Esmeralda did not return to the palace.
She fled it.
The moment the Black Hollow sealed and the crowd scattered—still whispering Lena's name like a curse—Esmeralda turned on her heel, skirts snapping like banners in a storm. Her jaw was clenched so tightly her teeth ached. Every step away from the court felt like swallowing fire.
Unwritten, they said.
Chosen, the beasts had answered.
Protected—by the Hollow itself.
Her fingers dug into her palms.
No.
No one took what was meant for her.
The carriage ride was a blur of rattling wheels and snarled orders. She didn't sit—she paced inside the enclosed space like a caged animal, ripping off her gloves, smearing her makeup, nails scratching furrows into lacquered wood. Each jolt of the road sharpened the image burned into her mind: Kairos' eyes, no longer bored, no longer dismissive—interested.
Interested in that girl.
When the carriage finally lurched to a stop, Esmeralda threw the door open herself.
The witch's dwelling crouched at the edge of the lowlands where the fog never lifted. It wasn't a hut—too permanent, too deliberate. Stone and bone intertwined, talismans hanging from iron hooks, charms clicking together like teeth. The air smelled of rot and incense and old blood.
"Come out," Esmeralda snapped, boots sinking into damp earth. "I know you're awake."
Silence.
Then the door creaked open.
The witch stood framed by shadow, her face half-hidden beneath layers of veils and silver chains. One eye glowed faintly blue; the other was clouded, blind but watching all the same.
"You reek of court," the witch crooned. "And failure."
Esmeralda laughed—a brittle, breaking sound. "Careful."
"Or what?" the witch asked softly. "You'll curse me? You don't have the spine."
Esmeralda surged forward and grabbed the witch by the collar, slamming her into the stone wall with a crack that sent charms rattling wildly.
"I will not be replaced," she hissed. "Not by a mud-stained maid. Not by a thing that doesn't even have a mark."
The witch's smile widened.
"So," she murmured. "You've seen her."
Esmeralda froze.
"You know," she breathed.
"I know many things," the witch replied. "Enough to warn you—this path ends badly."
Esmeralda released her, stepping back as if burned. Her voice trembled—not with fear, but fury. "I want a mark."
The fog thickened.
The witch's glowing eye sharpened. "That is not a request. That is a death wish."
"I don't care," Esmeralda snapped. "I want a mark beneath my skin—one that looks exactly like the mark bearer's. Same placement. Same resonance. Same pull."
The witch laughed then, low and mirthless. "You don't understand what you're asking for. Marks are not decorations. They are contracts."
"I don't want fate," Esmeralda said coldly. "I want the illusion of it."
The witch studied her for a long moment, then turned and gestured for Esmeralda to follow. Reluctantly, she did.
Inside, the air was thick and heavy. Candles burned with green flames. Jars lined the walls—things floating inside that Esmeralda refused to identify. At the center of the room stood a shallow basin carved from black stone, its surface etched with symbols that hurt to look at too long.
"You want to steal a shadow," the witch said. "But shadows bite."
"I'm listening," Esmeralda replied tightly.
The witch poured a dark liquid into the basin. It steamed, releasing whispers—broken, overlapping, desperate. She sliced her palm and let blood drip in, the liquid turning a violent violet.
"This mark you seek," she continued, "will not answer you. It will pretend. It will echo. It will draw attention from things you do not want watching you."
"Good," Esmeralda said. "Let them look."
The witch turned sharply. "If you do this, the real bearer will feel it. Not pain—disturbance. You will tie yourself to her thread."
Esmeralda's lips curled. "Even better."
Silence fell.
Finally, the witch exhaled slowly. "Very well. But hear me clearly, princess."
She stepped close, voice dropping to a whisper.
"If you wear a false mark, fate will test you as if it were real. You will bleed as if chosen. Suffer as if claimed. And when the truth is revealed—"
She tapped Esmeralda's chest lightly.
"—you will not survive the reckoning."
Esmeralda met her gaze without flinching.
"Do it."
The witch sighed, almost regretful. "Then lie down."
As Esmeralda stretched out on the cold stone table, the witch began to chant—old words, wrong words, words that made the candles gutter and scream. The basin glowed violently, light crawling like veins along the floor.
When the witch pressed the sigil into Esmeralda's skin, she screamed.
The sound tore through the fog, through the lowlands, through the unseen threads of fate itself.
Far away, in the palace—
Lena flinched.
Ashikai's ears flattened as he lifted his head sharply. Something just lied, he murmured. And the world noticed.
Esmeralda arched on the table, eyes wild, teeth bared in triumph as the false mark burned itself into place.
"Now," she gasped, laughing through tears, "let her try to take this from me."
Outside, the fog twisted—uneasy.
Fate did not laugh this time.
It watched.