The wagon jolts over uneven stone, its wheels groaning beneath the weight. A heavy tarp plunges Stella and Astrid into suffocating darkness. The air reeks of rust and sweat, mingled with the sickly rot clinging to the undead horses. Stella wraps her arm around Astrid, pulling the trembling girl close. Each hiccup that shakes Astrid's small frame cuts through Stella like a blade.
The dark elves' voices rise and fall in guttural rhythm outside, their words slipping past like smoke—incomprehensible, yet heavy with meaning. A sudden jolt rocks the cage, and Astrid whimpers, her fingers clutching at Stella's torn dress. Then, as the ride smooths, exhaustion claims the child. Her breathing evens out, and she falls asleep against Stella's side.
In the blackness, Stella works carefully. Her fingers find the yellow ribbon woven through Astrid's hair—the one the girl had worn every day since her mother braided it for her last birthday. Stella slips it free and pushes it through the bars, letting it fall to the road below. Next, she retrieves her bent leaf pin, the only possession she has left from home. With painstaking care, she carves her "secret sun" into Astrid's worn boot—two overlapping circles connected by a line. The symbol her father had shown her years ago, before everything changed. She drops the boot beside the ribbon, her heart hammering.
"Please… find them," she whispers into the darkness, though she doesn't know who might be listening.
The wagon rolls on, indifferent to her prayer.
Eventually it stops. The tarp is yanked away without warning. Bright torchlight stabs Stella's eyes, and she shields them with her bound hands, blinking against the sudden assault of color and movement.
They have arrived in Anym Themar—a vast cavern-city that steals her breath. Waterfalls roar into black rivers threading through polished basalt floors. Crystal spires fracture torchlight into rainbow shards that dance across stone walls. Angular towers glow with pulsing yellow light, their purpose mysterious and unsettling. Thick vines drape from the ceiling far above—wounded branches of Yggdrasil bleeding life into this underworld, their leaves shimmering with an otherworldly luminescence.
The city sprawls outward in dizzying complexity: narrow streets wind between tiered dwellings overflowing with bioluminescent moss, and market stalls huddle beneath black silk canopies. Dark elves in elegant gowns glide through crowds with practiced grace. A wood-elf dancer spins on a platform, her movements fluid and hypnotic. An Ashanti stands chained nearby, his massive frame diminished by defeat, head bowed in submission. A scarred human watches the scene with cold disconnection, as if he has long since stopped feeling anything at all.
"Wow… she's beautiful," Astrid whispers, her voice small and awed despite their circumstances.
Stella follows the girl's gaze to where Cyprus—Yuggul's shadow in midnight-blue silk—approaches a booth. Behind the counter, Irthirel rubs his neck nervously, his pointed ears twitching.
"To earn that tax will take six months," Irthirel says, his voice tight with desperation. "I need more time."
"Pay, or close," Yuggul replies, his tone flat and final.
Cyprus gestures toward the cage with one elegant hand. "Fresh slaves. Two human girls."
Irthirel's face lights with relief, the tension draining from his shoulders.
Yuggul turns toward the cage. His gaze sweeps over Astrid, then locks on Stella. The world seems to narrow to just that moment.
He pauses. His breathing changes, becoming slower, more deliberate. The red glow in his eyes brightens, intensifies. He sees it—Stella can tell from the way his expression shifts. A faint pulse beneath her collar. The birthmark she has hidden her entire life.
His head tilts, studying her with an intensity that makes her skin crawl.
"Thirty gold Solari," he says, his voice carrying a new weight.
"Done," Irthirel replies quickly, already counting coins with trembling fingers.
Yuggul steps closer to the cage. A rich scent reaches Stella—aged leather, dark amber, spiced myrrh. It's intoxicating and wrong, making her head swim.
"I'll take the young woman," he says, never breaking eye contact with Stella. "Consider your debts cleared once she's mine."
Cyprus shrugs with casual indifference. "The child's your problem now."
The words take a moment to register. Then horror floods through Stella.
She lunges for Astrid, her shackles clanking. Cyprus yanks the girl away with brutal efficiency. Stella breaks free from the guard's grip and sprints after them, her bare feet slapping against cold stone.
Bright blue light strikes her back. Pain explodes through her body—white-hot, consuming, turning her muscles to water. She collapses, her cheek hitting the ground hard enough to split skin.
Astrid's screams fade as Cyprus drags her inside a building. The cage door slams with terrible finality.
The procession moves on. Astrid disappears into the crowd, her small form swallowed by the city's indifferent masses.
Guilt crashes over Stella like a physical weight, crushing the air from her lungs. She sees her mother's face, axe in hand, charging toward the dark elves with fierce determination. Her father's disappointed gaze as she mocked his warnings. Astrid's trusting eyes, believing Stella would keep her safe.
*I should have stayed. I should have fought harder. I should have been braver.*
The birthmark burns beneath her collar—sharp, insistent, as if responding to her anguish. She presses her palm to it, feeling the heat pulse against her skin.
"Freya… protect her," she whispers, her voice breaking. "Give me the courage to find her. Please."
No answer comes. The goddess remains silent, as she always has.
Stella curls on the cold stone, her body shaking with sobs she can no longer contain. The city moves around her, indifferent to her suffering. Voices rise and fall in languages she doesn't understand. Torchlight flickers across her prone form. Her shackles clink softly with each tremor that runs through her.
She sees her mother charging the dark elves, sword raised high. *Everything will be alright,* she had said, her voice gentle and desperate. The lie had been a kindness, a final gift before the end.
A sob tears out of Stella's throat, raw and animal. *I should have stayed. I should have died with them.*
And Astrid—dragged away screaming, her small hands reaching through bars Stella could not break, could not even shake. The image sears itself into her mind, joining all the other failures.
The birthmark pulses faster, as if answering her pain with its own rhythm.
*Why didn't you help me? Why did you mark me if you won't protect those I love?*
She remembers her father's shadowed eyes the last time she saw him, the way he rode away without looking back after she had mocked his faith. *I shamed him. I threw his love back in his face.*
The guilt roots deeper, spreading through her chest like poison. She rocks forward, tears dripping between her fingers, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Above, the city continues its eternal dance. Laughter rings from a balcony where dark elves toast their fortunes. Hooves clatter past on the street. Merchants call out their wares. None of it touches her. She is invisible in her grief.
"I'm sorry," she whispers to the uncaring stone. "I'm so sorry."
To Ossi, who deserved a better daughter. To Astrid, who trusted the wrong protector. To Gartheride, burning in her memory. To the girl she used to be, before she learned what true helplessness felt like.
The birthmark pulses once more—slow, steady, almost gentle. Like a heartbeat that isn't quite her own.