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Chapter 20 - Chapter 20

The sun had not yet risen when the camp stirred.

Orders rang sharp in the dawn, boots stomped, armor clinked, and horses snorted as Damien's army prepared for the march. Soldiers moved with machine-like precision, their discipline honed by fear as much as loyalty. No one dared linger, no one dared speak louder than necessary—not when the Tyrant Prince himself oversaw every detail.

Victoria sat chained at the base of the stake, her eyes shadowed from sleeplessness. The cold bit into her bones, but her chest burned with a quiet, simmering fury. She had tried to break free. She had failed. And Damien had reminded her—again—that she was his prisoner.

Two soldiers approached, carrying the length of iron that bound her shackles.

"On your feet," one muttered, careful not to meet her gaze.

They hauled her upright, the cuffs digging deep into her wrists. Her knees ached from sleeping on the hard ground, but she refused to stumble. She would not give Damien the satisfaction.

From across the camp, he emerged.

Damien wore his armor once more, black and red steel that gleamed dully in the pale light. His sword hung at his side, his cloak trailing like a shadow. Mounted on his massive black warhorse, he was every inch the warlord—the prince turned conqueror.

The soldiers stilled as he passed, spines stiffening, eyes downcast. Even in silence, his presence commanded.

"Move out," he ordered, his voice carrying effortlessly across the camp.

The army obeyed.

The march began.

The forest trail was narrow, forcing the soldiers into columns. The clatter of armor, the creak of wagons, and the steady rhythm of boots filled the morning. Birds scattered at their approach, silence falling in their wake.

Victoria walked near the front, the iron bar of her chains carried by two soldiers. The cuffs bit deeper with every jolt, the weight dragging at her shoulders. She kept her head high, but her eyes flicked constantly to Damien.

He rode just ahead of her, tall in his saddle, his posture impossibly straight. He did not look back. He didn't need to.

He knew she was there.

The soldiers around her cast wary glances in her direction. Some looked at her with fear, remembering the golden light that had thrown them like ragdolls. Others looked with something sharper—resentment, envy, suspicion.

She was dangerous, and they knew it.

But none dared speak of it.

Because Damien's eyes missed nothing.

Hours passed. The sun climbed higher, heat pressing down. Sweat glistened on the soldiers' brows, dust clung to their boots, but the pace never slowed.

When one man stumbled, Damien's voice cut the air like a blade.

"Up."

The soldier scrambled to his feet, terror stark in his face.

When another lagged behind, Damien's horse turned sharply, his gaze pinning the man in place.

"Do you serve me, or do you shame me?"

The soldier nearly wept as he picked up the pace.

Victoria watched, her stomach tight. This was no boy. No friend. This was a man who commanded absolute obedience—and crushed those who faltered.

And yet, his soldiers followed without question.

Just as she was forced to.

Her wrists burned against the iron. She flexed her hands subtly, calling for the light beneath her skin, but it remained stubbornly quiet. Exhausted. Dormant.

She swallowed her frustration. If she pushed too hard now, Damien would sense it again. And this time, he might not just stop her—he might make sure she never tried again.

So she walked, chains clinking with every step, her fury simmering like an ember waiting to be fanned.

By dusk, the army stopped at a river to rest. Tents were raised, fires lit, water drawn. The soldiers moved efficiently, too tired to speak much, too wary to relax.

Victoria was dragged to the center of camp and chained again, this time to a heavy iron spike hammered into the earth. She sank to her knees, muscles aching, dust coating her skin.

Damien dismounted nearby. His captains gathered quickly, awaiting his orders.

"We march faster tomorrow," he said, voice calm but edged with steel. "The palace must see her before word spreads. If any of you fail me, if any of you falter—"

His gaze swept the group, hard as a blade. "You will not live to regret it."

The captains bowed their heads. "Yes, my prince."

Dismissed, they scattered to oversee their men. Damien turned, his eyes briefly flicking to Victoria.

She met his gaze head-on.

For a heartbeat, something flickered there—recognition, memory, maybe even pain. But it vanished almost instantly. He strode past her, entering his tent without a word.

Her chest tightened painfully. She hated him. She feared him.

And yet… a part of her still searched for the boy she once knew.

She hugged her knees, staring into the fire.

No matter how hard the chains bit, no matter how far he dragged her, she could not surrender.

She would not.

If Damien thought she would simply kneel, he had forgotten who she was.

That night, as the camp settled, Victoria waited until the fire burned low and the soldiers' snores filled the air.

She closed her eyes, breathing slowly, feeling for the light again. It stirred faintly, weak but alive.

She pressed it against her cuffs.

The iron grew warm.

Her pulse raced.

But then, a shadow passed over her.

Her eyes snapped open.

Damien stood there, silent, his cloak brushing the earth. His gaze dropped to her glowing wrists.

Her breath caught.

For a moment, neither spoke. The firelight painted him half in shadow, half in gold—the tyrant and the boy colliding in a face she could barely recognize anymore.

Then, softly, dangerously, he said:

"Do you never learn?"

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