The Collar
The days grew longer, and spring warmed the village. The wolf-girl was now able to stand again, even walk short distances on her own. Her steps were still unsteady, but there was life in her eyes once more.
Marion watched her as she sat in the yard, letting the sun warm her face. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply, and for a moment she looked peaceful.
But there was that thing around her neck.
The collar, cold and hard, shimmered in the light. Runes were carved into it — symbols Marion did not understand, yet he knew: it was a magical seal.
Whenever he looked at her, his gaze lingered on it. It bothered him. It shattered the illusion that he had "saved" her.
One evening they sat by the fire. He brought her a piece of bread; she took it silently. As she bit into it, he saw how the collar made swallowing difficult. Marion bit his lip.
"Does it hurt?" he suddenly asked.
She lifted her head, blinking. "What?"
"The collar. Does it hurt?"
She placed a hand on it, running her fingers over the surface. "Always. It presses. But… it's worse when I disobey. Then it burns."
Marion stared at her. "Burns?"
She nodded. "It tightens. Like hands choking you. It makes you weak until you can't do anything anymore."
He felt his stomach twist. So… she's still a prisoner. Even if she's with me.
Later, he lay on his straw mattress, staring into the darkness. What have I done? Did I really save her? Or did I just… buy her?
Doubt gnawed at him. He had imagined himself a hero — the boy who saved a life. But was he truly better than the others if she still wore that collar?
The Mother Raises Her Voice
For the first weeks, things had remained quiet. The girl had lain in bed, Marion had cared for her, and his parents had kept silent. But eventually, his mother's patience snapped.
One morning she stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, her eyes fixed hard on Marion.
"Tell me," she began, "what exactly is this supposed to be? Your little friend lies around the house all day. Eats our bread, drinks our water — and doesn't lift a finger."
Marion flinched. "She… she's still weak."
His mother snorted. "Weak? Weak isn't an excuse. A slave who eats must also work. In the fields, in the house, like all the others. Otherwise this isn't a home — it's a madhouse."
His father said nothing, chewing lazily on a piece of bread, but there was agreement in his eyes.
"You're sick, Marion," his mother continued, her voice rising. "If you think she's anything other than livestock, you're fooling yourself. She'll toil like every slave. Otherwise take her back to the pit."
The words struck him like a blow. He looked at the girl — she sat quietly in the corner, her ears slightly lowered, her hands folded in her lap. No protest, no resistance. Only that faint trembling of her lips that stirred pity in him.
"She'll help," he stammered. "I… I'll talk to her."
That same afternoon, he led her out to the field. The sun burned down, the grass stood tall.
"You have to… help," he said, trying to sound firm. "Otherwise… otherwise my parents will say you can't stay here."
The wolf-girl nodded quietly. She reached for the scythe, her movements clumsy but determined. After only a few minutes, her arms trembled, her cuts uneven, barely effective. Yet she looked at him — a faint, brave smile on her lips.
"Is this better?" she whispered.
Marion's heart tightened. He took the tool from her, wiped the sweat from her forehead. "You're doing well. I… I'll help you."
She let him support her, leaning slightly against him. For a moment, he felt needed — almost like in a dream.
From then on, she helped with small tasks. Washing bowls, carrying water, sorting grain. Awkward, slow — but always with that look in her eyes, half grateful, half shy.
In the evenings, they often sat by the fire, and she would lean a little closer.
"You're different from the others," she whispered. "You really see me."
Each time, his heart beat faster. He felt seen. Wanted.
At night, Marion lay awake. The collar around her neck glinted in the firelight from the hearth. He hated it. He imagined taking it off, imagined her truly embracing him — not because she had to, but because she wanted to.
The next morning he saw her again in the yard. She knelt, washing bowls as his mother had instructed. The collar gleamed in the sunlight, as if mocking him.
Marion stepped closer. "If you were free… would you leave?"
For a moment, there was silence. She placed her hand on the collar, as if to feel it herself. Then she slowly lifted her gaze to him.
Her yellow eyes looked dull, almost gentle. A faint smile passed over her face.
"No," she whispered. "I would stay."
Warmth filled Marion's chest, his knees grew weak. He felt tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and nodded eagerly. "Thank you… thank you."
She lowered her head, as if embarrassed.
Fantasies in the Dust
The sun set over the village, bathing it in red light. Marion sat in the yard while the wolf-girl drew water from the well.
Marion knew what people were thinking. They were already whispering when he walked beside her. "The boy is sick."
He heard the words, even if he pretended not to. And he knew: if he ever truly made her his companion, the world would tear him apart.
The Church of Light taught that beastfolk were filth. Whoever loved them — or worse, had children with them — was considered a heretic, worse than a murderer. Marion was no fool. He knew that his place in this world was not at her side.
And yet… his heart pounded when she looked at him. When she smiled gratefully, as if he were her savior.
If I leave with her… far away from here… into the forests, into another kingdom…
The thought grew inside him. A life outside the rules, far from watchful eyes. The two of them against the world.
No one would find us. No one would judge us. She would be with me. Only with me.
He imagined them living together in a hut in the woods. He would belong to her, and she would belong only to him. No mockery, no collar — just freedom.
Or… at least a kind of it.
Because sometimes he imagined other things as well. Nights when she could not escape him, when she was his because he had saved her. Then the collar was not a chain, but a promise.
He was torn between the fantasy of being a savior and the urge to possess. Between the desire to grant her freedom — and the dark, gnawing feeling of keeping her, because otherwise she would belong to no one.
One night, as she slept beside the fire, he whispered into the darkness:
"If we stay here… they'll separate us. But if we run… if we simply disappear… then you'll belong only to me."
She turned in her sleep. He took it as a sign, as if she had heard him.
His fantasy took shape: not a family in the village, not recognition from the townsfolk — but a forbidden, hidden life. Him against the world, with her at his side.
Closeness
The days grew warmer, and with them the girl seemed to grow stronger. She went with Marion to the well, washed bowls, carried small baskets. Still slow, still clumsy — but she did it, and that was enough to make his heart beat faster.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, she moved closer. Her fur glowed reddish in the flames, her yellow eyes soft.
"Thank you," she whispered, barely audible. "Without you… I wouldn't be here anymore."
Marion swallowed, his throat dry. "I only did what was right."
She shook her head and suddenly placed her hand on his. "No. You're different. You see me. No one else would."
His heart raced. He wanted to pull his hand away, but he couldn't. Her touch was warm, gentle — and yet stronger than any chain.
From then on, she sought his closeness more often. When he bent down, she stood close behind him. When he explained something, she acted as if she were fascinated. And again and again she gave him small smiles — faint, almost shy, but always so that he would notice.
One night, while the wind howled around the house, she sat down beside him on the straw bedding.
"Marion," she breathed, "if you set me free… I will stay with you. Forever."
He froze. His eyes searched hers, and he saw no fear, no mistrust — only the image he wanted to see: devotion. Gratitude. Perhaps even love.
"But… the collar," he stammered. "It protects… it keeps you here."
She leaned closer, her forehead almost touching his. "I don't need a chain to stay with you."
That was what he needed to hear.
The next days he moved as if in a haze. He no longer saw the collar as restraint, but as an insult. Every sound it made reminded him that she trusted him — and that he did not trust her.
If I remove it… she'll be free. And she said she'll stay. She'll stay with me.
He struggled with himself. At night he lay awake, sweating, staring into the darkness. During the day he watched her stack wood, carry baskets, smiling at him again and again.
Finally, he couldn't bear it anymore.
It was evening, the fire crackling. She sat on the bench, the iron around her neck glinting dully.
Marion stepped toward her and sat down beside her. His hands trembled as he reached for the collar.
"I… I want to trust you," he murmured.
Her eyes flashed for a moment, but she lowered her gaze as if moved. "Then… show me."
He pulled at the clasp. Runes flickered, glowing like tiny burn marks. A hiss, a brief pain in his fingers — but he did not let go. With a sharp jerk, it sprang open — and the collar fell to the ground.
The wolf-girl inhaled deeply and rubbed her neck. She looked at him — a faint smile on her lips.
"Thank you, Marion."
He smiled back in relief, tears rising in his eyes. "Now… now you're free. But… stay with me, okay?"
She placed her hand against his cheek, gentle, almost tender. "Of course."
But in her eyes was something he did not see. Something cold. Something that had always been there.
While he believed himself the hero in that moment, she knew her time had come.
The chain had fallen.
The restraint was broken.
The Betrayal
The night was silent. Only the crackling of the fire and the distant chirping of insects filled the darkness. Marion sat beside her, his gaze still fixed on the collar lying on the ground. It looked so insignificant now that it no longer rested around her neck. As insignificant as his former life.
"Now you're free," he whispered, almost reverently. "And still… you're staying with me."
The wolf-girl looked at him. For a moment, there was softness in her gaze, and Marion believed he had done it: he had saved her, she had chosen him. He, the nobody, was finally somebody.
But then her smile changed. It widened, hardened. The warmth drained from her eyes, leaving nothing but naked coldness.
"You fool."
Marion blinked. "W… what?"
She rose to her feet, stretching her limbs as if she were breathing truly for the first time in weeks. Her voice was clear now, steadier than ever before.
"You really thought I would stay with you? You're like all humans — stupid and weak."
He stepped back, heart racing. "But… I saved you! I… I—"
She laughed bitterly. "Saved me? You bought me. Fed me like a dog. And thought that was love."
Her eyes gleamed in the firelight, yellow and merciless.
"You just wanted me for yourself. But me? I wanted to be free."
Marion stood, stumbling backward. "Please… I only wanted to help."
"Help?" Her voice turned into a growl. "Your help was nothing but selfishness."
Then she leapt.
Claws shot forth, flashing in the red glow. She tore him to the ground. Marion screamed, trying to fight back, but she was faster. Her teeth sank into his shoulder; warm blood sprayed.
"No! Stop!" He gasped for air, feeling his skin rip open. He saw her face above him, twisted with hatred.
"You are nothing," she panted between bites. "A nobody."
Her claws dug into his chest. He felt his body split open, blood hot against his skin. Pain burned; every breath was agony.
"Why?" he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.
She leaned down close enough that he felt her hot breath on his face.
"Because you humans always think you're saviors. When in truth, you're the real monsters."
Her teeth closed around his throat. A sharp jerk —
—and the world sank into darkness.
Silence.
Then… a breath. A twitch. His eyes opened again.
He was no longer lying on the floor of the house, but outside, somewhere at the edge of the forest. The pain was gone, his body uninjured. Yet the image of her tearing him apart burned itself indelibly into his memory.
Marion gasped for air and pushed himself upright.
"I… I died. But… I'm alive?"
His hands trembled. He didn't know how or why — only that he was still here.
But deep inside him, a bitter realization took root:
Never trust a beastfolk again.