smiled—and the smile revealed teeth.

Sharp. Like a shark's. In rows. Three rows of needle-sharp teeth that gleamed in the morning light.

"There you are, little mouse," she whispered, and her voice was sweet as honey laced with poison.

Her hand reached into the fissure.

White. Graceful. With long fingers.

And claws. Black, curved claws instead of nails, as long as my pinky finger.

Instinct took over from fear.

I snatched the vial of holy water from my backpack pocket, uncapped it with trembling fingers and splashed it directly on the hand reaching for me.

The reaction was instantaneous and terrifying.

The fae howled.

The sound was inhuman—a mixture of female shriek and animal growl.

She recoiled, clutching her hand, and fell to her knees.

Where the holy water touched her skin, burns appeared. Red. Blisters. The skin hissed and smoked, as if I'd splashed acid.

The smell of burnt flesh hit my nose—sickeningly sweet, nauseating.

"YOU!" Her voice turned to a snarl. "You dared?!"

She rose to her feet, and I saw her at full height.

Tall. Incredibly tall—two and a half meters, if not more. Graceful body, but beneath the white dress woven from something like spiderweb and mist, the muscles of a predator could be glimpsed.

Her face twisted with fury, golden eyes blazing brighter.

"Filthy mortal!" she hissed, trying to master the pain. "You dared to wound me! ME! THE WHITE LADY!"

She paced before the entrance to the fissure like an enraged beast. Snarling, howling, cursing me in her language—the words were melodious, but the meaning was clear in the intonation.

Promises of pain.

Slow, agonizing death.

I clutched the nearly empty vial, pressing it to my chest.

A third. Maybe less. That's all that remained.

The fae stopped pacing. Her golden eyes found me in the half-darkness of the fissure.

"Holy water," she hissed, and something like... respect? rang in her voice. "Clever little mouse."

She slowly crouched at the entrance, tilting her head.

"But you don't have much of it, do you?" The smile returned to her face, twisted with malice. "Maybe enough for one more time. Maybe even two."

She settled in more comfortably, crossing her long legs like a cat ready for a long wait.

"But not for the whole day," she continued softly. "And the day is still long. Very long. And I'm in no hurry."

Cold crept down my spine.

She would wait. Would sit here until I fell asleep or the water ran out.

"I'll sit here," she licked her lips with a long, too-long tongue. "I'll wait. Sooner or later you'll come out. Or fall asleep. Or try to escape."

Her clawed fingers tapped on the stone—slowly, methodically.

"And then I'll catch you." Her voice became almost tender. "First I'll tear out your tongue so you can't scream. Then gouge out your eyes so you can't see what I'm doing."

She leaned closer to the entrance, golden eyes glowing in the half-light.

"And then I'll eat. Slowly. I'll start with the toes. They're so crunchy..." She closed her eyes, savoring the imaginary taste. "Then I'll move up. To the knees. To the thighs."

Nausea rose in my throat.

"Leave," I snarled, trying to make my voice sound more confident than I felt. "Or you'll get more."

She laughed—a silvery, beautiful laugh that didn't match her threats at all.

"Threatening me? Oh, brave mouse!" She clapped her hands like a delighted child. "This makes the game even more interesting!"

Then she tilted her head, studying me.

"But we both know the truth, child. You won't come out. I won't leave." A pause. "Stalemate."

She was right.

If I go out—she'll grab me. Her arms are long, claws sharp. I won't even have time to swing the knife.

If I stay—sooner or later the water will run out or I'll fall asleep.

Think. Elise, think!

My gaze darted over the contents of the backpack.

Water—almost no holy water, just regular.

Salt—a packet.

Iron nails—a handful.

Knife.

Flashlight.

Salt.

A memory from the book flashed in my head:

"Salt repels fae and destroys their enchantments. Causes them pain, like fire to a human."

But she's sitting right at the entrance. How do I scatter it?

Don't scatter. Throw. In her face.

This is madness. She's too fast. Might dodge.

But there's no other chance.

I slowly, trying not to make noise, took the packet of salt from the backpack. Tore open the package with one hand, continuing to grip the knife in the other.

"What are you doing in there, mouse?" The fae tried to peer deeper into the fissure, but was afraid to approach after the holy water.

"Praying," I snapped.

"Prayers won't help, child." She shook her head. "Your gods don't hear in this world."

I scooped a full handful of salt.

One attempt. Need to hit her face. Her eyes.

My heart pounded so loudly it seemed she could hear it.

"You know what I'll do first?" the fae continued dreamily. "Drink your blood. While it's still warm, while your heart still beats."

She licked her lips.

"Human blood is so sweet. Especially young. Especially full of fear."

Now.

I lunged forward, right to the entrance, and hurled the salt straight at her face with all my strength.

Direct hit.

Salt got in her eyes, in her nose, in her open mouth.

The effect exceeded all expectations.

The fae shrieked—the sound was so loud and piercing that I covered my ears.

She fell on her back, clawing at her face, rolling on the ground. Where the salt touched her skin, it hissed, bubbled, smoked.

The golden eyes went dark, flooded with tears—silvery, glowing tears.

"MY EYES!" she howled. "YOU BURNED MY EYES!"

I didn't hesitate.

I burst from the fissure, jumped over the writhing figure and ran.

Ran without looking back, without thinking, just ran with all my strength.

Behind me came a new howl—full of pain, fury and promise of revenge.

"I'LL FIND YOU!" she screamed. "FIND YOU BY SCENT! AND THEN DEATH WILL SEEM LIKE MERCY!"

But the voice was growing more distant.

I raced between trees, jumped over roots, dodged branches. The backpack beat against my back, my lungs burned, muscles screamed with pain.

But I didn't stop.

I ran until my head spun from lack of oxygen.

Until my legs buckled and I collapsed to my knees, gasping for air.

I looked around.

The forest around me looked the same as everywhere. Tall trees, moss on the ground, morning light filtering through the canopy.

But the White Lady's howling could no longer be heard.

I got away. For now.

I leaned my back against a tree trunk, breathing heavily, trying to orient myself.

Where had I run? In what direction?

I looked back—all the trees looked the same. No landmarks.

I was lost.

Panic began rising, but I pushed it down.

Calm. Need to calm down and think.

My hands were bleeding from scratches—I'd scraped the skin on rocks getting out of the fissure. Blood dripped down my fingers, falling to the ground.

Scent.

Her words echoed in my head: "I'll find you by scent!"

I needed to stop the bleeding. Wash away the scent.

Water. I need water.

I listened—in the distance, barely audible, I heard a sound. Gurgling.

A stream? A river?

I stood on trembling legs and moved toward the sound of water.

Walked slowly, cautiously, listening to every rustle. But the forest was quiet. Too quiet.

The sound of water grew louder.

I came out to a small stream—narrow but fast. Water ran between stones, clear, transparent.

Running water.

I dropped to my knees by the bank, plunged my hands into the icy flow. The water burned the scratches, but I endured, washing away blood, dirt, sweat.

Washed my face. Dampened my neck where I could still feel traces of frost from his touches in the dream.

The cold water sobered me.

What next?

The Fox said to go south. To the red moon. To the Borderlands.

But could I trust him?

"We always lie. Even when we tell the truth."

His own words.

I looked at the sky, trying to orient myself. The sun was... somewhere there. But it didn't move like in the normal world. Directions were distorted.

I don't know where to go.

Despair began creeping in, but then I saw light.

Ahead, between the trees—a warm golden glow. Not the cold light of the moon or pale sun. Warm, living radiance.

Fire.

A campfire?

This could be a trap. Another fae luring prey.

But there was no other option.

I cautiously moved toward the light, gripping the knife in one hand.

Between the trees a small clearing appeared. In the center burned a fire—real, with crackling and the smell of smoke.

And next to the fire sat a person.

An old man.

Wrinkled face, long gray beard, simple traveling clothes.

He raised his head, hearing my steps, and smiled.

"Hello, child." His voice was hoarse but kind. "Something's chasing you through the forest this early in the morning?"

I froze at the edge of the clearing, not daring to approach.

"Who are you?"

"A wanderer," he shrugged. "Like you, it seems."

He nodded to a spot by the fire:

"Sit. Warm yourself. You look like you haven't slept all night."

A trap?

I studied him carefully.

Ears—ordinary, round, human.

Eyes—brown, with normal pupils, tired.

Hands—wrinkled, covered with age spots. Human hands.

"You're... human?" I whispered.

He smiled sadly:

"Was once. A very long time ago."

He gestured to the fire:

"Fire protects from many creatures here. Sit. I promise not to bite."

I slowly, not releasing the knife from my hands, approached and lowered myself to the ground opposite him, so the fire was between us.

The warmth of the fire was a blessing. I stretched my hands to the flames, feeling frozen fingers begin to thaw.

The old man was silent, just sat watching the fire.

Finally I couldn't stand it:

"What are you doing here?"

"Living," he answered simply. "For a very long time."

"You're stuck here?"

He looked at me, and in his eyes I saw ancient sorrow.

"You could say that."

We sat in silence for several minutes. Only the crackle of the fire broke the peace.

I took the water bottle from my backpack, took several sips. Then jerky—bit off a piece, forced myself to chew, though I had no appetite at all.

The old man watched me.

"Smart girl," he muttered. "Eat your food. Not theirs."

I flinched:

"How do you know?"

"Because I once ran too," he poked the coals with a stick. "Hid too. Also refused their food, their gifts, their promises."

He raised his head, looking me in the eyes:

"You're playing the game, right? Morphrost is hunting you?"

A lump stuck in my throat. I nodded.

"How many nights have passed?"

"One," I whispered. "Only one."

He whistled:

"And you're still alive. Impressive. Most don't survive to the dawn of the first day."

"You... you played too?"

"Long ago," his gaze became distant, as if he was looking through time. "More than two hundred years ago, by your count. Though time flows strangely here. Maybe three hundred. I don't remember anymore."

Two hundred years.

"But you won."

"No," he shook his head. "I lost."

Cold gripped my heart.

He smiled bitterly. "On the sixth day. Almost made it to the end, but on the sixth day the Lady of Thorns found me."

"Lady of Thorns?"

"Spring Court," he explained. "I wasn't playing with Morphrost. With another. She loves games no less than the Winter King, only her trials... are different. More insidious."

He fell silent, lost in memories.

"What happened on the sixth day?"

"She caught me." His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. "I was one step from victory. One step. But she... she knew my weaknesses too well."

He looked at me, and pain flashed in his eyes—ancient, burned by time, but still alive.

"Used the face of my dead wife. Voice. Scent of her perfume. Everything." His voice trembled. "And I... for a moment believed. Hesitated."

"And then what?" I whispered.

He looked away, staring into the fire.

"She grabbed me." Briefly. Harshly. "The game ended. I lost."

Silence. Heavy, oppressive.

I didn't dare ask further—something in his face said this wound was best left untouched.

The old man sighed, rubbed his face with his hands.

"And here I am. Two hundred years. Maybe more." He gestured around. "Stuck in this world forever."

Forever.

The word hung in the air, heavy as stone.

He raised his head, shook himself, as if throwing off memories.

"But enough about me." His voice became firmer. "Tell me, do you know where to run?"

I nodded, remembering the Fox's words.

"The Fox said... to the Borderlands. Where the red moon is."

The old man's face darkened. He spat into the fire.

"The Fox." The name sounded like a curse. "That red-headed bastard."

I flinched.

"He... did he lie?"

The old man was silent, looking at me carefully. Then slowly shook his head.

"Yes and no." He poked the coals with his stick, scattering sparks. "The Fox is a trickster. He always tells half truth and half lies. You just need to figure out which is which."

He stood, walked around the fire and crouched next to me. Closer. So I could see every wrinkle on his face, every spark in his eyes.

"Listen carefully, girl. What I'm about to tell you may save your life." His hand rested on my shoulder—warm, human, reassuring. "The Fox told the truth about one thing—you really do need to get to the Borderlands. It's the only place where you have a chance to survive."

Hope flared in my chest.

"Then he didn't deceive?"

"He deceived about the direction." The old man squeezed my shoulder. "The red moon hangs over the Heart of Winter. Over Morphrost's palace. The most dangerous place in his domain. The center of his power."

My blood ran cold.

"He... he sent me to him?"

"Yes." Simply. Harshly. "Right into the beast's maw."

Fury exploded in my chest, mixing with humiliation.

Bastard.

The old man saw the expression on my face and nodded.

"I understand your anger. But now is not the time." He released my shoulder, stood and pointed east. "The Borderlands are there. See where the sun is?"

I looked. Between the trees the sky was slightly lighter—the pale, cold sun was breaking through the gray haze.

"Three days' journey. Maybe two, if you're lucky and don't encounter too many dangers."

He returned to the fire, sat opposite me again. The fire lit his face from below, making the wrinkles deeper, the shadows darker.

"What are the Borderlands?"

The old man interlaced his fingers, staring into the flames.

"Land between the domains of all the Courts. Neutral territory." His voice became quieter, almost reverent. "Once, before the Courts, before the fae, before all this magic, another power ruled there. Old. Wild. Primordial."

He raised his gaze to me.

"It's still there. In the earth. In the stones. In the air. And it limits the power of the Courts. Doesn't let them capture these lands completely."

"So there Morphrost is weaker?"

"Yes." A nod. "He won't be able to summon the Wild Pack. Won't be able to use strong enchantments. Will rely only on his strength, on his skill." A pause. "You'll get a more honest fight."

More honest. Not fair. Not safe. Just slightly less hopeless.

"But," the old man continued, and his voice became harder, "don't think it's safe there. The Borderlands are the wildest, most dangerous place in this world."

He leaned closer, and I saw fear in his eyes.

"Those who were exiled from the Courts live there. Fae criminals feared even by their own. Monsters that have no place in any world. Spirits that feed on flesh and fear." His hand trembled. "There are no laws there. No rules. Only strength."

Cold ran down my spine.

"Then why should I go there?" My voice broke. "If it's so dangerous?"

The old man exhaled, leaned back.

"Because there's an exit there," he said simply.

I blinked.

"Exit?"

"Yes." He nodded. "In the center of the Borderlands stands a circle of stones. The Neutral Grove. An ancient place where magic is older than the fae." His eyes gleamed. "And there, in the very center of the circle, stand gates. A portal between worlds."

My heart beat faster.

"Gates... home?"

"Yes." He looked into my eyes. "If you survive to the seventh day and reach the circle—you can pass through the gates and return to your world."

Hope flared, but then was replaced by confusion.

"But..." I frowned. "But isn't Morphrost supposed to send me home? If I win? He said that if I survive seven days, I'll be free. Won't he return me with the same mist he took me with?"

The old man laughed.

But the laugh was bitter, almost angry.

"Oh, girl." He shook his head. "No. No, no, and no."

The smile disappeared from his face.

"As soon as the seventh day ends, the hunt will cease. The contract will be fulfilled. You'll become free." He paused. "From him. From the hunt. From obligations."

His finger jabbed the air.

"But 'free' doesn't mean 'home.' Understand?"

Cold crept down my spine.

"I... don't understand."

"The fae don't lie," the old man said slowly. "But they don't tell the whole truth. That's their way of playing."

He leaned closer, and I saw ancient pain in his eyes.

"Morphrost promised you freedom if you survive. And he'll keep his word. On the seventh day the hunt will end. You'll be free." A pause. "But he's not obligated to send you home. That wasn't part of the deal."

The world tilted.

"So..."

"So he'll say: 'Congratulations, you survived. You're free. Go where you want.'" The old man spread his hands. "And he'll leave. And you'll remain in the fae world. Forever."

Tears burned my eyes.

"But that's... that's deception!"

"That's their truth." Bitterly. "They give exactly what they promised. Freedom—yes. The way home? No. Because they didn't promise it."

Silence.

I digested what I'd heard.

Need to go to the Borderlands. To the circle. To the gates. It's the only way to get home.

"There's another reason," the old man added quietly.

I raised my head.

"What?"

"On the territory of the Borderlands, especially near the circle, his power is weaker." He looked at my neck, at the frost pattern. "He won't be able to pull you into dreams."

I flinched, touching the mark.

"Really?"

"Yes. The ancient magic of the Borderlands blocks his enchantments." A nod. "There you'll be safe from him at night. You'll be able to sleep peacefully."

The relief was so strong I almost burst into tears.

No dreams. No his touches. No marks.

"That's why you need to get there as quickly as possible." The old man stood, extending his hand to me. "The longer you linger in his domain, the more marks he'll leave. The stronger his power over you will be."

I took his hand, stood up.

"Three days to the Borderlands?"

"Yes. Maybe two, if you don't encounter too many dangers." He pointed east. "Go there. Stick to rivers—water protects. Don't stop for long. Don't sleep more than an hour at a time."

He looked into my eyes.

"And when you reach the Borderlands—find the circle. White grove in the center, huge stones, an arch of black stone in the middle. You can't miss it."

I nodded, memorizing.

"Wait for the seventh day there. In safety." His hand squeezed mine. "And when the sun sets on the seventh day, when the contract is fulfilled—pass through the gates."

"And I'll be home," I whispered.

"Yes." He smiled weakly. "You'll be home."

Silence. Only the crackle of the fire.

The old man released my hand, stepped back.

"Go. While it's light." He turned to the forest. "Time is short, and the way is long."

"Wait!" I stepped toward him. "What's your name?"

He turned. In his eyes—ancient, unbearable sorrow.

"Don't remember." The words sounded like a sentence. "Too much time has passed. Here you forget who you were."

A weak smile.

"But you can call me Wanderer."

"Will we meet again?"

He was silent.

"Maybe." A pause. "If you survive to the Borderlands."

He nodded and walked into the forest. Slowly. Leaning on his staff.

His figure dissolved into the shadows.

I was alone.

The fire was dying down.

I stood, digesting everything.

Borderlands. Circle. Gates. Home.

No dreams. No him.

Just need to survive. Three days. Reach the circle. Wait for the seventh day.

And I'll go home.

I looked east. The sun was rising higher—pale, cold.

Memorized the direction. A tree with a split trunk.

Checked my backpack.

Holy water—drops.

Salt—half.

Water—one and a half bottles.

Food—enough.

It will suffice. It has to suffice.

Adjusted the straps. Took the knife.

Three days to the Borderlands.

Three days in the safety of the circle.

On the seventh day—the gates.

Home.

I sighed and walked.

East.

Toward freedom.

Toward home.

The game continued.

Chapter 7

I had been walking for several hours.

The sun had risen higher, but it hadn't grown warmer. Pale light broke through the bare branches, casting long, distorted shadows on the frost-covered ground.

The forest around me was dead. Quiet. Too quiet.

No birds. No rustling of leaves. No cracking of twigs under animal paws.

Only my footsteps—careful, muffled by moss—disturbed this deathly silence.

I kept to the landmark—the tree with the split trunk that the Wanderer had pointed out. It was still visible ahead, between other trees. As long as I could see it, I wasn't straying from the path.

East. Two days.

My body ached. Every step echoed in my muscles—my legs throbbed from yesterday's flight, my back burned from the weight of the backpack, the scratches on my hands stung.

But I couldn't stop.

Every hour here meant another night when he would come. Another mark on my skin.

I instinctively touched my neck, where the frost pattern still remained a cold spot.

In the Borderlands he won't be able to. There I'll be safe at night.

This thought urged me on, made me walk faster despite the exhaustion.

***

By midday I reached a stream.

Narrow, fast, with crystal-clear water running between stones. I stopped, listening.

Silence. No sounds of pursuit.

The White Lady hadn't found me. Not yet.

I dropped to my knees by the water, took off my backpack. I pulled out the nearly empty bottle, scooped cold water from the stream, filled it to the brim.

Rule from the book: "Running water is safe. Drink only from rivers and streams, avoid stagnant lakes."

I took several large gulps. The water was ice-cold, burned my throat, but I drank greedily, feeling the thirst recede.

Then I took out one of the isotonic drink packets the gas station attendant had given me. Poured the powder into the bottle, shook it. The water turned pale orange.

Took a sip—sweet-salty taste, but strength began returning.

Electrolytes. That attendant was smart.

Then food. I rummaged in the backpack—jerky, nuts, energy bar. Chose the bar—high-calorie, compact. Tore open the package, bit off a piece.

Chewed slowly, forcing myself to eat.

While I ate, my gaze slid over the forest.

The trees here were taller, more ancient. The trunks were covered with patterns glowing with faint green light.

Some were whispering.

I turned away, ignoring them.

Don't listen.

Finished the bar, hid the wrapper. Leaned toward the stream to wash my face.

And then a voice came from behind:

"And here I thought you'd died in a ditch somewhere."

I cried out and jerked forward—my hands hit the cold water, my face a hair's breadth from the surface, nearly dove in.

My heart pounded wildly.

I spun around, pulling out my knife.

On a large boulder, leg crossed over leg, sprawled as if at home, sat the Fox.

Red hair tousled. Amber eyes gleaming. Leather jacket with feathers. On his face—a wide, impudent, unbearably smug smile.

"Good morning, sunshine!" He waved. "Or is it afternoon already? Hell if I know, time here is such a slippery thing."

Fury.

White. Searing. Fury.

I jumped up and rushed at him, not thinking.

"YOU!" I screamed, and my voice broke into a shout. "YOU, BASTARD!"

The knife aimed at his throat.

He didn't even move. Just sat there, smiling, as if I was bringing him flowers, not a deadly threat.

"YOU DECEIVED ME!" I was a step away from him. "BEGGED FOR A FAVOR! FOR HELP! AND THEN SENT ME TO MY DEATH!"

The Fox tilted his head, as if not understanding.

"Me? Sent you to your death?" He pressed his hand to his chest. "Darling, you wound me. I helped!"

"HELPED?!" I swung the knife. "YOU SAID TO GO SOUTH! TO THE RED MOON! AND THERE'S HIS PALACE! THE HEART OF WINTER!"

He blinked. Once. Then laughed—ringing, sincere.

"Ah-h-h. So that's what this is about." He scratched the back of his head. "Well technically, you know, I didn't exactly lie."

"NOT EXACTLY?!"

"Well, I said you needed to get to the Borderlands, right?" He raised a finger. "And that's the pure truth. You really do need to go there."

"YOU SAID SOUTH!"

"Hmm." He thought, looking at the sky. "Possibly I got the direction wrong. It happens. Geography isn't my strong suit."

I swung the knife, aiming for his throat.

He vanished.

Simply dissolved into air.

The knife cut through emptiness.

"Hey-hey, easy there!" The voice came from the right.

I turned.

The Fox sat on another boulder, swinging his leg.

"I understand you're upset. But murder is such a radical step, don't you think?"

I showed him my middle finger.

He clapped, laughing.

"Oh! Gestures! I like it!" He jumped off the stone. "Though I'm not sure what that means. Something pleasant?"

"It means 'go fuck yourself,'" I growled.

"Ah." He nodded. "Got it. Very expressive."

I turned, walked to my backpack, ignoring him.

Don't react. He likes it.

But he didn't back off.

Appeared next to me, walking in step.

"You know, you're offending me quite unfairly." He chattered without closing his mouth. "I transported you across the river! Saved you from the Wild Pack! You'd be dead now without me!"

I silently threw the backpack over my shoulders.

"And anyway, if you think about it, I'm incredibly useful." He continued. "Handsome, charming, with an excellent sense of humor. What girl doesn't dream of such a companion?"

I walked away.

He teleported, appeared in front of me.

"Why are you so angry? Maybe you're just hungry? They say people get angry when they're hungry." He pulled an apple from somewhere—red, perfect, gleaming in the dim light. "Want some? My treat."

"Fuck off," I walked around him.

He appeared next to me again.

"Okay, you don't want the apple. I understand. The rule about fae food." The apple disappeared. "How about information? Want to know what's ahead?"

I kept walking, not answering.

"Stubborn." He sighed. "Well, okay. I'll tell you for free, out of the goodness of my heart."

He jumped over a tree root, landed in front of me, walking backward.

"See that glow ahead?" He pointed with his thumb behind him. "That's the clearing of Dream Sirens. Huge. Beautiful. Deadly."

I saw pink radiance between the trees.

"And you know what's the most fun?" He grinned. "There's no way around."

I stopped.

"What?"

"To the right—the Rotten Swamp. The drowned live there. They drag you to the bottom and devour you alive." He pointed left. "To the left—the den of Black Dogs. A pack of Morphrost's hounds. If you go there—they'll eat you in seconds."

He spread his arms.

"Ahead—the Siren clearing. Back—well, back there Morphrost and his hunters are driving you here." A smile. "So the choice, my dear, is quite limited."

I clenched my fists.

"Then I'll go through the clearing."

"Oh! Brave!" He clapped. "I like it! But, you know, the clearing is wide. Five hundred meters, at least. And the Siren scent..." he grimaced, "...very strong. You'll fall asleep halfway. Guaranteed."

He came closer, peering into my eyes.

"But-t-t," he drawled, "I can help. Again. Teleport you straight to the other side. Bam—and you're there. Safe. Alive."

His smile grew wider.

"Just for one little favor. A second one. You'll owe me two favors. Think about it—it's nothing! Two tiny little favors for your precious life!"

He circled around me, chattering non-stop.

"I can even tell you what favors I'll ask! Well, roughly. In general terms. Nothing terrible, I promise! Maybe I'll ask you to steal something shiny. Or play a prank on someone. Or..."

"No," I cut him off.

He stopped.

"No? Seriously?" He pressed his hand to his chest. "Darling, you disappoint me. I'm offering an excellent deal!"

"Excellent for you," I growled.

"Well naturally!" He spread his arms. "I'm not running a charity. This is business. You get life, I get debt. Fair trade!"

I walked past him, toward the clearing.

One favor already hanging. Two is a noose around my neck. Don't agree.

But how to get through the clearing?

The smell was already noticeable—sweet, intoxicating.

My head began spinning.

Think. Fast. How to get through?

Hold my breath? The clearing is too wide. Not enough air.

Run fast? The smell will still penetrate.

Plug my nose? They say the smell penetrates through skin.

Damn. What to do?

"Clock's ticking, darling!" the Fox sang behind me. "Soon the clearing. Decide faster. Two favors or eternal sleep in the embrace of flowers?"

He appeared next to me, walking in step.

"By the way, you know how Dream Sirens kill?" He spoke cheerfully, as if telling a joke. "First they put you to sleep. You lie down, all sweet and calm. And then the roots start growing. Through the skin. Inside. They feed on your flesh while you sleep."

He snapped his fingers.

"And the funniest thing—you don't feel pain! You sleep, see beautiful dreams, while they slowly devour you from inside." Laughter. "Romantic, right?"

Nausea rose in my throat.

"Shut up."

"Oh, touched a nerve?" He grinned. "Just want you to understand the consequences of refusal. Informed decision and all that."

I stopped, closed my eyes, trying to think.

How? How to get through?

And then it flashed in my head.

The smell. Need to mask the smell.

With what?

I remembered how the first night I smoked a cigarette. How the smoke overpowered the cloying smell of this world's air.

Tobacco. Sharp. Acrid.

Might work?

I quickly dug into my jacket pocket, felt the cigarette pack.

The Fox watched with curiosity.

"What are you up to?"

I didn't answer. Pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a match.

Inhaled deeply.

The smoke burned my lungs, made me cough. But the sharp, bitter smell of tobacco instantly overpowered the sweetness of the air.

"Oh-h-h." The Fox stepped back, wrinkling his nose. "What is this filth?"

I exhaled smoke, feeling my head clear.

"Tobacco."

"Tobacco?" He pinched his nose with his fingers. "This is disgusting! How do you people even smoke this?!"

"Habit," I shrugged.

Took another drag. The smoke enveloped me in a cloud, sharp and acrid.

This might work. If I smoke while walking through the clearing, the tobacco smell will overpower the flower scent.

The Fox looked at me with horror and admiration simultaneously.

"You... you seriously plan to cross the clearing with this... this..." he pointed at the cigarette, "...crap?"

I took another drag, exhaled smoke directly toward him.

He recoiled, waving his hands, fanning away the smoke.

"EW! EW! WHAT ABOMINATION!" He coughed, bending in half. "ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!"

Despite everything, I smirked.

"Maybe."

"THIS IS PURE POISON!" He was still coughing. "WHAT SORCERY?! WHAT CURSED HUMAN WITCHCRAFT?!"

I took another drag, enjoying his reaction.

"No witchcraft. Regular cigarettes." Exhaled smoke. "Humans smoke for pleasure."

The Fox looked at me as if I'd gone mad.

"FOR PLEASURE?!" He stepped back further. "You... you're all sick there! Completely! This is POISON! I can feel it corroding the air!"

He continued rushing about, covering his nose with his hand.

"Put it away! Put it away immediately! Or I... I..."

"What?" I raised an eyebrow. "Will help me for free?"

He froze. Looked at me. Then burst out laughing.

"You're cunning!" He pointed at me. "Very cunning! Trying to manipulate me!"

I shrugged, taking a drag.

"Learning from the best."

The Fox snorted, but respect splashed in his eyes.

"Fine. Fine! You won this round." He stepped back, waving his hand. "Go with your stinking poison. Let's see if your insane plan works."

He disappeared—but the voice remained, echoing between trees:

"But the favor still hangs, darling! I'll come for it! Soon! VERY SOON!"

The laughter dissolved in the air.

I was alone.

Looked at the clearing ahead—pink radiance, alluring, promising.

Took another drag on the cigarette.

Here we go.

And walked forward.

***

The clearing was a nightmare.

Flowers grew everywhere—a dense, endless carpet. Huge buds the size of my head, glowing with soft pink light. Petals shimmered like silk.

The smell was suffocating.

Even through the cigarette smoke it broke through—sweet, cloying, promising peace.

I walked quickly, taking a drag every few seconds. The smoke burned my throat, my lungs screamed, but I didn't stop.

My head was spinning.

My eyelids were growing heavy.

So tempting to lie down. Rest. Just for a minute...

I bit my lip until it bled. The pain sobered me.

Walk. Just walk.

The flowers rustled around. Whispered. Called my name.

"Elise... Elise... lie with us... rest..."

"SHUT UP!" I screamed.

The voice rolled in an echo, and for a moment the whisper stopped.

Then resumed—louder, more insistent.

The cigarette burned out. I spat out the butt, pulled out a new one, lit it with trembling hands.

Took a drag.

A little more. The edge of the clearing was close.

Ahead, between the flowers, trees were visible.

Almost. Almost.

My legs were buckling. My head was swimming.

But I forced myself to walk.

Step. Another step. Another.

Finally—trees.

I collapsed beyond the clearing's edge, on my knees, gasping for air.

Spat out the butt. Coughed so hard I bent double. My lungs burned with fire. My throat was raw. In my mouth—the taste of ash, blood, and something metallic.

But I made it through.

I MADE IT THROUGH!

The relief was so strong that tears came on their own. I fell on my back, arms spread, looking at the gray sky through the tangle of bare branches.

I breathed. Just breathed. Each breath was a victory.

"Incredible."

The voice sounded from somewhere above.

I struggled to raise my head, squinting.

The Fox sat on a thick branch right above me, legs dangling. Leaned his elbows on his knees, propped his chin on his hands. Looked at me with an expression of... admiration?

"I seriously underestimated you, mortal." He shook his head. "Most fae couldn't cross that clearing without strong protective spells. And you did it with the help of..."

He grimaced, pointing at the smoldering cigarette next to me.

"...that vile stinking crap."

I exhaled—still heavy, with a wheeze.

"Glad... I entertained... you."

He jumped from the branch—landed silently, lightly, like a cat. Came closer, crouched next to me.

Studied me with amber eyes. For a long time.

"You know what?" He tilted his head. "You're the most interesting mortal I've met in the last... hmm..."

He thought, counting on his fingers.

"...hundred years? Maybe two hundred. I'm bad at counting time."

I struggled to sit up, leaning on trembling hands. My head was spinning. Everything swam before my eyes.

"Great. Can I move on or will you keep handing out compliments?"

The Fox laughed—ringing, sincere.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about!" He pointed at me. "This! You don't bow, don't beg for mercy, don't cry. You snap back. Fight. Move forward despite everything."

He stood, walked in a circle, gesturing.

"The White Lady nearly caught you—you throw salt at her. The Sirens try to put you to sleep—you smoke this filth and walk straight through them, as if it's a walk in the park." He spread his arms. "You're either insanely brave or insanely stupid."

"Maybe both," I muttered, struggling to my feet.

My legs barely held. Muscles trembled from exhaustion. But I stood.

Didn't fall. Didn't give up.

Stood.

The Fox watched as I adjusted my backpack, checked the knife. As I wiped dirt from my face with my sleeve.

"Where to now?" he asked.

"East. To the Borderlands." I looked at him. "You know. You're following me."

"Fair enough." He nodded with a smile.

I turned and walked away. Each step came with effort, but I forced my legs to move.

A little more. Just a bit more. Get to evening, find shelter.

After a few steps he called out:

"Hey!"

I stopped without turning.

"What?"

"You know..." Something thoughtful sounded in his voice. "I've been thinking. I'm bored. Very bored. Lived three hundred years, doing the same thing—intrigues, deals, deceptions. Sick of it to death."

I turned around.

He stood with hands in pockets, with an unusually serious expression.

"And you... you're interesting. Unpredictable." The smile returned. "Maybe I'll come with you?"

I blinked.

"What?"

"Come. With. You." He spoke slowly, as if I was slow on the uptake. "To the Borderlands. Maybe further. We'll see how it goes."

I looked at him, trying to understand the catch.

"Why?"

He shrugged.

"I said—interesting. Besides..."

The smirk grew wider.

"...this way I can collect my favor at the most inconvenient moment. Right when you least expect it."

"I don't want company," I said harshly.

"And I'm not asking permission." He stepped closer. "You owe me, remember? A favor. So technically you have no choice where and when I appear."

He circled me, like a predator.

"I can follow you invisibly, in the shadows. Appear suddenly, scare the shit out of you." He stopped in front of me. "Or I can walk beside you, chat, warn about dangers. The second option is more fun. For both of us."

I clenched my fists, thinking.

He's right. The debt hangs. He can appear whenever.

Maybe it's better if he's nearby? At least I'll know where he is and what he's planning.

Although...

A thought flashed in my head. Insane. Risky.

I looked at him. Straight into the amber eyes.

"Fine," I said slowly.

He beamed.

"Excellent! So..."

"But first a question," I interrupted.

He fell silent, raising an eyebrow.

"A question?"

"Yes." I crossed my arms over my chest. "You said you'd come with me. Right?"

"Right."

"And should I allow it?"

He blinked. Frowned slightly, as if not understanding where I was going.

"Not necessary, but it would be more convenient..."

I paused, letting the words hang in the air.

"More convenient for whom? For you?"

His eyebrow crawled higher.

"Well... for both of us?"

"Interesting." I took a step closer. "And what do I get from your presence?"

He blinked again, clearly not expecting such a turn.

"Company? Entertainment?" He spread his arms with a smile. "My sparkling humor, which will brighten the journey?"

"Your chatter will attract the attention of every hunter within a kilometer radius," I said evenly, looking into his eyes. "Your presence creates problems for me."

The smile on his face wavered.

"Wait a minute..."

"You're fae," I continued, taking another step. "You taught me yourself yesterday: nothing is free. Everything has a price."

His eyes narrowed. Warily.

"What are you getting at, girl?"

My heart pounded. My palms sweated. But I forced myself to speak calmly, confidently.

"If your presence creates inconveniences for me, puts me in danger..." I tilted my head, copying his manner. "...then shouldn't you owe me for tolerating it?"

Silence.

Absolute.

The Fox looked at me. His mouth slightly open. Then slowly, very slowly, closed.

I saw thought working in his eyes. How he sorted through my words, looking for a catch, a loophole.

"You..." he began carefully, slowly, "...are trying to outplay me?"

"I'm just using your rules," I shrugged, trying to look innocent. "You said it yourself: nothing is free. Everything has a price. Even company."

The Fox began pacing in circles. Quickly. Nervously. Scratched his head, muttered something under his breath.

"Cunning. Very cunning." He stopped, turned sharply, pointed at me. "But there's a nuance! I'm helping you! Protecting you! Warning about dangers!"

"Did I ask for your help?" I raised an eyebrow.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned.

"No, but..."

"Did I ask you to come with me?"

"N-no..."

"Then it's your choice." I took a step closer, feeling adrenaline rushing through my veins. "You decided to impose your company on me. Which means you pay for that decision."

The Fox froze.

Looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. As if I'd suddenly transformed into someone else right before his eyes.

"Besides," I added quieter but more clearly, "you're fae. You said yourself you'd come with me. Didn't ask. Didn't request permission. Just declared."

I paused, letting the words sink in.

"Fae words have power, right? You've already bound yourself with that declaration. You will walk with me. Which means creating inconveniences for me. Which means..."

"...I owe you," he finished quietly, almost in a whisper.

Silence crashed down like an avalanche.

He stood without moving. Digesting. I saw thoughts racing through his head at light speed. How he was trying to find an exit, a loophole, a way to wriggle out.

And I stood, trying to breathe evenly, not showing how wildly my heart was pounding.

Did it work? Or am I about to get it for my audacity?

Then his face twitched.

And he laughed.

First quietly—a short exhale. Then louder. Then—laughter that made him bend double, holding his stomach.

"GOD!" He wiped tears, still laughing. "OH MY GOD!"

Straightened up, looking at me with genuine, sincere admiration.

"You... you just..." He couldn't speak from laughter. "You outplayed me! ME!"

Came quickly, grabbed my shoulders—not painfully, but firmly.

"A three-hundred-year-old trickster! A deceiver! One who specializes in verbal traps!" Genuine delight splashed in his eyes. "You used my own damn methods against me!"

He released me, stepped back, still laughing and shaking his head.

"I... I'm not even angry! I'm in absolute admiration!" He pressed his hands to his chest. "This is beautiful! Absolutely, bloody, incredibly beautiful!"

Relief washed over me in a wave so strong my knees buckled. I barely stayed on my feet.

It worked. Damn it, it worked!

The laughter gradually subsided. He looked at me—seriously, assessingly.

"Alright." Exhaled deeply. "You're right. By fae law, by my own laws—I owe you."

He crossed his arms, squinted.

"For what exactly? Clarify. Words matter, girl."

I swallowed, gathering my courage.

"For walking with me, creating inconveniences with your presence," I said clearly, trying not to stumble. "You owe me a favor. One."

He nodded slowly, weighing each word.

"Accepted. Favor for favor." A pause. "And what do you want? Right now or will you save it for later?"

"Now," I said quickly, before I changed my mind.

His eyebrows shot up.

"Now?!" He laughed shortly. "Won't even save it for something important? For a critical moment?"

"Now," I repeated firmly.

While he agrees. While the deal is in force. Now.

He spread his arms.

"Well, your business." A smirk. "Ask."

I took a deep breath. Exhaled. Looked straight into the amber eyes.

"My favor: cancel my debt to you." The words flew out quickly, clearly. "Free me from the favor I owe for the river crossing."

The world froze.

Time seemed to stop.

The Fox froze.

Completely. Absolutely.

Didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Just stared at me with wide eyes.

I saw understanding slowly, layer by layer, covering him. How it dawned on him what I'd done.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"You..." The voice sounded hoarse, shocked. "You just..."

He stepped back. Then another step.

Ran his hand over his face, as if trying to come to his senses.

"You lured me into a trap." The voice was quiet, almost reverent. "From the very beginning. This whole conversation. Every question. You led me to this moment, like a sheep to slaughter."

He looked at me—and in his eyes was shock. Admiration. Horror. All together.

"You didn't just outplay me. You deceived me." He laughed—but the laughter was different. Shocked. Almost hysterical. "Cleanly. Beautifully. Elegantly. Using my own damn rules."

He came closer. Slowly. As if approaching a dangerous beast.

"No one..." He shook his head, not taking his eyes off me. "No one has done this in three hundred years. Not a single fae. Not a single human. No one."

Extended his hand.

"Alright, little trickster." Deep, sincere respect sounded in his voice. "A deal's a deal. A fae's word is law. Even if I was outplayed by my own methods."

Amber eyes looked straight into mine—and there was no anger in them. Only admiration.

"I cancel your debt. You owe me nothing anymore. We're absolutely, completely even."

I took his hand, trying not to show how my fingers trembled.

Warmth ran between palms—a spark of magic, bright and hot. I felt something heavy, oppressive, invisible, that had hung somewhere in my chest, disappear.

Dissolved.

Freedom.

He released my hand, stepped back.

Was silent for several long seconds. Just looked, as if studying me anew.

Then slowly, very slowly smiled.

"You know what?" He turned, pointing east. "That's why I'm coming with you. Really now. Without debts. Without deals."

Looked over his shoulder—and in the smile was something new. Genuine.

"Because you, brave little mortal, are the most interesting of all I've met in three centuries." He shook his head. "And I very, very much want to see how this all ends. How far you'll go."

He strode forward, whistling some cheerful, unfamiliar tune.

"Well, shall we go? The day is short, and the road is long! And I can't wait to find out what other tricks you'll pull along the way!"

I stood, digesting what had happened.

I... I did it. Deceived a fae. A trickster. A deceiver. Using his own method.

I'm free from the debt.

Warmth spread in my chest—not just relief. Pride. Real, pure pride.

I managed it. I outplayed him.

For the first time in two days my lips stretched into a smile on their own. Real. Wide.

"Hey, wait!" I shouted, grabbing my backpack.

"Oh, now you're asking me to wait!" laughter came from beyond the trees. "How coolly time has changed! How funny everything has turned!"

I shook my head, grinning, and ran after him, ignoring the pain in my legs and exhaustion.

A red-haired head flashed ahead between trunks.

"By the way!" he shouted without turning. "I still don't know your name! And don't want to know! So I'll call you... hmm... Trickster! Yes, excellent name!"

"Don't you dare!" I shouted back, but was smiling.

His laughter echoed through the forest.

And for the first time in all this nightmarish time I didn't feel completely alone.

This will be an interesting journey.

Chapter 8

We walked until evening.

The Fox turned out to be... an inexhaustible chatterbox.

He talked non-stop. About everything and nothing. Told stories—half of which were clearly made up, but such vivid, colorful fabrications that I listened despite my exhaustion.

"...and then I said to Morphrost: 'Listen, buddy, if you want to steal spring from the Lady of Thorns, at least do it with some imagination!'" He walked backwards, gesturing wildly. "Know what he said?"

"What?" I jumped over a fallen tree, grabbing at branches.

"'Fox, if you call me "buddy" one more time, I'll freeze your ass and hang it as a decoration on a Christmas tree!'" He laughed. "Can you imagine? A Christmas tree! Though... that would be amusing. I'd look excellent as an ornament."

I shook my head, trying to hide a smile.

"You're impossible."

"Yes!" He bowed while walking. "I try my best."

He turned to face forward, leaping over roots with a dancer's ease.

"By the way, see that tree with red leaves?" He pointed right.

I looked. Among the bare trees stood one—with bright red, almost blood-colored leaves.

"I see it."

"Don't go near it." His voice turned serious. "That's the Blood Oak. It feeds on warm blood. Get too close—the roots will grab you, drag you underground. You won't escape."

Cold ran down my spine.

"Thanks for the warning."

The Fox froze. Slowly turned around, with a wide, predatory smile.

"Oh. You just said 'thanks.'" He rubbed his hands together. "Know what that means?"

I went cold.

Shit.

"You just created a debt," he beamed. "A tiny, minuscule one, but a debt!"

"I... I didn't mean to..."

"Ah-ah-ah, but you said it." He stepped closer. "Words have power, remember?"

I clenched my fists.

"Fine," he waved his hand, laughing. "I'm joking. I won't use it. Too small. Too boring." He winked. "But next time—be more careful."

We circled the tree in a wide arc.

"And there, see?" He pointed left, where something silvery gleamed between the trees. "A lake. Stagnant water. Don't drink from it. The Lake Maiden lives there. Very beautiful. Very hungry. Lures travelers, drowns them, devours them."

"Got it. Stay away."

"Smart girl!" He clapped me on the shoulder. "Quick learner!"

We walked on. The sun tilted toward the horizon, painting the sky in gray-violet tones.

It would be dark soon.

"We need to find shelter for the night," I said, looking around.

The Fox nodded.

"Agreed. At night here... unpleasant." He shivered. "Lots of things come out to hunt."

We found a place after about twenty minutes—a small crevice between boulders. Narrow, but deep enough to take shelter. The entrance could be defended.

I squeezed inside, looked around. It smelled of dampness and moss, but nothing living.

It would do.

The Fox remained outside, sitting on a boulder, dangling his legs.

"Cozy," he commented, peering inside. "Like a coffin, only more spacious."

"Such positivity," I muttered, taking salt from my backpack.

I started sprinkling it at the entrance in a thin line.

The Fox watched with interest.

"Salt? Seriously?" He snorted. "Think that'll stop something actually dangerous?"

"It stopped the White Lady," I snapped back.

"The White Lady's an idiot," he shrugged. "Old, slow, dumb. Any normal fae would just blow your salt to hell."

I froze, staring at him.

"Seriously?"

"Well... not exactly," he scratched his head. "Salt works. But only against the weak. Or if there's a lot of it. Now if you poured a whole circle, finger-thick—then yes, that would be protection."

I looked at the thin line I'd sprinkled.

Damn.

"How much do you have left?" the Fox asked.

I checked the packet.

"Less than half."

He grimaced.

"Little. Very little." He jumped off the boulder, came closer. "Listen, want some advice? Free, of course."

"What?"

"Don't waste salt on protection." He nodded at the line. "Save it for offense. Like with the White Lady. That works."

He squatted down, drawing with his finger on the ground.

"For protection, use something else. Iron, rowan, running water." He looked at me. "Save the salt. You'll need it again, trust me."

I hesitated, then nodded.

He was right. The salt was running out. I needed to conserve it.

I swept the salt back into the packet. Instead, I stuck iron nails around the perimeter of the entrance, hung rowan above my head.

The Fox nodded approvingly.

"That's better. Fae don't like iron. Really don't like it." He shivered. "Honestly, it makes me twitch."

I looked at the nails, then at him.

"Does it... hurt you?"

"Not hurt, but unpleasant." He stepped back further. "Like... like how you'd feel sitting next to an open fire. Doesn't burn, but it's hot. Uncomfortable."

Interesting.

"Then why don't you leave?"

He smirked.

"Because it's more interesting to sit here and watch what you're doing." He settled on a boulder several meters away. "Besides, I'm used to it. I can tolerate it."

I finished with the protection, sat against the far wall, pressing my backpack to my chest.

I took out water, drank. Then food—an energy bar and a handful of nuts.

Chewed slowly, feeling hunger retreat.

The Fox watched silently. Unusually silently.

"What?" I asked, catching his gaze.

"Nothing." He shrugged. "Just watching. You're... methodical. Careful. Doing everything right."

"Learning to survive," I muttered.

"And learning well." Respect sounded in his voice.

Silence. Only the sound of wind in the branches.

"Fox?" I called.

"Mm?"

"Will you... will you really just sit here all night?"

He tilted his head.

"What else should I do? I don't need sleep. I get bored at night." He grinned. "So yes, I'll sit, look at the stars, maybe sing songs."

"Please don't sing," I groaned.

"Why? I have a wonderful voice!" He looked offended.

"Because you'll attract the attention of everything hunting at night."

"Oh. Fair point." He nodded. "Fine, I won't sing. I'll just... sit. Quietly. Like a mouse."

I smirked, settling more comfortably.

I put the knife nearby, within reach. Closed my eyes.

Sleep at least a couple of hours. Tomorrow would be another long day.

"Hey," the Fox called.

"What?"

"When he comes..." His voice turned serious. "Morphrost. When he comes in your dreams. I won't be able to help. Understand?"

I opened my eyes, looked at him.

He sat on the boulder, looking off into the distance. His face unusually serious.

"Dreams are his territory. There I'm powerless." He looked at me. "So... sorry in advance that I can't intervene."

Something tightened in my chest.

"You... you would intervene? If you could?"

He shrugged, looking away.

"Maybe. Don't know. I like you. Would be a shame if he breaks you." A smirk. "It'd be boring."

I didn't know what to answer.

"Sleep," he said more softly. "I'll watch to make sure nothing living gets close. At least in reality I'll protect you."

"Than—" I caught myself mid-word.

Damn. Almost said it.

The Fox grinned.

"Ooh, almost got caught! But stopped in time. You're learning!"

I exhaled with relief.

"You can just nod," he suggested. "Or say 'understood,' 'heard,' 'okay.' Anything except 'thanks,' 'I'm grateful,' 'I'm obliged.'"

I nodded.

"Understood."

"That's better!"

I closed my eyes.

Exhaustion covered me like a wave. My body demanded rest.

Just a couple of hours. Just a little...

I fell into darkness.

***

The mist came as always—quickly, mercilessly.

White. Cold. Alive.

It filled the crevice in seconds, flowed around me, penetrated my lungs. I tried to hold my breath, but it was too late.

Cold struck from within, burning all warmth from my chest.

The world tilted.

And I opened my eyes.

***

Cold. Marble beneath my knees.

For a second I didn't understand where I was. My head spun, ears ringing. Then focus returned, and reality crashed down all at once.

The throne room.

A massive, endless hall with columns of black ice and a dome where alien constellations flickered. Thousands of candles with cold blue flames illuminated the space, casting long trembling shadows.

And sounds.

Music—the same as the first night. Harps, flutes, something stringed and ancient. Laughter. Voices in a melodic, inhuman language that sounded like song and threat simultaneously.

Fae.

The hall was full of fae.

Hundreds of them. In luxurious garments made from materials that didn't exist in the human world—dresses of moonlight, cloaks of mist, jewelry of frozen tears and crystallized stars.

They danced, drank, conversed. Their movements were too smooth, too graceful. Their laughter—too beautiful to be safe.

And I...

I was on my knees.

At the foot of the throne.

The cold of marble pierced through...

Wait.

Through what?

I slowly, with growing horror, looked down at myself.

And my heart stopped.

I was wearing almost nothing.

The fabric—if it could even be called fabric—was thinner than spider silk. Black, translucent, it resembled haze or morning mist. The bodice barely covered my breasts, leaving a neckline so deep that another millimeter and it wouldn't cover anything at all. Thin straps on my shoulders seemed on the verge of slipping.

My back was completely bare—I felt cold air on skin, from shoulder blades to the small of my back.

The bottom was a semblance of a skirt—long, yes, to the floor. But slit. On both sides the slits ran from hip to hem, so that with the slightest movement the fabric parted, exposing my legs completely, from hip to ankle.

There was no underwear.

None.

Every movement, every breath could expose what should remain hidden.

Jewelry—thin silver bracelets on wrists and ankles that jingled with each movement. Bells. They made quiet melodic sounds, drawing attention to my every move.

My hair was loose, falling on bare shoulders and back, but covering nothing—only emphasizing the nakedness.

I looked like... like...

A slave.

A concubine.

A toy for someone's entertainment.

Horror and humiliation flooded in a wave so strong it took my breath away.

My hands instinctively jerked to cover myself—breasts, hips, something.

But my hands didn't obey.

They froze at my sides, as if invisible bonds held them.

Magic.

I couldn't move my arms. Couldn't cover myself. Couldn't defend myself.

Only kneel, almost naked, under the gazes of hundreds of fae.

"No," I whispered, voice trembling. "No, no, no..."

Panic began to rise, overwhelming reason.

And then I felt weight on my neck.

Heavy. Cold. Relentless.

I slowly looked down—as far as I could without moving my arms.

A collar.

Wide, made of black metal with intricate silver patterns that wove into complex runes. It fit tightly around my throat—not choking, but I felt the pressure with each breath. Removing it was impossible—there were no clasps, locks, seams. As if it had been forged directly onto me.

From the collar stretched a chain.

Thick, heavy, each link the size of my fist. It clinked with the slightest movement of my head, echoing through the enormous hall.

Upward.

I followed the chain with my eyes—it stretched across the marble floor, up the steps, upward.

To the throne.

To his hand.

Caelan sat on a throne of bones and black ice. Casually, one leg thrown over the armrest, the other planted on the floor. He wore black trousers and a shirt, unbuttoned almost to the waist, exposing a chest with a scar across the heart—the only imperfection on a perfect body.

Hair loose, falling on shoulders in a silver waterfall. On his head—a crown of ice and thorns that glowed faintly in the dimness.

In his left hand—a goblet of black glass with something dark that smoked and shimmered like liquid night.

And in his right...

With his right hand he held the end of my chain.

Simply held it. Casually. The chain was wrapped around his wrist, the free end lying on the armrest.

As if it were natural. Normal. Ordinary—to hold a human on a chain, like a dog.

Our eyes met.

A second of silence.

Then he slowly, very slowly smiled.

Raised the goblet in greeting—almost mockingly—and took a long sip, not taking his eyes off me.

"Good evening, my dear," he said, and his voice rolled through the hall. "Glad you finally joined the celebration."

Horror exploded inside.

"NO!" I screamed, and my voice broke into a hysterical cry. "NO, NO, NO!"

I jerked, trying to tear off the collar. My hands, finally freed from magical paralysis, flew to my neck. Fingers scraped at the metal, searching for a clasp, an edge, anything.

Nothing.

Smooth, solid metal. It wouldn't budge.

"TAKE IT OFF!" I clawed at the collar, not feeling pain. "TAKE IT OFF NOW!"

Nails broke, skin on fingers split, but the collar remained in place.

The music cut off.

Conversations died.

Dancing froze.

All heads turned in my direction.

Hundreds of eyes—human, animal, completely inhuman—stared at me.

The silence lasted an eternity.

And then someone laughed.

Quietly. One voice.

Then a second joined. A third.

Laughter rolled through the hall—first like a stream, then like a river, then like an avalanche.

They were laughing.

All of them. Together.

The fae laughed, watching a half-naked girl on her knees, in a collar, scratching her neck bloody trying to free herself.

"Look at her!" exclaimed a woman with cat eyes and a long tail, approaching closer. Her dress of scales shimmered in the candlelight. "She thinks she can remove the collar!"

She circled me, appraising, like goods at a market.

"How naive!" Her clawed hand reached out, ran through my hair. "And how bold! Screaming at the king himself!"

I jerked away from her touch, but she only laughed.

"She even bites!" She showed the others. "Look, look! She has spirit!"

Others began to approach. Circle around me, like a pack of predators.

A man with horns leaned down, his breath scorching my cheek:

"Brave for a mortal. But foolish." His clawed finger ran along my shoulder, leaving a thin red line. "Very, very foolish."

Pain burned, but I didn't cry out. Clenched my teeth.

"How long will she last?" asked a lady in a feathered mask, circling me from the other side. Her dress rustled like wings. "I bet a week. Then she'll break and lick his boots like all the others."

"A week?" someone from the crowd snorted. "Three days! Maximum!"

"One!" shouted a man with a face half-hidden in shadow. "Look how she trembles! Weak!"

Bets. They were making bets on how long I'd last.

Hands reached from all sides.

Someone touched my hair—pulled, checking if it was real.

Someone ran a finger down my back—slowly, from shoulder blades to lower back, and I shuddered with disgust and cold.

A woman with snake eyes leaned down, her forked tongue flickering in the air, almost touching my cheek:

"Smells of fear. Delicious." She licked her lips. "Can I have a taste when the king's done playing?"

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" I lunged to the side, trying to crawl away, but the chain held firm.

The laughter grew louder. They were enjoying my fear.

Someone pulled at the bracelet on my wrist—bells jingled.

"Oh, hear that? She jingles!" a fae child with sharp teeth giggled. "Like a bell!"

He pulled again. And again.

The ringing echoed through the hall, and everyone began to clap in rhythm, laugh, cheer.

Humiliation mixed with fury, burning inside like poison.

"SHUT UP!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "ALL OF YOU SHUT UP!"

The laughter only intensified.

Someone pulled at the slit in the skirt—the fabric opened, exposing my thigh completely.

I tried to cover myself, but my hands wouldn't obey again—magic bound them once more.

"Oh, look! She's embarrassed!" The cat-woman clapped her hands. "How sweet!"

"She'll stop soon," the horned man muttered. "They all stop. Get used to it."

"Or break," someone else added.

Tears burned my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them.

Caelan watched silently.

Didn't intervene. Didn't stop them.

Just sat on his throne, sipping from his goblet, holding the end of my chain in his other hand.

His face was calm. Almost bored. As if this were a performance he'd watched hundreds of times before.

As if he'd seen this scene dozens of times before me—other girls, other victims, who knelt at his throne, humiliated and broken.

Fury exploded, burning away fear.

The magic released my hands.

I lunged forward, despite the chain, despite the collar.

"YOU!" My voice broke into a scream, echoing from the vaults. "YOU BASTARD! ASSHOLE! I HATE YOU!"

The guests recoiled, parted, forming a corridor between me and the throne.

Caelan didn't even move.

Just watched. Waited.

As if he knew what would happen next.

I tried to stand—and couldn't.

My legs wouldn't obey. Magic held me on my knees, as if I'd grown into the marble.

"LET ME GO!" I clawed at the floor, pulled at the chain, tried to crawl toward him. "LET GO NOW!"

The chain clinked, bracelets rang, the skirt opened with each movement.

Guests laughed, pointed fingers, whispered.

And suddenly Caelan moved.

Slowly set the goblet on the throne's armrest.

Rose. Smoothly, like flowing water.

Descended the steps. Slowly. Each step echoed in the absolute silence that hung in the hall again.

The guests froze. Music died. Even the candles seemed to stop flickering.

He approached me.

Stood so close I could see every detail—sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, full lips curved in a slight smirk, eyes the color of winter sky with constellations in their depths.

He slowly crouched down to be on the same level.

His hand reached out, grabbed my chin—firmly, fingers digging into skin on both sides, forcing me to look directly into his eyes.

"You want me to let you go?" His voice was quiet. Cold. Dangerous. "Seriously?"

I tried to wrench my chin away, but his grip was iron.

"Fine." He smirked, and there was nothing kind in the smile. "Let's see."

He released my face, stood up.

Unwound the chain from his wrist.

And dropped the end on the floor.

The chain fell with a loud clang that rolled through the hall.

I blinked, not believing.

He let go? Really?

The magic holding my legs vanished.

I tried to stand—and could. My legs trembled, but held.

Relief flooded through me.

I took a step back. Away from him. Away.

Ready to run.

He stood, arms crossed over his chest, watching with the same expression of slight amusement.

"Run," he said simply.

What?

"Run, Elise." He stepped back, clearing space. "Try to escape. Let's see how far you get."

The guests began whispering, shifting, parting, forming a wide passage to the exit.

A trap. This was definitely a trap.

But what choice?

I turned and ran.

Toward the exit. Toward the enormous doors at the far end of the hall.

Laughter exploded behind me—louder, meaner, triumphant.

Feet slipped on polished marble. Bracelets jingled with each step. The skirt billowed, slits opened, exposing legs to the hips.

I ran, not looking back, thinking of nothing but the doors.

They were only fifty meters away. Forty. Thirty.

Almost. Just a little more...

Pain.

Sharp. Burning. Sudden.

The collar on my neck flared with heat.

Not gradually. Immediately. As if someone had pressed red-hot iron directly to my skin.

I screamed—piercingly, unable to hold back.

My legs buckled. I fell to my knees, hands instinctively flying to my neck.

But touching it only intensified the pain.

The metal was so hot it burned my fingers instantly. The smell of burnt skin hit my nose—nauseating, sharp.

"AAH!" The scream tore out on its own.

The pain intensified. With every second. It burned. Seared. Scorched so badly it felt like skin was melting.

I collapsed to the floor, writhing, trying to tear off the collar, but each touch brought a new wave of agony.

Tears poured on their own, blurring my vision.

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Approaching.

Caelan stopped beside me.

Looked down at me—without pity, without anger. Just... looked. Studied. As if I were an interesting specimen.

"How many steps did you take?" he asked almost curiously, tilting his head. "Fifteen? Twenty?"

I couldn't answer. Could only gasp, writhe, trying to quell the pain.

"The collar is bound to me by magic," he explained calmly, in a matter-of-fact tone, as if explaining a pie recipe. "The farther you are from me, the stronger the pain. At twenty paces it becomes... well, as you've already understood, unbearable."

He crouched down, his face directly in front of mine.

"Want the pain to stop?" His voice was soft, almost sympathetic.

I nodded desperately, unable to speak. My teeth were clenched so hard my jaw ached.

"Then crawl back." Simply. Clearly. "To the throne. On your knees."

Humiliation mixed with pain, forming a cocktail that choked worse than the collar.

"N... no..." I forced out through tears.

His face didn't change.

He raised his hand, snapped his fingers.

The pain intensified.

Twice. Three times.

The collar heated so intensely that I didn't just smell burnt skin—I saw smoke. Thin wisps of gray smoke rose from where metal met neck.

A scream tore out—animal, full of agony.

I writhed on the floor, clawing at marble with my nails, unable to even breathe from the pain.

"NO?" he repeated, and there wasn't a drop of emotion in his voice. "Then lie here. Suffer. Let's see how long you last."

He rose, turned.

"The guests, by the way, are making bets," he added over his shoulder. "On how long you'll resist before your skin starts to melt. I bet ten minutes. I think you're weaker."

He slowly walked back to the throne.

With each step he took, the pain grew.

Geometrically. Exponentially.

After five steps I couldn't breathe.

After ten—couldn't think.

Only pain. Only burning. Only agony filling my entire being.

I won't last. Can't.

"STOP!" I screamed, gasping. "PLEASE! STOP!"

He stopped. Didn't turn around.

"Something you want to say?"

Pride. Self-respect. Dignity.

All of it burned in the fire of pain, turning to ash.

"I... I'm crawling..." My voice broke into a sob.

"What?" He tilted his head, as if he didn't hear. "Repeat. Louder."

Tears rolled down my cheeks, mixed with sweat.

"I'M CRAWLING BACK!"

Silence.

Then he slowly turned. A satisfied, triumphant smile played on his lips.

"That's a good girl."

The pain eased. Didn't disappear—but became tolerable.

The collar stopped burning. Remained just hot, scorching, but not killing.

I lay on the floor, breathing heavily, trembling all over.

"Then crawl," he said softly. "I'm waiting."

The guests began to part, clearing the way.

Some crouched down for a better view.

Others whispered, pointed.

I struggled to get on all fours.

Arms and knees trembled so hard they barely held my weight.

And I began to crawl.

Across the cold marble floor.

Under the gazes of hundreds of fae.

In almost transparent clothing that hid less than it revealed.

Bracelets jingled with each movement. Bells responded with cheerful ringing, as if mocking me.

The skirt opened, exposing hips, legs. The bodice slipped. Hair fell on my face, but I couldn't brush it away—my hands were occupied.

They laughed.

Pointed.

Some threw things—flowers, coins, jewelry.

"Look how gracefully she crawls!" the cat-woman giggled.

"Like a puppy!" the fae child chimed in. "Good doggy!"

"Should we throw her a bone?" someone suggested, and the crowd exploded with laughter.

Humiliation burned no less than the collar.

Every movement was defeat. Every meter—capitulation.

But I crawled.

Slowly. On trembling arms and legs.

Across the entire hall.

To the throne.

To him.

The marble was cold under my palms. Hard under my knees. Each push echoed with pain in my muscles.

But I didn't stop.

Because stopping meant a new wave of pain.

Finally—the steps of the throne.

I crawled to the very foot. Collapsed, pressing my forehead to cold marble, gasping.

The pain completely disappeared.

The collar became cold again.

"Good girl," Caelan said from above.

His hand landed on my head—slowly, almost tenderly.

Stroked my hair. Once. Twice. Three times.

Like petting an obedient dog.

I closed my eyes, clenched my fists so hard nails dug into palms until they bled.

Hatred.

Pure, white, searing hatred that burned away everything else.

Caelan returned to the throne, settled casually.

Raised the goblet—and stopped, looking into it.

Empty.

He slowly turned his head, looked at me.

"Bring me more wine." Not a request. Not a wish. A command.

I raised my head. Met his gaze.

And forced through clenched teeth:

"Go. To. Hell."

Silence.

Absolute.

Then someone from the guests gasped.

Another giggled nervously.

Caelan didn't move.

Just looked at me with a long, appraising gaze.

Then slowly, very slowly raised his hand.

Snapped his fingers.

The pain returned.

Instantly. At full force.

The collar heated so intensely that skin beneath it began to blister. I felt blisters bursting, something wet oozing.

The smell of burnt flesh filled my nostrils.

I screamed—so loud and piercing my voice broke into a rasp.

Fell to my side, grabbed at my neck, but it only intensified the agony.

"Bring. Me. Wine." He pronounced each word clearly, calmly. "Or I'll continue. Until your skin starts to melt. Until flesh falls off bone."

A pause.

"I have all eternity. Do you?"

I writhed on the floor, unable to even speak.

Pain. Only pain. Nothing but pain.

"Or will you lie here, entertaining the guests with your screams?" He leaned back against the throne. "They like it. Look."

The guests laughed, clapped, cheered.

"Scream louder!"

"More! More!"

They were enjoying it.

I won't last. The pain is too strong.

"F-FINE!" I cried out through tears and rasp. "FINE! I'LL BRING IT!"

The pain instantly vanished.

The collar cooled.

I lay on the floor, sobbing, trembling, unable to move.

"Then get up," he ordered. "And bring it."

I struggled to stand.

Legs barely held. My whole body shook.

I looked left—there, by the wall, stood a table. Narrow, elegant, of black wood. On it—a decanter of the same black glass as the goblet. Liquid inside shimmered, smoked.

I slowly walked to the table.

Each step took effort.

I took the decanter with trembling hands. Heavy. Cold.

Turned, walked back.

The guests parted, letting me pass.

Some whispered.

"She broke," someone said with disappointment.

"So quickly? I expected more," another added.

"They all break," a woman shrugged. "Sooner or later."

I approached the throne.

Stood at the foot.

Caelan extended the goblet, not looking at me. Just held it. Waited.

I lifted the decanter.

My hands shook so hard the neck rattled against the goblet's rim.

I poured.

The liquid flowed slowly, thick, black, smoking. Smelled strange—of spices, smoke, something metallic and sweet-bitter at once.

The goblet filled to the brim.

Caelan took it, took a long, slow sip.

Licked his lips.

Nodded with a satisfied expression.

"Good." He pointed at the table. "Put the decanter back."

I returned, set down the decanter.

My hands still trembled.

When I turned back, he was watching me.

Long. Appraising.

Then he slowly tapped his finger on the armrest.

"Come here."

I approached.

Stood at the steps.

"Closer."

Another step.

Now I stood directly before him, at the very throne.

He extended his hand, ran fingers along my cheek—slowly, almost tenderly.

"Kneel. Here." He pointed at the floor directly before the throne. "And don't move."

I clenched my fists so hard nails dug into skin again.

"Why?"

His hand moved to my throat, wrapped around it—not squeezing, but making clear he could.

"Because I said so." Simply. "And because you're mine."

The word burned worse than all the torture.

I looked at him, into those icy eyes, and wanted... wanted so much.

To spit in his face. Hit him. Scream. Fight.

But fear of pain was stronger.

I lowered to my knees.

Slowly. With closed eyes, so I wouldn't see his satisfied smile.

Because this was his dream. His world. His rules.

I knelt at the foot of the throne, in almost transparent fabric, with a burned neck, and a collar that reminded me with every breath.

His hand landed on my head again. Stroked my hair—slowly, as if rewarding an obedient pet.

"That's better." His voice became softer, almost tender. "Obedient. Submissive. In your place."

The guests applauded.

Caelan raised his goblet, addressing the hall:

"Look, my dear friends!" His voice rang out loud, triumphant. "Another mortal who thought she was special! Thought she was stronger! Smarter! More worthy!"

He took a long sip, not taking his eyes off the hall.

"And where is she now?" A pause. "On her knees. At my feet. Where she belongs."

Laughter. Applause. Exclamations of approval.

His hand stroked my head again. Then slid to my chin, forcing me to lift my face.

"But you really are special, Elise," he said quieter, only for me. "Because you're still resisting. Still fighting. Even on your knees."

He leaned closer, his face mere inches from mine.

"That's what I like about you." His whisper was almost intimate. "Your spirit. Your fire. The fact that you hate me so much."

His thumb traced my lower lip—slowly, possessively.

"I'll break you," he promised softly. "Slowly. Piece by piece. Until nothing remains but obedience. Until you beg me for attention. Until you lick my boots for a kind word."

Tears burned my eyes, but I didn't let them fall.

"Never," I whispered.

He smiled.

"That's what they all say." He released my chin, leaned back against the throne. "In the beginning."

His hand returned to my head, fingers threading through my hair.

"But you'll see. Time here... it changes people. Breaks will. Destroys hope."

He took another sip of wine, his fingers still stroking my hair absentmindedly.

Like I was a pet.

A thing.

His possession.

The music resumed. Conversations started again. Dancing continued.

Life in the hall went on—as if nothing had happened. As if the humiliation of a mortal girl was so ordinary, so unremarkable, that it wasn't worth lingering over.

And I knelt there.

At his feet.

In a collar and chain.

Almost naked.

Defeated.

But inside, in the very depths where even his magic couldn't reach—

I burned.

With hatred. With fury. With a promise.

That I would survive this. Would survive him.

And one day—one day—I'd make him pay for every second of this nightmare.

Every. Single. Second.

Chapter 9

I woke with a scream.

Bolted upright—so sharply my head spun and spots swam across my vision.

My hands flew to my neck—no collar. No chain.

I was in my clothes—jeans, sweater, jacket.

In the crevice. Between the stones. In the cold and safety of the real world.

A dream. It was just a dream. Only a dream.

But my body remembered.

Everything.

My neck burned where the collar had been. I ran my fingers over it—the skin was hot, inflamed.

My knees ached—sharp, throbbing pain. I looked down, rolled up my jeans.

Bruises.

Dark, livid bruises on both knees—the kind left after prolonged crawling on a hard surface.

But I hadn't crawled. I'd been sleeping.

It was a dream. Just a dream.

My hands. I looked at my palms.

Nail marks. Deep crescents where I'd clenched my fists so hard the skin had broken. Crusted blood.

My wrists. Thin red lines, as if from bracelets that had rubbed the skin raw.

Ankles. The same.

Physical marks. From a dream. From an illusion.

How was this possible?

I reached for my neck again with trembling hands. Touched it.

Cold.

A new mark.

I pulled out my phone—screen dead, but in the darkness it reflected like a mirror.

Looked at my reflection.

A pattern of frost covered my neck in a wide collar. Beautiful. Delicate. Detailed.

It truly resembled the one from the dream—intricate patterns, intertwining runes.

But it didn't end at my neck.

It descended lower. To my collarbones. To my shoulders. Began to weave around my chest in thin threads of ice.

More marks with each night.

By the seventh night...

Nausea rose in my throat.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, trying not to vomit.

Tears burned my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. Not now.

A voice came from outside:

"Hey." The Fox. Careful. "You... you were screaming. For a long time. Saying something about an illusion, about broken... What did he do to you?"

His voice cracked. He stood at the entrance but didn't come in—the iron nails prevented it.

I wiped my face with my sleeve—wet with sweat and tears that had spilled anyway.

"Showed me," I croaked, my throat aching as if I'd truly been screaming for hours. "Showed me what will happen if I lose."

Silence.

"And?"

"And I broke his dream." My voice trembled. "From the inside. Destroyed the illusion through sheer will."

The silence became absolute.

Then the Fox exhaled—long, shocked.

"You... what?" His voice was hoarse. "Say that again. You broke Morphrost's dream?"

"Yes."

"FROM THE INSIDE?"

"Yes!"

The silence lasted an eternity.

Then he laughed—but the laugh was shocked, almost hysterical.

"My god." He slammed his fist against the stone. "My god, my god..."

He began pacing in front of the entrance.

"Do you understand what this means?!" Excitement mixed with horror in his voice. "No one... NO ONE has done that in a thousand years!"

He stopped, stared at the entrance to the crevice.

"You're not ordinary. Not ordinary at all." His voice became quieter, more reverent. "Strong will. Incredibly strong. People like that are born once a century. Maybe less."

I climbed out of the crevice, grabbed my backpack.

The Fox looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.

"He's in shock," he whispered. "I can imagine what shock. In a thousand years of power over dreams, no one has been able to resist him from within."

He stepped closer but stopped several paces away—a respectful distance.

"And he's learned you're not ordinary prey." His voice darkened. "Tomorrow he'll come again. And he'll be... more careful. More elaborate. He'll study you."

Cold ran down my spine.

"Listen," the Fox's voice became decisive. "The Borderlands are still a day away from here if we go around. Maybe a day and a half. But..."

He fell silent, clearly thinking something through.

"What 'but'?" I adjusted my backpack straps.

"There's a shortcut." The Fox frowned, looking east. "Through the Dead Hollow."

Something dark, wary sounded in his voice.

"How short?"

"Two hours." He looked at me. "Instead of a full day."

I froze, processing what I'd heard.

Two hours versus a full day.

Another night here, in his power, with new marks on my skin—or risk.

"Tell me about this place."

The Fox crouched on a boulder, his face grim.

"The Dead Hollow is a place where trees died but got stuck between life and death." His voice became quieter, more careful. "They're hungry. Constantly. They feed on anything living that enters."

He pointed at the ground.

"Roots. They sense vibrations when someone walks. They grab, drag underground, slowly drain life. Days. Weeks. Until nothing remains but bones."

Cold crept down my spine.

"Sounds like suicide."

"Maybe." He raised his eyes, looked at me seriously. "But you know what's interesting? In three centuries, only a few beings have passed through the Hollow. And you know what they had in common?"

I shook my head.

"They had a guide." He tapped his chest. "Someone who knew the way. Knew where to step and where not to. Where the trees sleep deeper, where the roots are slower."

The Fox stood, took a step closer.

"They had me." Pride mixed with recklessness sounded in his voice. "I've studied the Hollow for half a century. Know every root, every tree. I can guide us through."

"Or doom us both."

"Maybe." He grinned, and the smile held thrill. "But isn't that more interesting than a day crawling through swamps with drowned ones?"

Something wild, hungry for risk played in his amber eyes.

"Besides," he added quieter, "another night here means another night with him. And now that he knows you're special..."

His voice hung in the air, not finishing the threat.

I touched my neck where the new frost patterns still burned.

Another night of dreams. Another night of humiliations. More marks.

And now he'd be more careful. More elaborate.

By the fourth night there might be nothing left of me.

But the Dead Hollow...

"If we don't make it through?" I whispered.

The Fox shrugged with affected lightness, but his eyes remained serious.

"Then we become part of the forest. Our faces will join those already there." He tilted his head. "But if we make it..."

"Two hours to the Borderlands."

"Where he can't touch you." A nod. "No dreams. No marks. No touches. Nothing."

I stood, weighing.

Deadly risk versus guaranteed torture.

Agonizing death versus slow destruction of soul.

Fear battled with desperation in my chest, squeezing my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

"Are you... are you sure you can guide us through?" My voice trembled.

The Fox looked me straight in the eyes.

"No." Simple. Honest. "Not sure. The risk is enormous. One wrong step—and that's it."

A pause.

"But I have knowledge. Experience." He clenched his fists. "And we have you. The one who broke the Winter King's dream."

Something like faith sounded in his voice.

"Maybe that will be enough."

I closed my eyes, trying to think.

But thoughts tangled, swirled like water in a vortex.

Fear. Risk. Hope. Despair.

I opened my eyes, met the Fox's gaze.

"If you agree," he said quieter, "there's no turning back. The Hollow doesn't forgive hesitation. It requires complete resolve."

"And if I refuse?"

"We go around." He spread his hands. "A full day through the swamps. And another night... with him."

I touched the patterns on my neck.

Made my choice.

"I'll risk it."

***

We'd been walking for an hour and a half, and the forest was slowly dying around us.

At first the changes were barely noticeable—leaves on trees dulled, turned brown. Grass beneath our feet thinned. Birds fell silent one by one.

The Fox walked ahead, confident but silent. I followed, trying not to fall behind, though my legs ached with fatigue and the backpack seemed heavier with each step.

The silence pressed down. Not comfortable, but oppressive, filled with premonition of something terrible ahead.

I watched his back—the red hair, the pointed ears, the light, almost feline gait. He'd saved me. Was going with me into the most dangerous place in the Underhills, risking his life.

"Tell me about home," the Fox suddenly said without turning. His voice sounded quiet, almost thoughtful. "About your world. About those waiting for you there."

I flinched in surprise and nearly tripped over a root.

"Why?" My voice came out hoarse.

He turned, slowed so I could catch up. Looked at me—and something soft, careful showed in his amber eyes.

"Because," he said calmly, "when you're afraid, when danger lies ahead—you need to remember what you're fighting for. What you're risking for."

He turned again, continued walking, but spoke without stopping:

"I've seen many who gave up. Not because they were weak. But because they forgot why they needed to return. Forgot what was waiting for them at home."

A pause. We circled around a fallen tree, stepped over blackened branches.

"So tell me." His voice became slightly softer. "It'll distract you from fear. And I..." He paused. "I'm curious. Who's the girl who broke the Winter King's dream."

I was silent for several steps, studying the path beneath my feet. The earth was becoming darker, wetter. The smell of rot intensified.

To speak of home now, here, in the dying forest before entering a nightmare... It was both painful and necessary.

"London," I finally exhaled, and something squeezed in my chest from longing. "I'm from London. Notting Hill. I've lived there all my life in a small third-floor flat. Windows face the park."

My voice trembled with longing for these ordinary details, so distant now.

"Mornings I wake to the smell of coffee—Mum always rises first, brews espresso in an old moka pot. That sound... the hissing, the bubbling... I'm so used to it." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I don't drink coffee. Only tea. Rooibos with honey and cinnamon. Every morning. I sit by the window, look at the park, drink tea from that blue mug Dad brought from Edinburgh..."

Tears burned my eyes. I blinked, forcing myself to continue.

"Mum—Elaine. Works at the university library. Always smells of old books and lavender soap. She's... she's quiet, calm, but when she's angry—best not to cross her." A weak smile. "Dad—James. Teaches history at college. Patient, kind. On weekends we go to flea markets together—he looks for old books, I look for interesting things for photo shoots."

I wiped my eyes with my jacket sleeve, continuing to walk.

"We have a tradition. Every Friday evening—family dinner. Mum makes lasagna, Dad opens wine, we watch old films. Argue about plots, laugh at bad special effects..." My voice broke. "God, how I miss those boring, ordinary evenings."

The Fox listened silently without turning, but I saw his shoulders tense—he was absorbing every word.

"And Chloe," I continued quieter, "my best friend. She's studying graphic design, obsessed with anime and bubble tea. We live in neighboring dorms, call each evening, discuss all kinds of nonsense—series, boys, assignments..."

I pictured her face—with chiseled cheekbones, huge eyes and that smile that made men lose their words.

"She's the one who talked me into going to Scotland. Said I needed a break from studies, needed to see the world. We planned to travel the whole coast in a week." My voice trembled. "I so wanted to show her photos of ancient castles, misty forests, cliffs by the sea..."

Tears ran down my cheeks.

"My parents have probably already flown to Ireland. Dad's calling police, hospitals, morgues. Mum isn't sleeping nights, looks at my phone, checks if I've written." I wiped my tears, but they didn't stop. "And I'm here. In a world that shouldn't exist. Running from a monster with ice eyes. Going into a cursed forest that might kill me."

The Fox stopped.

I nearly crashed into him.

He turned, looked at me—long, attentively. Sympathy swirled in his amber eyes.

"They love you," he said quietly. "Your parents. Chloe. They love you deeply. I hear it in your voice. In every word."

He took a step closer.

"And that's worth fighting for. Worth going through the Hollow for. Worth reaching the Gates and returning to them."

"And if I don't make it?" I whispered brokenly. "If I die here? They'll never know what happened. Will search all their lives. Blame themselves..."

"You won't die." Firmly. "Because you have a reason to live." He reached out, carefully touched my shoulder. "Those Friday dinners. Tea by the window. Your friend's laughter. The smell of lavender and old books."

His voice became softer, almost tender—unusual for him.

"Hold onto that. When you're afraid in the Hollow—remember. These small, ordinary things. They're stronger than any magic. Stronger than fear."

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

The Fox squeezed my shoulder, then released it and turned.

"Let's go. We still have ground to cover."

We continued in silence, but it no longer pressed down. Became softer, warmer.

I thought of Mum and Dad. Of Chloe. Of the blue mug of tea. Of Friday lasagna. Of flea markets and old films.

Of my ordinary, boring, beautiful life waiting for me at home.

And I would return to it. I had to return.

The forest continued dying around us.

Trunks blackened, covered with something like hardened resin or dried blood. Branches twisted, taking on ugly, unnatural forms. Leaves fell in handfuls, rustled beneath our feet as dry husks.

The air grew heavier with each step. Denser. It pressed on lungs, forced breathing to quicken, shallow.

Temperature dropped—not sharply, but inexorably. Breath turned to thick vapor that hung in motionless air as white clouds.

And the smell...

First just dampness. Then rot—sweetish, cloying. Something metallic, sharp mixed in, reminiscent of blood. And something else—acrid, chemical, that made my throat scratchy.

"We're close," the Fox said quietly, stopping.

His voice sounded muffled, as if the air swallowed sound.

I approached him, peering ahead.

Ahead the forest became a nightmare.

Trees stood so densely that barely any gaps showed between them. Trunks were black—not just dark, but black as night, as if light vanished upon touching their bark.

And they moved.

Barely noticeably, but they moved. Branches swayed in windlessness. Roots slowly crawled across the ground, leaving furrows. Sometimes a trunk turned—a centimeter, a millimeter, but turned, tracking something invisible.

The silence here was absolute.

Not simply absence of sounds—active silence that pressed on eardrums, made the heart beat louder.

Even our breathing sounded deafening.

"The Dead Hollow," the Fox said, and his voice sounded like a whisper in a cathedral.

He turned to me, amber eyes glowing dully in the thickening twilight.

"Last chance to change your mind." Serious. "Once we enter, there's no turning back. Only forward."

I looked at this forest of nightmares, and everything in me screamed: "Run! Don't go there! It's madness!"

My stomach twisted with fear. Hands trembled. Breathing faltered.

Maybe I was wrong to agree? Maybe I should have chosen the day through swamps?

At least there I could run. Hide. But here...

Here we'd be trapped among hungry trees that felt every step.

But then I touched my neck. The frost patterns. The marks of his power.

Another night with him.

Another night of nightmares, humiliations, new marks.

And he'd be more elaborate. Crueler. Now that he knew I could resist.

"Ready," I exhaled, not recognizing my own voice.

The Fox nodded, his face becoming focused.

"Then listen to the rules." He spoke quietly but clearly. "Step for step behind me. Exactly step for step. Where I step—there you step."

"Understood."

"Don't touch the trunks. At all. Even if you stumble—fall, but don't grab the bark. The trees will feel the touch and wake."

"Okay."

"Breathe shallowly. The air here is poisonous. If you breathe too much—you'll start seeing things. Hallucinations."

He looked into my eyes.

"And most important." His voice became harder. "If a tree grabs someone... if it grabs me..."

"Fox..."

"NO." He grabbed my shoulders. "Listen. If a tree grabs me—you run. Immediately. Straight ahead. Don't look back. Don't try to help."

"I can't..."

"YOU CAN." His fingers dug into my jacket. "Because if you stay—we both die. If you run—at least you'll be saved."

His amber eyes didn't leave mine.

"Promise."

I looked at him—at that sharp face, at the red hair, at the pointed ears.

He'd saved me. Was going with me voluntarily. Risking his life.

And asking me to leave him to die.

"I..." My voice stuck in my throat. "I don't know if I can..."

"You can." Firmly. "Because you must."

Silence.

"I'll try," I finally whispered. "If it's completely hopeless—I'll run."

The Fox frowned, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. But there was no time to argue.

"Fine." He released my shoulders. "Then let's go."

And we entered the Dead Hollow.

***

The cold hit immediately.

Not just coolness—freezing, penetrating cold that crawled under my jacket, under my skin, into my very bones.

Breath turned to thick vapor that hung in motionless air as white clouds.

Light disappeared almost completely. Branches overhead intertwined so densely they formed a solid ceiling. Only thin strips of gray broke through gaps, barely illuminating the path.

The ground beneath my feet was soft, spongy. It gave way with each step, squelched, as if saturated with something wet.

The Fox moved carefully—each step deliberate, calculated. He studied the ground ahead, chose a path between roots that stuck out of the soil like black snakes.

I followed exactly behind him. Step for step. Breath for breath.

But even such careful movement seemed deafening in this dead silence.

The squelch-squelch of my boots on wet earth.

The rustle of my jacket with each movement.

My own breathing—rapid, shallow, full of fear.

All of it echoed off the trunks, amplified, turned into a cacophony of sounds in a world of absolute silence.

And the trees...

My god, the trees.

They were dead but alive simultaneously.

Trunks—black, twisted, covered with growths that upon closer inspection proved to be faces. Human. Fae. Bestial. Dozens of faces on each trunk, frozen in eternal screaming agony.

Eye sockets—empty but watching. I felt their gazes on me, cold, hungry.

Mouths—open in silent howls, exposing roots instead of teeth.

And from time to time one of them... blinked.

Eyelids—bark and rot—slowly lowered, raised. Something wet, living flickered in the sockets.

I bit my lip till it bled to keep from screaming.

Branches overhead stirred though there was no wind. They reached downward, as if trying to touch our heads.

Once the tip of a branch caught my hood—tugged, as if trying to tear it off.

I quickly ducked, freeing myself, and the branch rustled back with a hiss.

The Fox looked back, his expression warning. I nodded, showing I understood.

More carefully. Much more carefully.

We walked on.

The smell intensified with each step. Rot, decomposition, something chemical and acrid. It made my head spin, nausea rise.

I breathed through my mouth, short breaths, but the taste still settled on my tongue—metallic, bittersweet, disgusting.

And the roots...

They began to stir.

At first barely noticeably—a light tremor, as if from a breeze.

Then more actively.

Thick black roots slowly emerged from the earth, rose, turned in our direction.

Not quickly. But purposefully.

Like blind snakes, they reached toward the source of vibrations, warmth, life.

The Fox quickened his pace.

I followed.

But the roots crawled faster.

One emerged right in front of me—thick as my arm, covered with something slippery.

I jumped over it.

Landed on soft earth—and it trembled beneath my feet, as if alive.

Second root—on the left.

I dodged.

Third—on the right.

The Fox grabbed my hand, pulled me faster.

"They've sensed us," he whispered without stopping.

The forest woke.

All at once.

Trunks began turning—slowly, with grinding, like ancient mechanisms. Faces on bark opened eyes—dozens of eyes, hundreds, empty, hungry.

Branches bent lower, reached for us with sticky fingers.

Roots emerged from earth en masse—black, writhing, lashing the air.

"Faster," the Fox hissed. "FASTER!"

We ran.

But running here was almost impossible.

The ground was soft, slippery. Feet sank, stuck. Roots caught at ankles, tried to trip us.

Branches lashed at face, at arms. One caught my jacket sleeve—fabric tore with a rip. Cold air hit my arm.

Another branch tried to wrap around my neck. I ducked, feeling it slide across my hair.

The Fox wove between trees, choosing a path from memory, from instinct. I followed without thinking, just ran after the red head in dim light.

Breathing faltered. Lungs burned from acrid air. My throat scratched, I wanted to cough, but I held back—any extra sound attracted attention.

Something crunched on the left.

I looked back—and saw an enormous root, thick as a tree, emerging from the earth. Slowly but inexorably. It turned in our direction, like the head of a blind beast.

On the right—another.

We ran through a corridor of rising roots.

"DON'T STOP!" the Fox shouted, voice echoing off trunks. "NO MATTER WHAT!"

A root shot out right in front of me—thick, writhing.

I jumped over it—and my boot caught its tip.

Lost balance.

Flew forward, hands out to soften the fall.

Palms hit a tree trunk.

Black, wet bark.

The world exploded.

The tree shuddered—all of it, from roots to crown. Bark beneath my palms became hot, pulsing.

Faces on the trunk opened eyes—all at once. Dozens of eyes, empty, hungry, fixed on me.

Mouths opened in soundless screams.

"NO!" the Fox roared, but it was too late.

The trunk split.

Right down the center a fissure appeared—vertical, jagged, like the maw of a giant predator.

The maw began opening, revealing innards—not wood, but something fleshy, pulsing, alive.

The tree's roots shot up from the earth like a kraken's tentacles.

One wrapped around my ankle.

Squeezed.

Pain lanced through my leg—sharp, burning. I felt something crunch in the joint.

The root dragged me toward the open maw.

I clawed at the ground, tried to grab onto something, but the soft soil crumbled beneath my fingers.

"THE BACKPACK!" I screamed desperately. "SALT! SOMETHING!"

But the backpack was too far, dropped when I fell.

The Fox ran toward me, pulling out his dagger.

But the other trees woke too.

Their roots rose, blocking his path.

One root lashed across his back—the Fox stumbled, fell.

"RUN!" he shouted, rising. "I TOLD YOU—RUN!"

But I couldn't run.

The root dragged me closer to the maw. I saw inside it—fleshy walls covered with something slippery. Teeth—not real teeth, but sharp growths of bone and wood.

And deep inside, at the bottom of the maw, something moved. White. Much white.

Bones.

Skeletons of those the tree had swallowed before.

"NO!" I screamed with all my might.

I pulled out my knife—the only thing I had with me.

Swung and struck the root with all my strength.

The blade sank deep.

Black liquid spurted from the wound—thick, stinking, burning.

The root jerked but didn't release.

I struck again. And again.

Cut, sawed, ignoring the spray that hit my hands, my face, ate through skin.

But there were many roots.

Too many.

One wrapped around my wrist—the one holding the knife.

Squeezed, twisting my arm.

The knife fell, dropped into soft earth.

Another root wrapped around my waist, began squeezing. Ribs creaked.

Breath caught.

I clawed at the roots with my nails, bit them, struck with my free hand.

Useless.

They dragged me toward the maw inexorably.

One meter. Half a meter.

I saw drops of saliva—or whatever it was—dripping from the edges of the maw.

Smelled the stench of decomposition coming from the depths.

Heard the crunch of bones at the bottom.

"NO! LET GO!" My voice broke into a shriek. "LET GO OF ME!"

And suddenly something red flashed from the side.

The Fox.

He'd broken free from the ring of roots, was running toward me.

"HOLD ON!" he roared.

In his hands was my backpack.

"THE CAMERA!" he shouted, unzipping it while running. "WHERE'S THE CAMERA?!"

I didn't understand, but instinctively yelled:

"SIDE POCKET! RIGHT!"

The Fox plunged his hand into the backpack, pulled out my DSLR—modern, digital, with a powerful built-in flash.

The roots dragged me closer to the maw. Centimeters remained to the jagged edges.

The Fox raised the camera, aimed at the tree—and I saw his face contort with pain. The hands holding the camera smoked. Literally smoked, as if the camera's metal burned his skin.

But he didn't let go.

Pressed the shutter.

FLASH!

Bright, blinding, like an explosion of sun in the pitch darkness of the Dead Hollow. White light tore through twilight, reflected off black trunks, turned the world into a negative for a fraction of a second.

The effect was instant and terrifying.

The tree SHRIEKED.

Didn't groan—shrieked, a sound nothing living or dead should make. High, piercing, earsplitting wail that made you want to cover your ears and scream yourself.

All the roots—at once—jerked as if from a thousand-volt shock.

Squeezed.

Released.

I fell to the ground, freed, breathing hard.

The Fox threw the camera down, grabbed his hands. His palms were red, covered with blisters, as if he'd held red-hot iron.

"THEY'RE AFRAID!" he shouted through the pain, picking up the camera again, wincing. "YOUR IRON MAGIC!"

He took another shot, squinting from agony.

Second flash.

The wailing intensified. Trees began leaning away from us, roots retreating into earth.

"RUN!" the Fox roared, still gripping the camera with burned hands. "I'LL COVER YOU!"

We bolted forward.

The Fox ran beside me, periodically turning back and taking shots, though each button press made him wince with pain.

New burns appeared on his hands—thin red lines where fingers touched metal casing.

"GIVE IT TO ME!" I yelled. "YOU'RE BURNING!"

"NO!" The Fox took another shot. "YOU CAN'T DO IT WHILE RUNNING!"

Each flash made the forest recoil, writhe.

We ran through a corridor of light among dead trees.

Behind us howls still sounded—now not just of pain but rage. Fury at those who dared bring cursed human magic into the realm of darkness.

But the trees didn't pursue.

Were afraid.

"HOW FAR TO THE EXIT?!" I shouted while running.

"ALMOST! SEE THE LIGHT?!"

I peered ahead—and truly saw it. Between trunks brighter light broke through. Not the gray twilight of the Hollow, but golden radiance of sunset.

Another hundred meters. Fifty.

The Fox took a last shot—just in case—and immediately dropped the camera, hissing with pain.

I caught it mid-flight without stopping.

And suddenly we burst through.

From darkness into light.

From nightmare into ordinary forest.

Fell to the ground gasping, unable to believe we were alive.

I lay on my back, gulping clean air. My lungs burned, but each breath was a blessing after the acrid smoke of the Hollow.

The sun had set beyond the horizon, painting the sky in crimson tones. First stars emerged in violet twilight.

We lay in silence for several minutes, recovering our breathing, unable to believe we were alive.

But gradually the adrenaline began to fade. And then everything hit me at once.

Shock. Horror. Understanding.

My hands began trembling—at first barely noticeably, then stronger and stronger until they turned into shaking leaves.

I looked at the camera in my hands.

My ordinary camera. The one I'd come to Scotland with to photograph landscapes for my coursework project.

And it had just...

"What was that?" My voice trembled. "How... how is that possible?"

The Fox sat examining his burned hands, silent.

"My camera," I whispered, looking at it with both awe and horror. "An ordinary digital camera drove off dead trees."

I raised my gaze to the Fox.

"You knew." Not an accusation. Statement of fact. "Knew it could do this."

He nodded without looking away from his hands.

"Iron," he said simply. "Magnesium in the flash. Lithium in the battery. Copper in wires. All your technology..."

He fell silent, carefully flexing his burned fingers.

"All your technology is built on rationalism. On logic. On denial of magic." His voice became quieter, a strange bitterness sounding in it. "It's the opposite of our nature. It's... anti-magic, if you will."

I stared at him.

"Anti-magic?"

"Every one of your devices, every gadget is created with the thought that the spirit world doesn't exist." He raised his burned hand, looking at the blisters. "That certainty, that rationality... it's absorbed into metal, into plastic, into everything you build your world from."

The Fox met my gaze.

"And when such a thing enters our world..." He winced. "It's like acid. Like poison. Painful even to be near, let alone touch."

Astonishment washed over me in a wave.

"How do you know all this?" I whispered. "About our technology, about rationalism? You're fae, you live in the forest..."

"Three hundred years, yes." He looked away. "But not only in the forest."

"What do you mean 'not only'?"

"Sometimes... I venture out." Reluctantly. "Into your world. To study."

"Why?"

The Fox was silent for a long time, looking toward the Dead Hollow.

"Because your world is encroaching on ours," he finally said. "More with each year. Railroads, factories, cities... Magic weakens. Fae disappear."

His voice became harder.

"If you want to survive in a changing world, you need to know your enemy." He looked at me. "Or ally. Depending on circumstances."

"And what do you... how do you study our world?"

A smile—bitter, almost painful.

"I take human form. Walk through your cities. Read books in libraries. Watch how you live." A pause. "How you kill magic without understanding it yourselves."

I felt uneasy.

"And how long have you been doing this?"

"A hundred years. Maybe more." He carefully bent his fingers, checking the burns. "At first it was curiosity. Then—necessity."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" I sat closer, trying to speak more calmly. "About the camera. I could have used it from the beginning."

The Fox raised his gaze—fatigue showed in his amber eyes.

"Didn't know for sure if it would work," he said honestly. "Theory is one thing, practice is another. Besides..." He paused. "Besides, I didn't want to give you too powerful a weapon."

"What?"

"Think for yourself." He met my gaze. "Any technical thing from your world can kill fae. Phone, tablet, even an ordinary watch. Everything containing iron and created with the thought of denying magic."

A chill ran down my spine.

"You were afraid of me."

"Not afraid." Quickly. "Was cautious. There's a difference."

"But you knew I had the camera?"

A pause. He looked away.

"Saw it when you were going through your things. When the mist brought you to us." He raised his hand, stopping my protest. "I didn't rummage through your belongings. Just... noticed. Even then."

"And you kept silent."

"Kept silent," he agreed. "Until today."

I looked at him—at the burned hands, at the tired face, at the amber eyes full of some ancient sorrow.

He'd saved me, enduring pain from touching what was poison to him.

"Fine," I exhaled. "Next time just... tell me right away. Okay?"

"Okay."

"And thank you." My voice trembled. "For risking. For enduring pain for me."

Something inside me broke.

All the emotions I'd been keeping under control—fear, despair, gratitude—flooded out at once.

I lunged toward him, wrapped my arms around his neck, pressed close, desperately.

"Thank you," I sobbed into his shoulder. "Thank you for not abandoning me. For staying. For saving me."

The Fox froze.

Completely. Absolutely.

As if he'd turned to stone. I felt muscles tense beneath my arms, felt him stop breathing.

For several seconds we sat like that—me clinging to him like a life preserver, and him petrified with surprise.

Then it dawned on me what I was doing.

Awkwardness hit in a wave.

"Sorry," I mumbled, starting to pull away. "I didn't mean to..."

But then his arms—carefully, slowly—settled on my back.

"'Thank you' again," he said in a weak voice, but I heard the attempt to joke in it. "Technically now you owe me again..."

He didn't finish.

Because the tension left his body all at once.

His arms closed tighter, pulling me closer. He lowered his head, buried his face in my tangled hair.

"God," he whispered so quietly I barely heard. "How long... how long since anyone hugged me."

Such bewilderment, such surprise sounded in his voice, as if he'd forgotten what it was like—human warmth.

We stood pressed together in the darkening forest.

I felt how his hands trembled on my back. How unevenly he breathed. How something rigid in him melted, softened.

"Not all fae..." His voice trembled. "We don't all understand touches. Embraces. It's too... human."

He pulled back slightly, looked into my eyes.

"And you hugged me as if it were the most natural thing in the world."

"For me it is." I didn't release him. "When someone saves my life, risking their own... it's the only way to really say thank you."

The Fox looked at me for a long time, studying.

Then slowly smiled—the first real, warm smile in all the time we'd known each other.

"Then I won't count this as a debt," he said softly. "Let it be an exception."

"Thank you," I whispered, and we both laughed.

I reluctantly released him, stepped back.

The world around seemed colder without his embrace.

But something had changed between us. A wall I hadn't noticed before had crumbled. Now he looked at me not as an interesting mortal, but as... a friend.

"The backpack," I said quieter, returning to reality. "Where's my backpack?"

Chapter 10

"The backpack," I whispered, looking around. "Where's my backpack?"

The Fox nodded toward the Hollow.

"There."

Cold began creeping down my spine.

"With the food." My voice grew quieter. "With water. With everything."

"Yes."

I stared toward the Dead Hollow, where the distant moans still echoed between black trunks.

The backpack lay there. With everything needed for survival.

In a forest full of hungry dead trees.

"I can't go back there," I whispered. "Can I?"

The Fox shook his head.

"I'm sorry." Genuine regret sounded in his voice. "They know your scent now. They'll be waiting. Even with the camera... it's too dangerous."

Understanding crashed over me in a wave.

My stomach twisted with horror.

"What am I going to eat?" My voice trembled. "Five days, Fox. How will I last five days?"

He stepped closer, sat beside me.

"You can drink from the streams. Running water is safe everywhere." His voice softened, soothing. "As for food..."

The Fox fell silent, looked away.

"I can't help with that," he said quietly. "At all."

He rubbed his face with his unburned hand.

"I can't find human food. It simply doesn't exist here."

Panic began rising, squeezing my throat.

"Listen to me," the Fox turned, gripped my shoulders carefully, trying not to cause pain with his burned hands. "Humans... you mortals are stronger than you think."

His voice became firm, convincing.

"A human can survive without food for quite a while! If there's water." He shook me lightly. "Five days is nothing. You'll be weak by the end, yes. Hungry. But you'll live."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely." He nodded decisively. "I've seen humans who've starved longer. Much longer. And survived. Your bodies... they know how to conserve resources when necessary."

The Fox gripped my shoulders tighter.

"The main thing is not to panic. Panic consumes strength faster than hunger." His amber eyes looked straight into mine. "You made it this far. Through the Wild Pack, the White Lady, the Siren glade, the Dead Hollow. All that shit."

He shook his head.

"Five days without food isn't what's going to stop you. Understand? Hunger won't kill you. Thirst won't kill you."

A heavy pause.

"Only he can kill you. Or your fear." His amber eyes didn't leave mine. "So don't fear hunger. Fear everything else."

I looked at him, feeling the panic slowly recede.

He was right. Humans really could survive without food longer than it seemed.

"Besides," he added more gently, "we're almost there. An hour's walk to the Borderlands. Maybe less."

He pointed to the shimmering glow between the trees.

"There you can rest. Regain your strength. Sleep peacefully." A smirk. "And tomorrow... tomorrow we'll figure something out."

Despite everything, I felt my lips twitch in something resembling a smile.

"Alright," I exhaled. "Let's keep going."

I adjusted the camera hanging on a strap across my shoulder. It was heavy, but it was the weight of hope. My last weapon.

Nodding, I moved forward.

Without the backpack I felt strangely light. And simultaneously—defenseless.

"Fox?" I called.

"Mm?"

"My name is Elise," I said quietly. "Elise Thorne."

He stopped abruptly. Spun around, stared at me with an expression like I'd lost my mind.

"You... what?" Something close to panic rang in his voice. "You just..."

"Told you my name." I stopped beside him. "My real name."

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!" He grabbed my shoulders, shook me. "Do you understand what you've done?! True names have power! Authority!"

His amber eyes blazed with fear.

"Now I can..." He broke off, released me, stepped back.

Silence.

He looked at me as if I were a bomb with the timer running.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why did you do that?"

I stepped closer, ignoring his fear.

"Because I trust you," I said simply. "Because you risked your life to save me. Because you're the only one in this world who hasn't betrayed me."

The Fox stepped back again, shaking his head.

"You don't understand. I'm fae. We don't... we don't know how to handle this. Trust."

"You'll learn," I smiled at him. "You have time."

"Elise," he said carefully, as if tasting the name.

"You can shorten it to Lise. Friends usually do."

"Friends," he repeated quietly, and surprise sounded in his voice. "We're... friends?"

"Aren't we?"

The Fox stood there, processing what he'd heard. Emotions shifted across his face—fear, surprise, something warm and unfamiliar.

"Three hundred years," he finally whispered. "Three hundred years, and no one... no one has trusted me with their name just like that. Without deals. Without coercion."

He looked into my eyes.

"Thank you, Elise," he said softly, and there wasn't a drop of mockery in his voice. "For your trust."

I nodded, and we continued forward.

The light ahead grew brighter, and with each step warmth of anticipation spread through my chest. Soon. Very soon I'd be safe. I could rest. Sleep peacefully, without nightmares, without his touch.

The forest around us lightened, the air became cleaner. Even the heaviness in my muscles receded—as if the very approach to the Borderlands was giving me strength.

"Just a little more," the Fox said quietly, and relief sounded in his voice. "Can you feel it? The air is changing."

I nodded, quickening my pace. Yes, I could feel it. Something ancient and powerful was pulling me forward, promising peace, protection, healing.

We were rounding a large moss-covered boulder when the ground beneath me gave way.

Not gradually—instantly, in one movement, like a trapdoor flying open under my feet.

I had a moment—maybe less—to understand it was a trap.

Then I was falling.

IMPACT.

***

Pain exploded through my entire body—from the back of my skull to my tailbone. My spine felt like it had split. My ribs compressed. Air tore from my lungs in one sharp exhale.

Something heavy struck my chest, then slid to the side.

The camera.

The strap had torn during the fall.

I lay there, gasping for air, but my lungs wouldn't obey.

Couldn't inhale.

Couldn't breathe.

Panic hit sharper than pain.

My mouth opened and closed like a fish on dry land. No air. Only burning in my chest, vacuum, emptiness.

I was suffocating.

My hands clawed at the earth, fingers digging into dirt, nails breaking.

Breathe. BREATHE, ELISE!

Finally—a convulsive, wheezing breath. Air rushed into my lungs, burning, scraping my throat.

Another breath. Another. Coughing—agonizing, shaking my whole body.

I rolled onto my side, curled up, clutching my ribs. Each breath echoed with pain.

Tears flowed on their own—from pain, from shock, from fear.

"Elise!"

The Fox's cry from above—desperate, frightened.

I raised my head, squinting through pain and tears.

Above the pit, about four meters above me, hung a net.

Large, crude, woven from thick ropes. It swayed, and inside it the Fox thrashed.

He was tangled—arms pressed to his body, legs twisted together. The net tightened with each movement, cutting into skin, into clothing.

"Are you alright?!" he shouted, jerking. "ELISE!"

"Alive," I croaked, slowly sitting up.

Pain pierced my back, and I hissed through my teeth, freezing.

Slowly. Very slowly.

I looked around.

The pit was deep—four meters, maybe five. The walls were earthen, loose, crumbling. Roots protruded like gnarled fingers. The bottom was covered with soft earth, leaves, branches—deliberately, so the victim wouldn't be killed by the fall.

A hunting pit.

A classic trap.

The smell hit my nose—damp earth, rotting leaves, something else, sickeningly sweet. Decomposition. Urine. Fear.

I wasn't the first to fall here.

My stomach twisted. I clamped my hand over my mouth, suppressing the urge to vomit.

A strange sound came from above—swish-swish-swish.

I looked up.

The Fox was spinning in the net like a madman. His body flickered—brighter, then dimmer. The air around the net sparkled, crackled.

Teleportation.

He was trying to teleport.

But nothing happened.

The net held him as if glued in place.

"What the..." The Fox froze, staring at the ropes in horror. "NO. No, no, no!"

He tried again. The flickering grew brighter, the air vibrated.

But he remained in the net.

"IT'S MAGIC!" he roared, and his voice broke into a howl. "IT'S MAGICAL! ELISE!"

He jerked, trying to tear the ropes with his hands. His fingers scraped against the rough hemp, but it wouldn't tear, wouldn't stretch.

Strong as chains.

"Fox!" I shouted from below. "What's happening?!"

"A trap!" he snarled, continuing to struggle. "A magical trap! It's blocking my magic! I can't teleport! Can't use my power!"

The panic in his voice was so obvious, so human, that my own fear doubled.

If he was afraid...

I tried to stand. My legs buckled—the pain in my back, in my ribs too strong.

I fell back to my knees, hissing.

And then from the distance came sounds.

Footsteps.

Heavy, multiple footsteps, approaching through the forest.

Cracking branches. Crunching leaves.

And voices.

"What'd we catch, eh? What'd we catch?"

The voice was low, guttural, like stones grinding in a throat.

"Let's see, let's see!"

A second voice—equally rough, but higher in tone.

The steps approached.

I pressed against the wall of the pit.

My heart pounded—frantically, deafeningly. Blood pulsed in my ears.

My breathing hitched. Short, ragged.

Shadows fell across the edge of the pit.

And then faces appeared.

Three faces.

I forgot how to breathe.

Trolls.

They were... monstrous.

Enormous heads leaned over the edge of the pit, blocking out the sky. Gray-green skin, bumpy, covered with warts the size of fists. Moss grew directly from their skin—on foreheads, on cheeks, hung in clumps from chins.

Flat faces, as if someone had hit them with a frying pan. Wide noses, nostrils gaping black holes. Small eyes, deep-set, glowing with dull yellow light, like animals'.

And their mouths...

God, their mouths.

Wide, stretched in smiles. Full of teeth—crooked, sharp, jutting in all directions. Some teeth were broken, rotten, black. Others—white, like predator fangs.

The smell hit my face—powerful, suffocating.

Rot. Carrion. Unwashed bodies. Something sour and metallic—blood.

I covered my nose and mouth with my hand, but the smell seeped through, crawled into my throat, into my lungs.

My stomach twisted. I vomited—right onto the floor of the pit, sharply, convulsively.

The trolls laughed—hollowly, like stones falling into a well.

"Oh, oh!" the first one, the biggest, giggled. "The human's puking! Doesn't like our smell!"

He leaned lower, and his breath enveloped me—hot, wet, fetid.

I vomited again.

"Why ya puking, eh?" The troll scratched his belly with thick fingers tipped with black claws. "We're pretty! Right, Gnar?"

The second troll—thinner, with long arms—nodded, grinning.

"Pretty-pretty. We're the prettiest in the forest."

The third troll was silent. He was larger than the others, broader. Smarter eyes. He looked at me not with dull curiosity, but appraisingly.

The leader.

"Human," he growled. Deep, authoritative voice. "Young. Tender."

He licked his lips with his tongue—thick, gray, covered with some kind of bumps.

"How much is she?" Gnar asked, staring down stupidly. "One piece?"

"One piece," the leader confirmed. "Small. Not enough for two."

He scratched his chin, smearing dirt.

"She'll be mine. I'm the leader. I get the best piece."

Gnar and the first troll rumbled with discontent.

"Not fair, Grok!" the first one whined. "You took the human last time too!"

"I'm the leader. I'm strong. I get the best food." Grok bared his teeth, showing yellow fangs. "Want to argue, Brund?"

Brund—the first troll—quickly shook his head.

"No-no! Don't want to! You're strong, Grok!"

"That's right, keep quiet."

Grok turned to me, smiling wider.

"You hear that, human? You're mine. I'm gonna eat you."

He licked his lips again, and saliva—thick, gray-green—dripped from his lip, fell into the pit, landed near my foot.

It hissed. Smoked.

Acid.

Their saliva was acidic.

Horror squeezed my throat so I couldn't breathe.

"Wait, Grok!" Gnar pointed up at the net. "There's another one! The red one!"

The trolls craned their heads up.

The Fox hung in the net, frozen. His amber eyes burned with fury and fear.

"Oh!" Brund clapped his hands like a child. "A faeling! Bony, but he'll do!"

"Faelings aren't tasty," Gnar grumbled. "Bitter. Stringy."

"But lots of blood," Brund countered. "And the bones crunch nicely."

Grok squinted, looking at the Fox.

"The red one..." He scratched his forehead, thinking—slowly, heavily. "I've seen him somewhere."

"Seen-seen," Gnar nodded. "He's a pest. Fox-trickster. Lots don't like him."

"Ahhh." Grok nodded with satisfaction. "Then we gotta kill him. Turn him in for a reward. To someone."

He pointed at Brund.

"You climb for the red one."

"What about me?" Gnar asked.

"You drag the net down." Grok waved his paw. "Then cut him. Head separate. I'll take the head to sell."

Brund and Gnar lumbered toward the tree where the rope from the net was tied.

Grok remained by the pit, looking at me.

Our eyes met.

In his yellow eyes there was no pity, no anger. Only hunger. Simple, animal hunger.

"Don't be afraid, human," he growled, and his voice was almost... tender? "I'll be quick. Bite your head off first. You won't feel anything."

He bared his teeth, showing them all.

"Then the legs. They're the tastiest. Crunchy. Tender."

Tears flowed on their own. Hot, salty.

I didn't want to die.

Not like this. Not here.

Not in this stinking pit, devoured by a troll.

And suddenly in the distance came footfalls.

Many hooves.

Fast, approaching.

Grok spun around, snarling.

"Who's that?!"

"Don't know!" Brund shouted, also turning.

Gnar looked around fearfully.

"Hunters! Someone's hunters!"

"What Court?!" Grok roared.

"Don't know!"

The hoofbeats grew louder. Trees shook. The ground trembled beneath hooves.

"RUN!" Grok bellowed.

"What about the catch?!" Brund pointed at the pit.

"LEAVE IT! RUN!"

The trolls turned and bolted—heavily, clumsily, breaking branches, sinking into the earth.

Within seconds they'd disappeared into the forest.

The thunder of hooves was deafening.

I closed my eyes, covered my ears with my hands.

Don't want to hear. Don't want to know.

And suddenly above the pit came shouts.

"THERE! THE TROLLS ARE RUNNING!"

"AFTER THEM!"

The clang of metal. The whistle of arrows.

A roar—trollish, full of pain and fury.

Battle.

A battle had begun right above my head.

I heard everything—the clash of swords, snarling, screams, hoofbeats, the crunch of breaking bones.

But I saw nothing. Only the walls of the pit and the sky overhead.

From above came a dull thud—something heavy fell to the ground.

Then another.

A roar, gradually fading.

Silence.

Long. Pressing.

Only heavy breathing. Someone's. Many someones'.

Then a voice:

"Check the traps. The trolls were hunting. Someone might have fallen in."

The voice was male. Deep. Authoritative.

But not his voice.

Not Morphrost.

I slowly raised my head, still pressed against the wall.

Footsteps approached the pit.

Stopped at the edge.

Silence.

Then a face appeared over the pit.

A man.

Fae.

But not from the Winter Court.

He was... beautiful. But differently.

Not with Morphrost's cold perfection. Warm.

Golden skin, as if sun-kissed. Dark chestnut hair with copper highlights, falling to his shoulders. Green eyes—the color of summer forest, bright, alive.

Regular features, but softer than Morphrost's. Full lips. Cheekbones not as sharp.

He wore armor—light, of leather and leaves, green and gold. On his chest—a symbol: a sun entwined with grapevines.

Summer Court.

He looked down at me, and in his green eyes rippled... compassion?

"Gods," he whispered. "A human."

He dropped to one knee at the edge of the pit, not taking his eyes off me.

"Are you hurt?"

I couldn't speak. Just stared at him.

He saw how I trembled. How tears streaked down my cheeks.

His face softened even more.

"I won't harm you," he said gently, raising his hands, showing empty palms. "I promise. We're not enemies."

He slowly extended his hand downward.

"My name is Oberon. I'm the King of the Summer Court." His voice was calm, lulling. "And you're safe. The trolls are dead. They won't hurt you anymore."

A pause.

"Let me pull you out."

I looked at his hand. Strong. Tanned. Extended toward me.

Then at his face. Warm. Kind.

Not cold, like Morphrost's. Not predatory.

Different.

Tears flowed harder—from relief, from exhaustion, from everything at once.

I slowly reached up, extending my free hand.

Our fingers connected.

His grip was firm, warm.

He pulled—easily, effortlessly, as if I weighed nothing.

I flew out of the pit, landed on the edge, on my knees.

Solid ground. Safe ground.

I collapsed forward onto my hands, gasping.

Oberon crouched beside me, not touching, giving space.

"You're safe," he repeated softly. "Breathe. Just breathe."

I breathed—raggedly, convulsively, through tears and sobs.

I looked around.

Riders stood around us. Five of them. On enormous horses—noble, with silver eyes and manes that flowed though there was no wind.

All in Summer Court armor. All armed. Swords, bows, spears.

On the ground lay the bodies of trolls. Three massive bodies, bloodied, with protruding arrows.

Dead.

But then I remembered.

"Fox!" I shouted, spinning around.

The net was gone.

It lay on the ground—empty, cut.

And the Fox was nowhere.

"The red fae?" Oberon asked, following my gaze. "Fled as soon as the battle started."

He grimaced with contempt.

"Tricksters are always like that. Cowardly creatures."

My heart sank.

Gone.

Just left.

Without a word. Without goodbye.

The Fox had left. Vanished.

Why? Was he afraid of the Summer Court?

Or had the net drained all his strength and he could barely stand?

But something inside whispered—he hadn't abandoned me.

He was somewhere nearby. Watching. Waiting for the right moment.

He had to be waiting.

Please, let him be waiting.

Oberon stood, extended his hand again.

"Come. You need help. Rest. Food."

I looked at his hand.

Then at his face.

A king. King of the Summer Court.

Not Morphrost. Not a hunter.

A savior.

I took his hand and let him lift me to my feet.

My legs buckled. The world swam at the edges. Adrenaline was evaporating, leaving only pain, exhaustion and strange numbness.

Oberon didn't release my hand. Firmly, but not painfully. His skin was warm—not hot, not cold. Just... warm. Alive.

So unlike Morphrost's icy touch.

"What's your name, brave girl?" he asked gently, looking into my eyes.

I swallowed with a dry throat.

"Ellie," I lied. "My name is Ellie."

Not true. A nickname, abbreviation, but not my real name.

Oberon tilted his head, studying my face. Something flickered in his green eyes—understanding? Approval?

"Ellie," he repeated, and the word sounded like music. "A lovely name."

He didn't insist. Didn't press.

Just nodded and carefully released my hand.

"Are you hurt, Ellie?"

I shook my head, though my whole body ached.

"Bruised. But... nothing serious."

He nodded, examining me carefully. His gaze lingered on my neck.

The marks.

The pattern of frost descending from throat to collarbones, beginning to wrap around shoulders in thin threads.

Oberon's face darkened.

"Morphrost's mark," he said quietly, and anger sounded in his voice. Real, genuine. "You're his prey. The Hunt."

He looked at me again, and compassion rippled in his eyes.

"How many nights?"

"Two," I whispered.

One of the riders—a woman with long golden hair braided in an elaborate plait—rode closer on her horse. Her eyes widened.

"Two nights?" she repeated with genuine amazement. "And you're still alive? Still on your feet?"

The other riders exchanged glances, whispered among themselves.

"Most don't survive past the first day," added a man with dark hair and a scar crossing his entire cheek.

"And those who do..." the woman began, but broke off, as if not wanting to continue.

"Are already broken," another rider finished for her, young, with sharp features. "Begging for death. Or driven mad."

The woman looked at me with something like respect.

"But you... you're still fighting."

Oberon raised his hand—an authoritative gesture, and all conversation instantly ceased.

"Enough." His voice was firm, commanding. "Ellie has endured enough for today."

He turned to me, and his face softened again.

"Are you hungry?"

I shook my head.

"No. I'm... I'm fine."

Oberon squinted, studying my face. Then smirked—gently, without mockery.

"You're lying." Simply. Statement of fact. "I can hear your stomach churning. See how pale you are."

He pointed to one of the riders.

"Elaria, give me provisions."

The woman dismounted, approached, extended a bundle wrapped in cloth and a flask.

Oberon took them, turned to me.

"Here." He held out the flask. "Water. Pure, from a spring in my lands."

I stared at the flask, not taking it.

Fae water.

Could be enchanted. Could bind me, tie me to this world forever.

Oberon noticed my hesitation. His lips twitched in a smile.

"Afraid to drink?" He nodded with understanding. "Wise to be afraid. Smart girl."

He opened the flask, took several large gulps. Then wiped his lips with the back of his hand and extended it to me again.

"See? I drink it myself. It's not poisoned. Not enchanted." A pause. "Though of course, you don't have to believe me."

I didn't take the flask.

He shrugged, unoffended, and put it away.

"As you wish."

Then he held out the bundle.

"Then maybe food?"

I looked at the cloth but didn't reach for it.

"What's in it?"

"Bread. Cheese. Dried meat." He began unwrapping it. "Food from my Court. Delicious. Nourishing."

Fae food.

No. Absolutely not.

I shook my head, stepping back.

"No. I... I can't. Won't."

Oberon stopped, looking at me carefully. Then slowly nodded.

"You know the rules." Approvingly. "Don't eat our food. Don't drink our water."

He wrapped the bundle back up, put it away.

"Wise girl. Rare among mortals. Most are so hungry they grab everything offered."

He took a step closer, and I instinctively stepped back.

He stopped, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

"Don't be afraid. I won't harm you." His voice was soft, soothing. "On the contrary. I want to help."

"Why?" The question burst out on its own. "Why would you help me?"

Oberon tilted his head, as if considering the answer.

"Because I hate Morphrost," he said simply. "He's my enemy. Enemy of my Court. Enemy of everything I value."

Real hatred flashed in his green eyes.

"The Winter and Summer Courts are eternal opponents. Ice against fire. Death against life." A pause. "And anything that harms him brings me pleasure."

He looked at me appraisingly.

"You're his prey. You're resisting him. Running. That's... impressive."

A step closer.

"And I want to help you survive. Make it to the seventh day. Pass through the gates home."

He extended his hand.

"Let me help. I'll take you there."

I looked at his hand, then at his face.

He looked sincere. Eyes warm, open. Smile soft, friendly.

But he was fae.

And fae lie. Manipulate. Use.

But I had no choice.

Walking to the Borderlands on foot—another hour, maybe more. Alone. Without food. Without water. Weak and injured. In the darkening forest.

Or ride with them. On horses. In minutes.

I slowly nodded.

"Alright. I... I'll accept your help."

Oberon smiled—broadly, pleased.

He easily swung into the saddle. Then leaned down, extending his hand.

"Come. I'll lift you up."

I approached, took his hand. He pulled—strongly, confidently—and I flew upward like a feather.

But he didn't seat me behind him.

His arms caught me, turned me and seated me IN FRONT of him.

I found myself between his arms, trapped by his body and the reins. My back pressed to his chest. His arms on either side of me, holding the reins.

A trap.

A cage of arms and body.

"It's more comfortable this way," he said softly, as if sensing my discomfort. "You're weak, you might fall. This way I can catch you if you start to tip."

The explanation was logical. Caring.

But something inside screamed: WRONG.

I clenched my hands into fists, placing them on the saddle in front of me.

Oberon took the reins—his hands ended up very close to mine.

"Hold on," he said, and I felt his chest vibrate with his voice against my back. "Let's go."

He clicked his tongue, and the stallion bolted.

We'd been riding for about five minutes.

The forest flew past—blurred colors, wind, whistling in my ears.

I sat motionless, trying not to think about how close he was behind me and how his breath touched my hair.

My hands instinctively reached for my chest—where the camera usually hung, for comfort.

Empty.

The strap had torn. The camera had stayed...

Realization hit me like a blow to the solar plexus.

THE CAMERA.

It had stayed in the pit.

My only weapon against the fae.

I'd left it there, at the bottom of the pit, in mud and leaves.

"No," I whispered in a trembling voice. "No, no, no..."

My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms.

How could I have FORGOTTEN?!

In panic, in shock, in fear—I just didn't think. Didn't remember.

And now it was there. Alone. Abandoned.

"STOP!" I shouted, leaning forward. "STOP THE HORSE!"

Oberon pulled the reins. The horse slowed and stopped.

"What happened?" His voice was calm but wary.

"My camera!" I tried to turn and look at him. "It stayed in the pit! I need to go back!"

"Camera?" He tilted his head.

"The camera!" Words tumbled desperately and quickly from my lips. "It fell when I fell in! I forgot to take it! Please, we need to go back!"

A pause.

Oberon said nothing.

"PLEASE!" My voice broke. "It's all I have left! I NEED IT!"

His hand landed firmly on my shoulder, preventing me from moving.

"No," he simply answered.

"What?!"

"We're not going back." His voice was firm and brooked no argument.

"But... it was only five minutes ago! The pit is nearby! We can..."

"No." Harder.

I jerked, trying to break free.

"You don't understand! I NEED IT! It's my weapon! My protection!"

His hand on my shoulder squeezed tighter.

"That's precisely why we're not going back."

I froze.

"What?"

Oberon leaned closer, his lips touching my ear.

"You think I don't know what human technology is?" His voice was quiet and dangerous. "You think I haven't heard how iron and electricity burn our skin?"

A chill ran down my spine.

"Your camera is a weapon. Against my people. Against me." A pause. "And you'll never get it back."

"No..."

"It will stay where it belongs. In the pit. In the mud." He straightened. "And that's for the best."

"YOU CAN'T!" I writhed, trying to slide from the saddle. "IT'S MINE!"

His arm wrapped around my waist and pressed me firmly to him.

"I can. And already have." Coldly. "Accept it."

"NO! TAKE ME BACK! LET ME GO!"

"Enough," he clicked his tongue, and the horse moved forward again. "We continue."

Tears flowed—hot, helpless, desperate.

Without food. Without water. Without salt. Without a knife.

Now without the camera.

I had NOTHING left.

Absolutely nothing.

I gave up. Stopped struggling. Just sat and cried silently while the horse carried me away from my last hope.

Oberon said nothing. He just held me firmly, not letting me fall.

He stroked my shoulder—almost comfortingly.

"Hush," he whispered softly. "Everything will be alright. I promise."

But I didn't believe him.

Didn't believe anyone.

We continued riding.

The forest flew past—blurred colors, wind, whistling in ears.

And then the air changed.

I felt it with my whole body—goosebumps ran across my skin, hair stood on end, my ears popped.

Pressure.

Magic.

Strong, ancient, compressing space.

"What..." I began.

"Quiet," Oberon leaned closer, his lips almost at my ear. "It's going to be unpleasant now. But quick."

Ahead the air... cracked.

I don't know how else to describe it.

It just cracked, like glass.

A line appeared—thin, glowing, vertical. It widened, opened like a wound in the fabric of reality.

Beyond it was a different forest.

Not the one we'd been riding through.

Different—golden, warm, bathed in sunlight, though dusk had been falling here.

A portal.

A tear in space.

Elaria—the rider with golden hair—looked at the king with surprise.

"My king, a direct portal to the Heart?" Alarm sounded in her voice. "This will weaken you for several days..."

"It's worth it," Oberon cut her off, not taking his eyes from the portal.

Then he added more quietly, so I barely heard:

"She's worth it."

"Hold on tight," he ordered me.

The horse leaped.

The world exploded.

Not with sound. Not with light.

With sensations.

My entire body felt like it was turned inside out and back in a fraction of a second. My stomach leaped to my throat. My skin was compressed, then suddenly released.

Lights flashed in my eyes. My ears rang deafeningly.

I screamed—or tried to, but there was no sound.

And then it was over.

Abruptly. Instantly.

The horse landed on solid ground.

I gasped, doubled over, clutching the saddle with trembling hands.

Nausea rolled over me in a wave. My head spun. The world swam.

"Breathe," Oberon's voice behind me, calm. "Slowly. Deeply. It'll pass in a minute."

I breathed as he instructed, until the nausea receded and the world stopped spinning.

Slowly I raised my head.

And forgot how to breathe.

Forest.

But not that forest.

This one was... different. Completely different.

The trees were tall, slender, with golden bark and leaves in all the shades of summer—green, yellow, orange, red. They didn't grow chaotically but as if deliberately planted—in neat rows, forming avenues.

The sun shone brightly—not setting, but at noon, high.

Though moments ago it had been twilight.

Summer lands. Here it was always summer. Always day.

Oberon's magic held the sun at its zenith, not letting night come.

Eternal summer. Eternal light.

The air was warm, almost hot. It smelled of honey, flowers, ripe fruit, summer heat.

The ground under the hooves wasn't muddy and wet but dry, covered with soft grass and flowers.

Beautiful.

Too beautiful.

Unnaturally beautiful.

"Where... where are we?" I whispered.

"The Summer lands," Oberon answered, and pride sounded in his voice. "The Heart of my Court."

Heart.

Not the border. Not the outskirts.

Heart.

The Heart of the Summer Court.

Panic began rising, but I crushed it down.

Maybe they use portals to get to the Borderlands faster? Maybe this is the shortest route?

"Is the Borderlands here too?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

"No," Oberon simply answered. "The Borderlands are far from here. In the other direction."

My blood froze.

"What?" I tried to turn, to look at him. "But you said..."

"I said I'd help you." His voice grew colder. "And I will. But not the way you thought."

His hands tightened on the reins—firmer, closer to me.

"We continue."

"NO!" I tried to slide from the saddle, but his arm instantly wrapped around my waist, pressed me to him.

"Sit still," he ordered, and his voice was hard, authoritative. "Or you'll fall and hurt yourself."

"LET GO!" I writhed, tried to break free, but his grip was iron.

"No."

The horse moved forward—along the avenue, between the golden trees.

The riders followed us, silent. Their faces were calm, indifferent.

They knew.

From the very beginning they knew he wasn't taking me to the Borderlands.

Betrayal burned hotter than fear.

"YOU LIED!" My voice broke into a hysterical scream.

I writhed in his arms, scratched, bit, like a cornered animal.

"YOU SAID YOU WERE TAKING ME TO THE BORDERLANDS!"

"I said I'd help," he corrected coldly. "And said I wanted you to survive until the seventh day. True."

A pause.

"I just didn't specify WHERE you'd be spending those days."

"PLEASE!" Pride evaporated, only desperation remained. "Please, let me go! I'M BEGGING YOU!"

Horror squeezed my throat.

"You... you can't..." My voice broke. "You can't keep me! I'm free! I'm not bound to your Court!"

"Yet," he agreed. "But that's easily fixed."

We kept riding. The forest became more and more beautiful, more and more fairytale-like.

Ahead, structures appeared.

Not houses. A palace.

An enormous palace of white stone and gold, with towers reaching toward the sky. Windows gleamed in the sun's rays. Gardens surrounded it—blooming, fragrant.

The Heart of the Summer Court.

Oberon's home.

"No," I whispered, and tears welled in my eyes. "No, please..."

"Hush," his hand on my waist became softer, almost comforting. "Nothing bad. I won't harm you."

A pause.

"If you're obedient."

I tried one more time to break free—desperately, with the last of my strength.

Scratched his arms, writhed, screamed.

But he didn't let go.

His hand rose.

Touched my forehead.

Cold.

Icy, piercing cold spread across my skin, penetrated my skull, flooded my brain.

"What..." My tongue went numb. My lips wouldn't obey.

"Sleep," Oberon whispered, and his voice was soft, lulling. "Just sleep. Nothing bad."

Magic.

It filled my head, pulled me down into darkness.

I tried to resist. Open my eyes wider, shake it off, drive away the spell.

But it was stronger.

Much stronger.

The world swam. Colors blurred. Sounds muffled.

"No... don't..." I whispered, and my voice sounded distant, alien.

My eyelids grew leaden.

My head fell forward, but his hand caught it, carefully tipped it back, rested it on his shoulder.

"Good girl," he whispered, and fingers stroked my temple. "Sleep. Rest."

Darkness covered me in waves.

I heard—far away, through the thickness of water—his voice:

"Elaria, prepare quarters for our guest. East wing, tower with a view of the garden." A pause. "Post two guards at the doors. No one enters without my order."

"Yes, my king."

"And tell Lutya to prepare suitable clothing. Something... summery. Light. Beautiful."

"Yes, my king."

"And not a word to anyone." His voice grew harder. "Only those here know about our guest. Understood?"

"Yes, my king."

The last thing I heard before falling into complete darkness:

"Excellent." His hand stroked my hair again. "My little mystery. Let's see what you truly are."

And I drowned.

In warm, soft, impenetrable darkness of magical sleep.

Chapter 11

I woke to light striking directly into my face.

My head was splitting—a dull, throbbing pain spreading from my temples to the back of my skull. My mouth was so dry that my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. My body ached as if a truck had run me over.

Magical sleep. The aftereffects of the immobilization spell Oberon had used to put me under for a couple hours during the journey. But the sensations were like after a blackout sleep lasting an eternity.

I slowly sat up, wincing at the pain, and looked around.

The room was enormous. Luxurious. Walls of white stone, smooth and warm-looking. Tall windows let in floods of sunlight, and light golden curtains billowed in a breeze that smelled of flowers and honey. The floor—marble with golden veins, covered with soft rugs. Furniture elegant, carved. A bed with silk sheets and a pile of pillows.

Luxury. Beauty.

A golden cage for a human fool who believed a faerie.

My gaze fell on the mirror, and I froze.

I wasn't wearing my clothes. The dirty jacket was gone. The torn jeans were gone. The t-shirt was gone.

Instead—a light summer dress of thin peach-colored fabric. Soft folds to mid-thigh, sleeveless, with a deep neckline. The fabric was almost transparent—through it I could see the outline of my own body.

No underwear.

Horror shifted to fury that struck my head so hard that for a moment everything swam before my eyes.

Someone had undressed me. While I was unconscious, defenseless and helpless. Had seen my naked body. Had pulled off my jeans. Unfastened my bra. Pulled down my panties. Foreign hands had touched my skin—everywhere.

My stomach twisted with revulsion. Who? Servants? Oberon himself?

I would never know. And that was the worst part—not knowing.

My hands trembled. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.

Breathe, Elise. Just breathe. Think.

I slowly stood—my legs shook but held—and walked to the window.

The view took my breath away. Gardens. Endless gardens. Flowers of every shade, trees heavy with fruit, fountains sparkling in the sun, avenues of white stone. And high walls in the distance, surrounding all this splendor.

I tried to open the window. Locked. I pulled harder. It wouldn't budge.

Damn.

I rushed to the door. Pulled the handle. Locked.

I pounded with my fists.

"OPEN UP! LET ME OUT!"

Behind the door came footsteps. A male voice, indifferent:

"Calm down. King's orders."

Guards.

"I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE!"

"King's orders," repeated the same indifferent tone.

I struck again. With all my strength. Pain shot through my knuckles, the skin split. But the door didn't open.

I pressed my forehead against the wood, breathing heavily.

Trapped.

I began circling the room, checking walls, furniture, searching for an exit. Nothing. The windows were enchanted. The door was locked. The walls were solid.

I grabbed a chair. Tried to break the window. The glass rang but didn't crack. Magic.

To hell with it.

I threw the chair. Grabbed a bottle from the table. Threw it. A comb. A mirror. Pillows. I screamed. Beat my fists. Fury, fear, desperation—everything poured out.

The lock clicked. The door swung open.

I froze, breathing heavily. Bloodied hands. Tangled hair.

In the doorway stood Oberon.

A light honey-colored tunic fitted his torso—soft fabric, almost weightless, emphasizing broad shoulders. Light linen trousers. Hair loose—a chestnut waterfall to his shoulders, gleaming in the torchlight. Without armor he looked softer, almost more human—but his green eyes remained cold, like the first ice on a lake.

He slowly surveyed the destruction around him. Then shifted his gaze to me. Assessing. Almost curious.

"Finished?"

His voice was calm, even bored—as if he was asking about the weather, not looking at the results of my fury.

I clenched my fists—nails dug into my palms, the skin on my split knuckles cracked deeper.

"Go to hell."

The words came out hoarse, my voice raw from screaming.

His lips twitched—a barely noticeable movement, almost a smile. Not mocking. Just... interested.

"I see you've rested." He tilted his head, studying my face. "That's good. You'll need your strength."

Silence filled the room—heavy, oppressive, like before a storm. I heard my own breathing—rapid, uneven. His—slow, calm.

Oberon approached closer. Soft steps—bare feet made almost no sound on stone. I backed away until my back hit the cold wall. The stone was icy—through the thin fabric of the dress I felt every protrusion, every irregularity.

He stopped a couple steps away. The scent hit—honey, spices, something floral and sweet. Intoxicating. I held my breath.

"Ellie." Softly. Almost tenderly, the way one addresses a frightened animal. "Or what's your real name?"

Silence. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth hurt.

"It doesn't matter." He shrugged—a smooth movement, relaxed. "I'll find out later. We have time."

Pause. Green eyes didn't leave mine.

"You're angry. You feel betrayed." His voice became softer. "I understand."

"You LIED!"

My voice broke into a scream, the echo struck the walls, returned distorted.

"You said you'd take me to the Borderlands!"

"I said I'd help you survive until the seventh day." Calmly, methodically—like explaining to a child. "And I will. Here you're safe from Morphrost."

"SAFE?!" My hands flew up, pointing at the locked door, at the windowless locks. "I'M IN A CAGE!"

A tremor ran through my body—from fury, from helplessness. I pointed at the dress, my voice trembling, betrayingly breaking:

"YOU UNDRESSED ME!"

His gaze slowly slid down—over my neck, collarbones, chest, waist, hips. Not lustfully. Appraisingly. The way one looks at a painting or sculpture.

"Beautiful." He simply stated a fact. "It suits you."

"WHO?!"

I stepped forward, trembling with fury so hard the floor swayed beneath my feet.

"Who undressed me while I was unconscious?!"

"A servant. Lutya." He named her casually, as one speaks of the weather. "A woman from my inner circle. Experienced. Discreet. She took care of you."

Pause. He tilted his head, something like mockery flickering in his green eyes.

"Did you think I did it myself? No, sunshine. I have honor. I don't touch those who can't give consent."

He took a step closer. The warmth of his body was palpable—contrasting with the cold wall at my back.

"Though you looked... tempting." His voice became lower, more velvety. "But I'll wait. Until consent."

My stomach twisted with revulsion—physically, nausea rose in my throat. I grabbed a pillow from the bed and hurled it at him with all my strength.

He caught it with one hand, not even flinching. Feathers flew from the torn seam, swirled in the air.

"Calm down." Now his voice became harder, more commanding. "And listen to me."

"I WON'T!"

I tried to go around him, rush to the exit. He intercepted—quickly, too quickly for the human eye. Grabbed me by the waist, spun me around, pressed me against the wall with his whole body.

The impact of my back against stone knocked the air from my lungs. His hands landed on the wall on either side of my head, blocking me. His body pressed close—I felt every curve, every muscle through the thin fabric. The heat burned. The scent enveloped me, preventing me from breathing clean air.

"Listen." A command. His face inches from mine. "Listen carefully."

His breath, warm, with the aroma of honey and something spicy, touched my cheek.

"I have an offer. Beneficial for both sides."

"Not interested." I turned my face away, pressing my cheek against the cold stone.

"Oh, you're interested." His hand on my waist tightened—not painfully, but noticeably, reminding me of his strength.

"Without me you won't survive until the seventh day. Morphrost will find you anywhere. Take you forever." His voice became more persuasive, softer. "But I can protect you."

My heart beat faster—treacherously, against my will.

"For what price?"

He chuckled—I didn't see it, but felt his lips twitch near my temple.

"Smart girl."

He pulled back, releasing me, but didn't step away—still too close. I inhaled deeply, trying to calm the trembling.

"The price is simple."

He extended his hand—slowly, giving time to see the movement. Ran his finger over the mark on my neck—over the frost pattern. The touch was light, cool. I shuddered, goosebumps ran over my skin.

"You wear his mark." His finger slid down, tracing the patterns. "Bound to him by magic. With each night the bond strengthens."

His fingers descended lower, to my collarbone, ran along the edge of the dress's neckline.

"By the seventh night the marks will cover your entire body." Seriously, without mockery. "And you'll become his. Completely. Forever. Your will will dissolve. Only what he wants to see will remain."

He removed his hand. Cold remained on my skin—the imprint of his touch.

"But I can break that bond."

My heart skipped a beat.

"What?"

My voice sounded weaker than I wanted—almost hopeful.

"I can break Morphrost's marks. Erase them. Free you from his magic." He spoke slowly, letting each word settle. "I have the power. And the knowledge."

Hope flared in my chest—hot, painful, almost physical. My breathing quickened.

"Really?"

"Really." A nod. "But to do that I need to leave my own mark. My own magic." Pause, his gaze didn't leave my eyes. "Replace his power with mine."

Hope extinguished instantly—like a blown-out candle. Cold spread through my body, my hands grew heavy.

"What does that mean?"

A step closer. His hand on my waist again—confident, possessive.

"It means you'll become mine."

The word hung in the air, heavy, final. Mine.

I shook my head—slowly at first, then faster. I stepped back, slipping from his grasp.

"No."

"Hear me out." He didn't follow, just stood with his arms crossed. "I'm not like Morphrost. I won't break you. I won't torture you. I won't humiliate you."

His voice became softer, almost intimate.

"You'll just stay here. At my court. Under protection. You'll be... a companion."

"A companion?"

I laughed—bitterly, harshly, the laugh echoing with pain in my chest.

"A pretty word for 'concubine.'"

He didn't deny it. Just stood, looking calmly, waiting for the laughter to subside.

"Call it what you want." He shrugged. "But in return you'll get safety. A roof over your head. Food. Clothing. Protection from Morphrost and all other dangers of this world."

His hand touched my cheek again—warm, soft, almost tender.

"And I'll be kind. I promise. You won't suffer. You won't starve. You won't be afraid." His thumb stroked my cheekbone. "All I need is your loyalty. Devotion. Your... body. When I want it."

I slapped his hand away with a sharp movement.

"No. Go to hell."

His face darkened—barely noticeably, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

"You refuse?"

"Yes."

Silence. Heavy, oppressive. Then a cold smirk twisted his lips.

"Very well."

He turned toward the door—smoothly, unhurriedly. Stopped at the threshold, looked over his shoulder.

"By the way, I have something interesting." Casually, as if about an insignificant detail. "Food. From your world. Safe for you."

At the mere mention my stomach cramped—sharp, almost painful. Saliva filled my mouth. I hadn't eaten... a day? Twenty-four hours? Since that morning when we headed to the Borderlands. Then there was the Hollow. The pit. Oberon. The day had flown by in the nightmare of survival, and I hadn't even noticed hunger in the adrenaline of staying alive. But now, when my body relaxed, when the immediate danger receded—hunger crashed over me with doubled force.

He noticed the reaction. His lips stretched in a satisfied smile.

"Bread." He began listing slowly, savoring each word. "Fresh, with a crispy crust. Cheese. Soft, fatty. Meat. Roasted, juicy. Fruit. Apples, grapes. All from the human world. Nothing enchanted. Completely safe."

My mouth filled with saliva even more. I swallowed—greedily, convulsively, trying to suppress the sickening desire.

"Why do you have human food?" My voice came out hoarse. "Did you specifically prepare to kidnap me?"

He chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Not you specifically. But mortals... sometimes we have to keep them." He shrugged. "Merchants. Diplomats. Those who make deals with my court. Important witnesses. Translators."

A step closer, his eyes didn't leave mine.

"A human bound to our food is useless for negotiations. They can't return to their world to fulfill their part of the deal. Understand?" He tilted his head. "So I always have a supply of safe provisions. Just in case."

Another step. The honey scent intensified.

"They supply me with human goods. Regularly. And I'm willing to share. With you."

One last step. We stood too close.

"For cooperation."

Manipulation. Pure, dirty, transparent manipulation. But hunger tore at me from within, squeezed my stomach in an iron grip, clouded my mind.

"Think about it." His voice became softer, more persuasive. "Satiety or hunger. Comfort or suffering. Protection or defenselessness against Morphrost."

He walked to the door, placed his hand on the handle.

"The choice is yours."

"WAIT!"

The word burst out before I could think.

He stopped, slowly turned. A satisfied smile played on his lips.

I took a step forward, clenching my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. The pain helped me focus.

"Answer me honestly." My voice grew stronger, filled with determination. "Why do you need me?"

He tilted his head, feigning incomprehension.

"I explained. So that..."

"No! NOT THAT!" I interrupted sharply. "Not this nonsense about 'companion' and 'protection.'"

Another step closer. Straight into his eyes, not looking away.

"Why do you REALLY need me?" The words poured out in a stream. "Fae hate humans. Despise them. Consider them inferior beings. I'll bore you. Quickly. In a week, a month, a year. And then what?"

My breathing quickened.

"What's the ending for ALL humans in your world?"

Silence. He stood motionless, his face impenetrable.

"I've read books." My voice trembled, but I continued. "I know the stories. Folk tales. Legends. People who stay in the fae world either go mad or die. Slowly. Painfully. From longing. From loneliness. From the incompatibility of worlds."

Tears burned my eyes, but I didn't let them fall.

"And what will happen to me when I bore you?" Quieter, but harder. "Will I lose my mind? Go feral? Or just die from homesickness, locked in a golden cage?"

He was silent, looking with an impenetrable expression. Only a muscle twitched in his jaw.

"Tell me honestly." One last effort. "WHY do you need me? This isn't just spite. Not just a desire to harm Morphrost because of the rivalry between Courts."

I looked straight into his green eyes, trying to read the truth.

"There's something deeper. Something personal." My voice became quieter. "You have personal scores to settle. Don't you?"

Long silence. He stood motionless, arms crossed over his chest, studying me. The muscles in his arms tensed, stood out under tanned skin. Then slowly, very slowly, he smiled. But the smile didn't reach his eyes—they remained cold, full of old, aged hatred.

"Smarter than I thought." He nodded, almost with respect. "Yes. We have personal scores. Very personal."

He approached closer—slow, deliberate steps. The floorboards creaked under bare feet.

"Morphrost killed someone." His voice became harder, each word precise, like a knife strike. "Very important to me. A hundred years ago. During the last war between our Courts."

Hatred flared in his green eyes—bright, almost physically tangible.

"And since then I've been looking for a way to hurt him." His hands clenched into fists. "Real pain. Not just annoy him. Not just humiliate him. Break him."

The air in the room seemed to thicken, became heavier.

"And you..." His gaze slid over me appraisingly. "You're his prey. His hunt. His obsession."

A step closer.

"He wants you. Very much. I see it in the marks." His finger jabbed toward my neck. "Only those who are truly important are marked this strongly. Who have taken a place in thoughts, under skin, in the very heart of magic."

His smile became predatory.

"And if I take you. Make you mine. Before the whole court. Publicly." His eyes lit with anticipation. "It will cause him pain. Rage. Humiliation that he'll remember for centuries."

He leaned down, his lips almost touching my ear. His breath scorched my skin.

"You're a weapon. The perfect way to take revenge." He whispered. "That's why I need you. Direct. Honest. As you asked."

He pulled back, looked into my eyes. Triumph splashed in his green eyes—he was enjoying the moment of confession.

"But that doesn't mean I'll be cruel to you." His voice became softer. "On the contrary. The better you have it with me, the stronger his pain will be. Understand?"

His hand touched my cheek—warm, almost tender.

"The happier you look. The more you smile at my court. The more obvious it is that you CHOSE me over him..." A smile. "The more it will hurt him."

Goosebumps ran over my skin. Not from pleasure. From the horror of understanding.

"You... you're using me." My voice broke.

"Yes." Simply. Without apology. "But aren't you using me in return? Protection. Safety. Food. Shelter."

He released my face, stepped back.

"We're using each other. It's a fair deal."

Cold logic. Cruel. True.

My mind weakly protested, but the words stuck in my throat.

Pause. Silence pressed on my shoulders, on my chest—physically tangible.

"Who?" My voice came out quieter than I wanted. "Who did he kill?"

Oberon's face turned to stone. Muscles tensed under skin, his jaw clenched so hard that his jawbones protruded.

"That's not your..."

"You're using me to take revenge." I stepped closer, not looking away. "It IS my business. I have the right to know what I'm paying for."

Long silence. I saw the struggle going on inside him—should he open up to a mortal? To an instrument of revenge?

Then he exhaled. Heavily, painfully—the way one exhales when opening an old wound.

"My sister." Quietly. Almost a whisper, but each word distinct. "He killed my younger sister."

The pain in his voice was real—not feigned, not for show. Real, deep, centuries-old.

"She was..." He turned away, looking out the window, through the colored glass at the gardens outside. "Innocent. Kind. Not a warrior. Not a schemer. Just... good."

His hands clenched into fists so hard his knuckles turned white, nails dug into his palms.

"She loved flowers. Music. Dancing. She laughed so infectiously that the whole court smiled when she passed by." His voice trembled. "She was only a hundred and sixty years old. A child by our standards. Almost a child."

He turned sharply, and I saw in his green eyes hatred—pure, concentrated, aged by a century.

"And he..." His voice became harder, as if each word cut his throat. "He tore her apart. With ice magic. Into pieces. Slowly. For amusement. Before the eyes of the entire court. During peace negotiations."

The air froze. I stopped breathing.

"We came asking for peace. To end the war. I brought her as proof of good intentions—to show we weren't afraid, that we trusted." Bitterness in his voice burned. "And he... he used it as weakness."

Oberon ran his hand over his face. His fingers trembled—barely noticeably, but I saw.

"He said it was a lesson. So we'd remember who was stronger. Who controlled these lands." He smirked—viciously, without mirth. "A lesson? He killed an innocent girl for a lesson."

Silence hung heavy, like a shroud.

"That's why I want to hurt him." His voice became quieter, more dangerous. "Real pain. The kind he'll remember until the end of his immortal life. So that every time he looks at you next to me, he feels what I felt when I held her torn body in my arms."

Something inside me stirred. Not pity—no, not quite. But understanding. Pain recognizes pain. Revenge for a murdered sister. A wound that won't heal over centuries.

"As for the ending..." He sighed, looking away, his shoulders dropping slightly. "Your ending in my lands."

Cold honesty returned to his voice.

"You're right. Humans can't live here forever." He shrugged—the movement tired, almost human. "Sooner or later you'll begin to wither. To long. To dry up, like flowers without water. It's inevitable. Your souls are bound to your world, to short, fast life. Here you're like fish pulled onto dry land."

He looked at me, and something like regret splashed in his eyes.

"But you have a choice." His voice became harder, more confident. "If after some time you want to leave, return to your world—I'll let you go. Through the gates. Home. To your life."

I laughed. Shortly, bitterly, harshly—the laugh echoed with pain in my chest.

"Like you let me go to the Borderlands?" Straight into his eyes, not looking away. "You ALREADY lied. You promised to take me there, but brought me here. Why should I believe you now?"

Oberon's face didn't change. Not a hint of shame, of remorse.

"Then I had no reason to keep my promise." Cold logic. "You were no one's. Free prey. I could take you without consequences, without breaking laws."

Pause. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"But if you agree to my terms—you'll become mine officially. By contract. By magical contract." His voice became more confident. "And I don't break contracts. Ever. A fae king's word isn't just words. It's law. Magical law that binds me as tightly as it binds you."

He took a step closer, his gaze not leaving my eyes.

"If I break my word given in a contract—I'll lose power. Magic. Authority over the court." Harshly, clearly. "That's not a threat I take lightly. Understand? When I give my magical word—I'm bound by it absolutely."

Cold logic. Relentless. True.

"When I get what I want..." He continued calmly. "When I take revenge on Morphrost, when he sees you next to me, happy, content, having chosen me..." He shrugged. "I won't need you anymore. Why keep an unnecessary toy? Why risk magic for someone who's already played their role?"

He smirked—without warmth, but without cruelty either. Just a statement of fact.

"I'll let you go. Without conditions. Through the gates, back to your world. You'll return to your life. I'll get my revenge. Everyone will be satisfied."

I looked at him, trying to understand—was he lying or not. Reading fae is impossible. Their faces, voices—everything is controlled by centuries of practicing lies and truths woven so tightly you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

But the logic... the logic was iron.

His hand dropped, a final gesture.

"But until then you're mine. Under my protection. Safe from Morphrost." His voice became more confident. "Under my power, yes. But alive. Fed. Protected."

He turned toward the door, his movements smooth, unhurried—like someone who knows time is working for him.

"Think about it." He threw over his shoulder. "You have time. A night. Maybe more."

His hand landed on the door handle.

"And meanwhile..." He turned, green eyes glittered in the torchlight. "You'll starve. Here. Alone. Or you'll agree. And get food, comfort, safety. A warm bed. Protection from nightmares."

Pause. A smile—light, almost friendly, but cold.

"The choice is yours, darling. Always has been and will be."

The door opened soundlessly. He left, his movements unhurried, confident. Golden hair glittered in the last ray of light from the corridor.

The door closed. The lock clicked—quietly, but finally.

I was alone.

In a golden cage filled with the scent of roses and honey. Between two kings—one wants to break me, subjugate me, turn me into an obedient doll. The other—to use me as a weapon of revenge, a living reminder of pain.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, my legs gave way. My hands lay on my knees, fingers interlaced so tightly my knuckles turned white.

Silence pressed down. Hunger gnawed from within. Exhaustion weighed like a heavy blanket.

And I didn't know—absolutely didn't know—which option was worse.

I slowly lay on my side, pulling my knees to my chest. Soft pillows accepted my head, the silk coverlet chilled my skin through the thin dress.

I closed my eyes.

Tears burned, but I didn't let them fall.

Not now. Not here. Not for him.

***

A day passed. Or what seemed like a day in this cursed world where the sun never fully sets.

I sat by the window, hugging my knees, and looked at the gardens below. Beauty. Endless, perfect beauty. Flowers of every shade. Trees heavy with fruit. Fountains sparkling in the sun. Fae strolled along the avenues in light clothing, laughed and danced to music that came from somewhere far away.

Idyll.

And I sat in the tower, locked up, hungry and alone. My stomach cramped again.

There wasn't even water here. I'd searched the entire room. Nothing. Not a drop. My throat was parched. My lips cracked. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tried licking drops of condensation from the window, but the glass was dry and warm.

Magic. Even the air here obeyed magic.

The hours dragged endlessly. I lay on the bed, walked around the room, sat by the window. I tried not to think about food. About water. It didn't work.

My stomach contracted more and more strongly. My head began to spin. My limbs filled with weakness. I knew this was how it was designed. Oberon hadn't forgotten about me. Hadn't left me to die. He was pressing. Breaking my will. Forcing me to agree.

Classic torture—deprivation of basic needs.

And worst of all—knowing that food existed. Somewhere in this palace. Human food, safe for me. All I needed was to agree. Become his.

I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms.

No. I won't give in. Not so quickly. I have time. Four days until the seventh night. I'll hold out. I have to hold out.

***

Closer to evening the door opened. I jumped up from the bed, my heart beat faster. Oberon?

No.

A woman entered—that same Elaria, the captain of the guard. Golden hair braided, she wore a light tunic and trousers the color of foliage. In her hands—a tray.

The smell hit instantly.

Food. Warm bread. Roasted meat. Something sweet—pie or cake.

My mouth filled with saliva. My stomach cramped so hard I doubled over, clutching my stomach.

Elaria placed the tray on the table by the window, not looking at me. Mechanical, indifferent movements.

I stared at the tray, unable to look away. Bread—golden brown, with a crispy crust, steam rising from it. Meat—juicy, on the bone, with the aroma of spices and smoke. Fruit. Apples, pears, something like peaches. A pitcher. With water, probably. Or wine.

"Is this... is this from my world?"

My voice came out hoarse, as if someone else's.

Elaria finally looked at me. Her face cold, indifferent.

"No."

My heart sank.

"This is food from our world. The Summer Court. If you eat—you'll be bound. You won't be able to return."

Pause.

"But if you're hungry—eat. The king allowed me to offer it."

She turned toward the door.

"WAIT!"

She stopped, not turning around.

"Where... where's the human food? He said he had it!"

"He does. But you'll only get it if you agree to the king's offer."

She left. The door closed.

I was alone. With a tray of food three steps away from me.

I looked at the tray. Then at the closed door. Understanding came slowly but surely.

Oberon had said he had HUMAN food. For merchants. For diplomats. But he's sending me FAE food. On purpose. So I'd break faster. Choose between hunger and binding to this world.

Bastard.

He's not just using hunger as a weapon. He's using my very nature against me.

Fury flared—hot, cleansing. Does he think I'm that stupid? Does he think I'll break in one day?

No. No way.

The smell filled the room, penetrated my nostrils, drove me crazy. I approached closer. Slowly. My hands reached out on their own. The bread was warm. I felt the heat emanating from it. Just one piece. One small piece. Ease the hunger. Gather strength.

My fingers touched the crust.

NO.

I jerked my hand back as if from fire. Fae food. Would bind me to this world forever. I wouldn't be able to return home. Ever. Even if I survived until the seventh day, even if I reached the gates. They wouldn't open. Because I'd already be part of this world.

I stepped back from the table, pressing my hands to my chest.

I won't. I won't do it. Better hunger. Better thirst. But I'll go home. To Mom. To Chloe. To my life.

I turned my back, returned to the bed and lay down, pulling the blanket over my head. I closed my eyes. Don't look. Don't smell. Don't think.

But the smell seeped through. Persistent. Tempting. My stomach contracted more and more strongly.

I clamped my hand over my mouth, suppressing the urge to vomit.

Elise, hold on. Just hold on.

***

Another night passed. Or what I thought was night—it was impossible to tell time here. The sun shone always. Always.

I lay on the bed, curled up in a ball. Hunger had turned into a constant dull pain spreading through my entire body. My stomach clenched in spasms. My head spun. Weakness filled my limbs with lead.

The tray of food still stood on the table. The bread had hardened. The meat had cooled. But the smell remained—persistent, intrusive, maddening.

I won't. I won't.

The door opened again.

I didn't even lift my head. Let him. Let him come. Let him watch me die of hunger. I won't give in.

Footsteps approached. Light, almost soundless. The scent of honey and spices washed over me in a wave.

Oberon.

"Ellie." His voice soft, almost concerned. "You haven't touched the food."

Silence.

"Stubborn." A sigh. "Too stubborn for your own good."

I opened my eyes. Threw off the blanket. Sat up, meeting his gaze.

"Go away."

My voice came out hoarse—from thirst, from hunger. But firm.

He stood by the door, arms crossed over his chest, studying me. His green eyes shone in the semi-darkness—bright, almost glowing.

"How long will you hold out?" Calmly. Assessing. "A day? Two? Three?"

Pause. He tilted his head.

"Humans are weak. Your bodies can't survive long without water." Another step closer. "And without food."

He crouched down beside the bed so we were at eye level. His face close, too close. The honey scent enveloped me again.

"You're already weakening. I see it." His hand rose, touched my cheek—warm, soft. "Skin paling. Eyes losing their brightness. Lips cracking."

His thumb stroked my lower lip, the touch light as a feather.

"Soon you'll start losing consciousness. Hallucinating. The body will begin to shut down. Organs will fail."

He removed his hand, straightened up.

"And for what?" Louder now, harder. "Pride? Stubbornness? The illusion of freedom?"

Silence hung heavy between us.

"You have a choice." His voice became softer again, more persuasive. "Agree. Eat. Drink. Live. Or die here slowly, torturously, alone."

He walked to the table, picked up a piece of bread. Broke off a small piece. The crust crunched.

"It's simple." He held out the piece to me. "One bite. That's all. One bite, and the suffering ends."

I turned away, pressing my cheek into the pillow.

"I won't eat fae food."

"Then you'll die."

Simply. A statement of fact.

"So be it."

He was silent for a long moment. I heard his breathing—calm, even. Then footsteps toward the door.

"As you wish."

The door opened. Closed.

I was alone again.

***

Time blurred. I no longer knew if it was day or night. The light outside the window remained constant—that eternal golden glow.

Hunger turned into agony. My stomach cramped so violently I couldn't straighten up. My head pounded. My vision blurred at the edges. Weakness made even sitting up an effort.

Thirst was worse. Much worse. My throat burned. My tongue swollen, dry. Every swallow hurt. I tried licking my own lips—they were cracked, bleeding.

The tray still stood on the table. The food had gone cold. Hardened. But it was still there. Still edible.

All I had to do was reach out. Take it. Eat.

No.

I lay curled on my side, knees pulled to my chest, arms wrapped around my stomach. Trying to suppress the pain. It didn't work.

Mom. I thought of Mom. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she made pancakes on Sunday mornings, humming off-key.

Chloe. My best friend. Movie nights. Bad jokes. Her terrible karaoke.

Home. My apartment. My bed. My life.

I'm going back. I have to go back.

Even if it kills me.

The door opened again.

I didn't move. Didn't open my eyes. Let him come. Let him see what his manipulation had done.

But the footsteps were different. Lighter. Softer.

"Poor thing."

A woman's voice. Not Elaria. Someone else. Older, warmer.

I forced my eyes open. A woman stood beside the bed—middle-aged by human standards, though with fae it was impossible to tell. Silver hair braided around her head like a crown. Kind eyes the color of amber. Simple clothing—a long dress of cream-colored linen.

"Who...?"

My voice barely a whisper.

"Luthia." She said gently. "The one who dressed you when you arrived."

The servant. The one Oberon had mentioned.

She sat on the edge of the bed, studying me with concern.

"You're dying."

Simply stated. No dramatics.

"Good." The word scraped out. "Better than becoming his."

Her expression softened with something like pity.

"Child, you don't understand what you're choosing."

"I understand perfectly." I tried to sit up, failed. My arms wouldn't support me. "Freedom or slavery. I choose freedom."

"Freedom?" She shook her head sadly. "You think starving to death in a locked room is freedom?"

"Better than being his whore."

The word came out harsh, bitter.

Luthia didn't flinch.

"The king is not cruel." Her voice remained gentle. "He keeps his word. I've served him for three centuries. Never once has he broken a magical contract."

"He already lied to me once."

"Before you were bound by contract." She leaned closer. "Now it would be different. Magical law would protect you as much as bind you."

I laughed—a weak, broken sound.

"Protect me? He wants to use me as a weapon against Morphrost."

"Yes." She didn't deny it. "But that doesn't mean he'll harm you. In fact, quite the opposite."

Her hand touched my forehead—cool, soothing.

"You'll be fed. Clothed. Safe. You'll live in comfort. And when his revenge is complete, he'll let you go home. That's his word."

"His word means nothing to me."

"Then you'll die here." Simply. "Within another day, perhaps two. Your body is already shutting down."

Silence.

She stood, smoothing her dress.

"I'll tell the king you refused." A pause at the door. "I'm sorry, child. I wish there was another way."

She left.

The door closed.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling. The golden light hurt my eyes, but I didn't have the strength to look away.

Mom. Chloe. Home.

I'm sorry. I tried.

My eyes closed.

***

I dreamed.

Or maybe I was dying and this was what death felt like.

Cold. Spreading through my body like ice in water. Starting at my fingertips, creeping up my arms. My legs. My torso.

Darkness at the edges of my vision, closing in like a tunnel.

A voice. Distant. Familiar.

"Elise."

Not Oberon. Someone else.

"Elise, fight."

I tried to open my eyes. Couldn't. Too heavy. Everything too heavy.

"You're stronger than this."

The voice wrapped around me—cold and warm at the same time. Like winter sun through a window.

"Don't let him win. Don't let either of them win."

Morphrost?

"Remember who you are."

The cold intensified. But it wasn't painful. It was... clarifying. Like ice water on a fevered brow.

"You're not prey. You're not a weapon. You're—"

The voice cut off.

Everything went dark.

***

I woke to wetness on my lips.

Water.

My mouth opened reflexively, desperately. More water trickled in—cool, clean, blessed. I swallowed. Choked. Swallowed again.

"Easy." A male voice. Deep. Commanding. "Slowly."

My eyes fluttered open.

Oberon knelt beside the bed, holding a cup to my lips. His face was tight, jaw clenched. Something flickered in his green eyes—anger? Concern?

He tilted the cup again. I drank. Greedily. Water had never tasted so good.

"Not too much." He pulled the cup away. "You'll be sick."

I tried to grab it back. My hands shook, weak as a newborn's.

"More."

"In a moment."

He set the cup on the bedside table, then studied me. His gaze traveled over my face, my body. Assessing damage.

"You almost died."

Simply stated.

"Good."

His jaw tightened further.

"Stubborn fool." Low, dangerous. "You would have died rather than accept help."

"It wasn't help." My voice was a rasp. "It was a trap."

"It was survival!"

The words came out harsh, almost a shout. His control slipping.

He stood abruptly, paced to the window. Stood with his back to me, shoulders tense.

"You would have let yourself die." Quieter now, but no less intense. "For what? Pride?"

"Freedom."

He spun around.

"There is no freedom!" His eyes blazed. "Don't you understand? Morphrost will find you. Anywhere. Everywhere. The only way you survive is under someone's protection. His or mine."

Silence.

"At least with me, you get a choice in how you're treated." His voice dropped. "At least with me, you'll be safe. Fed. Allowed to go home when this is done."

He approached the bed again, looked down at me.

"With him?" A bitter laugh. "You'll be broken. Remade. A doll in his frozen court, with no will, no memory of who you were."

His hand clenched into a fist.

"I'm offering you survival. Comfort. A way home eventually." His eyes met mine. "What is he offering? Pain and slavery eternal."

I stared up at him, too weak to do anything else.

He was right. Part of me knew he was right.

But the other part—the part that still fought, still resisted—whispered: *They're both cages. Just different bars.*

"I need..." My voice failed. I swallowed, tried again. "I need time. To think."

He studied me for a long moment.

Then nodded.

"You have until tomorrow night." He turned toward the door. "After that, I withdraw my offer. You can take your chances with Morphrost."

At the door, he paused.

"The water is from your world. Safe. I'll have Luthia bring more. And human food. So you can think clearly."

He looked back at me.

"Make the right choice, Elise."

The door closed behind him.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, water cool in my belly.

Tomorrow night.

One day to decide between two monsters.

One day to choose which cage I'd live in.

If I could even call it living.