The next morning dawned quietly. Dew clung to the grass outside, and the forest was still veiled in the pale mist of early light. victoria rose with the sun, as she always did, tying her dark hair back with a strip of cloth. She slipped outside to tend to the goats, her bare feet sinking into the cool earth.
The animals bleated softly in greeting, and for a while, she let herself relax. This was the life she had built—simple, predictable, hers. She measured her days in eggs collected, bread baked, soil tilled. She needed nothing else.
Or at least, that's what she told herself.
Halfway through feeding the chickens, she felt it again—that prickling at the back of her neck. The sensation of being watched. She froze, her hand hovering above the feed sack. Slowly, her eyes swept the tree line.
At first, nothing. Just the stillness of the woods, the rustle of leaves, the soft hum of morning insects. But then—movement. A shadow.
Her heart tightened. She set the feed down carefully, pretending to go about her work. Her ears strained for sound.
Then came the crunch of a footstep on dry leaves.
Victoria's blood ran cold.
For eight years, no one had found her. She had built this cabin far from trade routes, hidden deep in the forest. She had avoided villages whenever she could, only venturing out to trade when absolutely necessary—and even then, always with a hood pulled low over her face.
So who was out there now?
She slipped back into the cabin, closing the door quietly. Her hand brushed against the wooden pendant at her neck, gripping it tightly.
Stay calm, she told herself. It could be nothing. A traveler. A hunter.
But the unease coiled in her stomach told her otherwise.
She went to the table, sliding her small knife from its place beside the breadboard. It was no weapon, not really—but it was something. She positioned herself by the window, peeking out through the cracks in the shutters.
Two men.
They were moving slowly through the trees, speaking in low voices. Their clothes were travel-worn, their boots caked with mud. Not merchants. Not farmers. Their eyes scanned the clearing with purpose, not curiosity.
Victoria's pulse quickened.
They're looking for something… or someone.
She drew back from the window, pressing her back against the wall. Her breath came fast and shallow. Could they be bounty hunters? After all these years, had someone finally tracked her down?
A knock came at the door.
It was not polite. Not hesitant. It was heavy, demanding, rattling the wood against its hinges.
Anya clutched the knife tighter, forcing her voice steady. "Who's there?"
"Travelers," came a gruff reply. "We saw your farm from the ridge. Thought we might ask for a bit of water."
Her instincts screamed. Lies.
She didn't answer.
Another knock. Harder. "Open the door, miss. We don't mean no harm."
The air in the cabin grew heavy. She felt her mana stir, that restless warmth deep inside her chest. She bit her lip, trying to will it down. She couldn't lose control. Not now.
The men outside muttered to each other. She caught fragments through the wood.
"…she's here… told you the rumors weren't just stories…"
Victoria's blood chilled. They know.
Fear and fury collided inside her. For eight years she had been safe. For eight years she had built this life with her own hands. And now strangers stood at her door, ready to tear it all away.
The door creaked under another blow. The knife shook in her grip.
"No," she whispered fiercely. "Not again. I won't be taken again."
The words seemed to awaken something inside her. The glow flared across her skin, faint but unmistakable. The wood of the cabin groaned as if the house itself had felt her surge. The chickens outside squawked nervously.
Victoria squeezed her eyes shut, struggling for control. She had trained herself for years to keep the power contained, but it was slippery when fear took her. The Goddess's blessing was not gentle—it was overwhelming.
The men cursed outside. One of them shouted, "Did you see that? Light through the cracks—she's the one!"
Panic gripped her. She couldn't fight them. She couldn't run—they'd see her the moment she stepped outside. And if she lost control again, if the power burst free like it had all those years ago, she might burn the forest down with them.
She stumbled back from the door, breath ragged. "Please," she whispered, though she wasn't sure if she was begging the men or the Goddesses herself. "Please, don't make me hurt them."
The wood splintered. They were breaking through.
And then, as if answering her plea, the power surged—not outward, but inward. The glow sank into her skin, flooding her veins, wrapping her in warmth so intense she could barely breathe. The pendant at her neck seared hot, as though alive.
When the men burst inside, axes raised, they stopped dead in their tracks.
Victoria stood bathed in light, her eyes glowing like molten gold. The air shimmered around her, thick with an aura of impossible beauty. For a moment, the men faltered—faces slack, weapons trembling—as though her very presence robbed them of will.
"Leave," Victoria said. Her voice was soft, but it resonated with unnatural power. "Leave this place and never return."
The men staggered back, caught between fear and enchantment. Their eyes were wide, fixed on her as though seeing not a woman but something divine. One dropped his axe with a clatter. The other pulled at his companion's arm, and together they stumbled out into the clearing, running for the trees without another word.
The light faded.
Victoria collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath. Her hands trembled violently, and tears blurred her vision. She had done it again—lost control, become something frightening, something otherworldly.
But worse than the fear of herself was the knowledge burning in her chest: they had found her.
Her peaceful life, her hidden farm, her fragile freedom—it was all crumbling. Word would spread. Others would come.
She pressed her forehead to the wooden floor, her voice breaking. "Damien… what do I do?"
The forest outside was silent, but she swore she felt it—the Goddess's eyes upon her, waiting.