The new cell smelled of clean straw and old stone.
Not the rust and damp rot of the lower level, not the faint sweetness of honey that had clung to the previous walls. This air was dry, almost crisp, carrying the faint mineral bite of underground water and the distant, clean scent of pine resin from somewhere far above. The straw mattress beneath her was fresh—too fresh. It crackled when she shifted, releasing small puffs of dust that caught the thin gray light from the high slit window. That light was the worst part. It was pale, cold, cavern-light, not sunlight, but it was light, and it touched her face like a hand she didn't want.
The clay pitcher on the table held water that tasted faintly of moss. The bowl beside it held bread, cheese, dried apples, a small clay pot of honey. All untouched.
Stella sat on the edge of the mattress, knees drawn up, bare feet on the cold floor. The linen shift was still damp at the hems from the bath. She could still feel the rough cloth the women had used—Lira's trembling hands, Kess's careful fingers, Mara's steady, ungentle scrubbing. They hadn't spoken much after the first warnings, but their presence had been… solid. Human. Not like the collar around her throat, which never forgot it was there.
She pressed her palm to it. The sigil—his tree—felt warm against her skin, almost pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She hated how familiar the sensation had become.
Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the old kitchen.
Ossi at the long table, sleeves rolled to her elbows, braid swinging as she kneaded dough. The scent of yeast and butter, the rhythmic thump of her hands, the soft clink of the wooden spoon against the side of the mixing bowl. Stella remembered standing in the doorway, arms crossed, refusing to help because she was angry about something trivial—another scolding from Gartheride, another rule she'd broken. Ossi had looked up, flour dusting her cheek like snow, and said, "Come here, girl. Knead with me. Anger makes tough bread."
Stella had refused.
Ossi had sighed, but not in defeat—only in the patient way mothers do when they know the lesson will arrive later.
She'd finished the loaf, scored it with a quick cross, slid it into the oven.
When it came out, golden and steaming, she'd broken off a piece and pressed it into Stella's hand without a word.
Stella had eaten it anyway.
It was the best bread she'd ever tasted.
Now the bread on the table was plain, dense, no herbs folded into the crumb.
She stared at it.
Her stomach growled—loud, traitorous.
She ignored it.
Her fingers found the hem of the shift, tracing the rough weave.
Ossi had sewn her dresses.
Not just mended—made them.
Late nights by candlelight, needle flashing, humming old songs about the World Tree and the fires of Muspelheimr.
Stella remembered the feel of Ossi's callused fingers smoothing the fabric against her shoulders, the way she'd tug the hem straight and say, "There. Now you look like my daughter, not some wild thing from the woods."
The dress she'd arrived in was gone.
Torn, bloodied, reeking of smoke and fear.
They'd taken it away with the bathwater.
She hadn't even asked to keep a scrap.
She wished she had.
Her thoughts slid to Gartheride.
Not the angry man who'd sent Elrik away, not the father who'd locked her door.
The man who'd once lifted her onto his shoulders so she could reach the highest apple on the tree.
The man who'd scolded her for climbing too high, then quietly checked her knees for scrapes when she came down.
The man who'd stood in the doorway of her chamber after the scandal, face thunderous, but eyes wet.
He hadn't said much—just, "You're still my daughter."
Then he'd left.
She'd hated him for it.
Hated the way he made her feel small, trapped, like a horse he was trying to break.
Now she wondered if he'd been afraid.
Afraid she'd leave.
Afraid she'd never come back.
Afraid the world would take her the way it had taken so many others.
She pressed her palm to the collar again.
The sigil was warm—almost feverish.
She wondered if he knew she was alive.
If he'd found Ossi's body.
If he blamed himself.
If he blamed her.
Astrid's face rose next—small, round, always smiling even when she was scared.
The way she'd hide behind Stella's skirts when Gartheride was angry.
The way she'd whisper secrets in the dark, breath warm against Stella's ear.
The way she'd cried when Elrik left, clutching Stella's hand and saying, "He was nice. Why did Papa send him away?"
Stella's throat closed.
She hadn't answered.
She'd just held Astrid until the crying stopped.
She hadn't protected her.
Hadn't even said goodbye properly.
Had stormed out after the last fight, left them all behind.
Now Astrid was somewhere in chains, somewhere dark, somewhere he could reach her.
The bread stared back at her.
She reached for it—slow, deliberate—then stopped.
Her fingers hovered above the crust.
She couldn't eat something that wasn't poisoned with memory.
Not yet.
The collar hummed—low, warning.
She froze.
Footsteps in the corridor.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Not Winfried's careful tread.
Not a guard's impatient stride.
Her heart skipped.
Three days.
She'd forgotten.
Three days had passed.
The lock turned.
Yuggul stepped in.
He wore no cloak tonight—just a simple black tunic, sleeves rolled to the elbow, silver hair unbound and falling past his shoulders like liquid moonlight. The lizard perched on his shoulder, red eyes glinting. He carried nothing—no tray, no chains, no visible weapon. Only himself.
The door closed behind him.
The lock clicked.
He looked at the untouched bread.
Then at her.
"You haven't eaten."
His voice was soft.
Almost gentle.
Stella's mouth was dry.
She didn't answer.
He crossed the room—slow, unhurried.
Sat on the stool opposite her.
The lizard hissed once, then settled, tail curling around his neck like a necklace.
"You have questions," he said.
"I'll answer one.
Choose carefully."
Stella stared at him.
The collar hummed louder—warm against her throat, almost eager.
She swallowed.
Then spoke, voice raw.
"Where is my sister?"
Yuggul tilted his head.
A small smile curved his lips—not cruel, not kind.
Just… satisfied.
"Safe," he said.
"For now."
He leaned forward slightly.
The lizard's tongue flicked out, tasting the air between them.
"But she misses you," he added.
"She keeps asking for Stella.
I tell her Stella is learning her new name.
She doesn't understand yet.
She will."
Stella's hands clenched in her lap.
The leaf pin dug into her palm—small, sharp, real.
Yuggul watched her.
Patient.
Unblinking.
"You may ask another tomorrow," he said.
"If you eat tonight."
He stood.
Turned to leave.
At the door he paused.
Looked back.
"Belinda."
The name landed like a stone in still water.
The collar pulsed—once, hot, approving.
He left.
The lock clicked.
Stella stared at the bread.
Then she reached for it—slow, deliberate.
Broke off a piece.
Put it in her mouth.
It tasted like ash.
Like regret.
Like everything she'd lost.
She chewed anyway.
Because Astrid was waiting.
And Stella wasn't done fighting.
Not yet.