The Hollow Pact

Chapter 7: The Collar

The smaller hound’s fur was coarse under Sylra’s fingers, each strand stiff with frost and dried blood. She worked with practiced precision, pulling back the thick ruff at its neck.

“Hold the head,” she said.

Ronan frowned but crouched beside her, gripping the creature’s muzzle in both hands. It was still warm—barely—and the heat leached into his palms like a reminder of how close those teeth had come to his throat.

Sylra slid her fingers deeper into the fur. The smell was sharp and wrong: iron, wet leather, and something acrid beneath it. She found the first sign of what she was looking for—a narrow strip of hide worn smooth by friction.

“Here,” she murmured, parting the fur to reveal a thin leather collar.

Ronan’s grip tightened. “That’s not a wild hound’s gear.”

“No.” She took her knife and slipped the point under the strap, slicing it clean. It came away with a wet sound where it had stuck to the creature’s skin.

The collar was blackened, stiff with old sweat and blood. In the firelight, faint lines shimmered across its surface—symbols carved deep into the leather, filled with some metallic dust that caught the light like frost.

Ronan’s stomach turned. “Binding runes.”

Sylra glanced at him, one brow arched. “You know them?”

“I’ve seen enough in Castor’s kennels.” He took the collar from her, turning it over. The runes weren’t just for obedience. They carried something else—a scent anchor. His scent.

He swore under his breath.

Sylra didn’t move. “They were sent for you.”

The words weren’t a question.

He didn’t answer right away. The truth sat heavy in his chest, tasting like old iron.

Sylra’s gaze sharpened. “What did you do to earn a death mark from Castor?”

Ronan looked at the collar again. “It’s not a death mark.”

“No?”

“It’s a hunting tether. They don’t stop until they’ve found the one they’re bound to.”

Her mouth thinned. “So they’ll send more.”

“Yes.”

The silence between them thickened, not with hesitation this time, but calculation. She wasn’t afraid. That was the strange part. Most people, faced with the idea of endless cursed beasts tracking them through the forest, would already be running.

Instead, she asked, “Why would Castor waste his best trackers on you when he could just send a blade to your throat in the night?”

Ronan’s jaw tightened. “Because killing me isn’t enough.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

He set the collar down on the stone floor and leaned back, running a hand over his face. “The curse isn’t an accident. He wants me to survive—barely. Wants me chased, starved, weakened. Wants to watch me break before I die.”

Sylra studied him for a long moment. Then she said, “So he’s patient.”

“He’s thorough,” Ronan corrected. “And if he knows you’re with me—”

“He doesn’t,” she cut in. “Not yet.”

The way she said it made him look at her differently. “You’re certain?”

“I keep my movements quiet. And I’ve stayed out of his reach for years.”

The fire popped sharply between them.

Ronan gestured to the hound’s body. “These things don’t just track scent. If they’ve picked up on the curse, it’ll pull them to me faster than any trail in the snow. I need to be moving.”

Sylra straightened slowly, wiping her blade on the hound’s flank before sliding it back into its sheath. “You won’t last a league in your condition.”

“I’ll manage.”

“You’ll die.”

Her voice was flat, not cruel. Just stating the odds.

He pushed himself to his feet anyway, testing the weight on his legs. The pain flared sharp and hot, but it was manageable. For now.

Sylra rose with him, stepping into his path before he could reach the doorway. “You want to run, fine. But if you’re dragging that curse through my forest, you’re going to tell me what it is.”

He met her gaze, hard. “And if I don’t?”

She tilted her head, silver eyes catching the firelight. “Then I let Castor’s beasts have you. And I take what’s left to find out for myself.”

It wasn’t a bluff. He could feel it.

For a moment, neither of them moved. His breath came slow, steady, measuring her stance, the set of her shoulders. She was smaller than him, lighter, but every inch of her was prepared to follow through.

Finally, he stepped back. Just enough to show he wasn’t going to shove past her.

Her expression didn’t soften, but something in her shoulders eased. “Good. Then we have an understanding.”

She bent, grabbed the hound’s body by the scruff, and dragged it toward the doorway. “Help me with the other one. We don’t leave them here for the next pack to scent.”

Ronan hesitated, then moved to the larger carcass. His muscles protested, but he ignored it, hauling the beast by its hind legs. Together they shoved the bodies out into the snow, the cold air biting hard at the open wound in his side.

The wind picked up again, carrying the smell of blood into the night.

Sylra stood just inside the doorway, eyes on the treeline. “We have until dawn,” she said quietly.

“Until what?” he asked.

Her gaze didn’t leave the dark. “Until more of them come.”