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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…"