The journey stretched into days.
Dust clung to every breath, every fold of fabric, every wound. The iron shackles weighed on Victoria's wrists like a second skeleton, bruising her skin, grinding bone against metal until each step felt like torment.
And yet, she walked.
Damien made sure of that.
His army was relentless. They marched from dawn until the sun bled into the horizon, stopping only to water horses and fill canteens. No soldier dared slow, no man or woman dared falter. To stumble was to feel Damien's eyes on you, and no one wanted that.
He rode near the front always, black armor gleaming, his presence as oppressive as the chains that dragged Victoria forward. He didn't look back at her often. He didn't need to. She felt his command in every step, every beat of the drums that marked their pace.
Victoria kept her head high despite the exhaustion, though her wrists were rubbed raw and her legs screamed with each mile.
Her thoughts swirled endlessly. Could she risk trying again? Could she call on her light, even bound in these crueler chains? But every time she remembered the way he had punished her, the bite of metal against her wrist, her courage faltered.
Still, she clung to one truth: if he feared her power enough to shackle her so brutally, then it was worth fighting for.
On the third evening, a soldier faltered.
It was a boy, hardly older than she had been when Damien was still her friend. His steps grew sluggish, his pack sagging, his breaths harsh.
Damien noticed.
"Forward," he barked, his horse halting in the road.
The boy stumbled faster, but his legs betrayed him. He fell to his knees in the dust, gasping.
The army froze.
The silence was suffocating.
Damien dismounted, his boots crushing the dirt as he strode forward. His cape dragged behind him, heavy with command. He stopped before the boy, staring down at him as if weighing the measure of his soul.
"Do you serve me," Damien asked quietly, "or do you shame me?"
The boy stammered, eyes wide with terror. "I—I serve you, my prince! Please, forgive me—"
The sword was out in a flash.
A single stroke.
The boy collapsed, lifeless in the dirt.
Gasps rippled down the line. But no one moved. No one spoke.
Damien wiped his blade clean and sheathed it, his expression carved in ice. "We do not carry weakness," he said simply. Then he turned, mounted his horse, and gave the order to march on.
The soldiers obeyed, stepping around the corpse as though it were nothing more than a stone in the road.
Victoria's stomach twisted violently. Rage boiled in her chest, so fierce she nearly cried out. But the chain jerked her forward, forcing her to stumble onward in silence, her teeth clenched until her jaw ached.
This was who he had become.
This was what she was chained to.
That night, she did not sleep.
The campfires crackled, soldiers muttered in low voices, but she sat awake, staring at her bruised wrists. She tried to feel the light inside her, coaxing it like a fragile flame.
It stirred faintly, as it always did. Warm. Comforting. But weak.
The chains pulsed with Damien's mark—his mana woven into the iron. They smothered her gift, drank it, turned it to silence.
But not forever.
She would find a way.
She had to.
The next day, the ambush came.
The forest road was quiet, too quiet. Birds had fled, and the air smelled of smoke before anyone saw it.
Then the arrows flew.
The first volley rained from the treetops, striking shields, bouncing off armor, skewering horses. Soldiers shouted, the line scattering.
Bandits—or mercenaries, perhaps rebels—poured from the trees with war cries, their blades flashing in the morning light.
The army closed ranks, shields raised, spears thrust outward. Damien was in the thick of it instantly, his sword drawn, his horse charging forward like a beast of war. His presence was fire and iron, cutting men down as if they were nothing.
Victoria dropped to the dirt as a soldier fell near her, an arrow through his throat. Her chains rattled, heavy, clumsy, pinning her like prey.
A bandit lunged toward her, eyes gleaming with the thought of an easy kill.
Instinct surged.
The light flared before she could stop it.
It burst from her chest in a blinding wave, searing gold ripping through the air. The bandit screamed, dropping his weapon as the glow burned his skin. He fell writhing, blinded, as the golden radiance curled around Victoria like a shield.
Soldiers froze. Heads whipped toward her.
Even Damien.
His eyes locked onto her through the chaos, his blade dripping red. For a moment, time itself seemed to pause—the army, the rebels, the world.
Then his expression hardened.
"Do not touch her!" he roared to his men, his voice carrying like thunder. "Kill the rest!"
The soldiers obeyed, their ranks tightening, their weapons rising with renewed fury.
The battle pressed on, steel clashing, screams echoing. Victoria's glow sputtered, fading as quickly as it had come, leaving her trembling in the dirt. Her wrists throbbed where the chains had bitten deeper from the surge.
And then Damien was there.
His sword was slick with blood, his eyes burning as he towered over her.
"You dare," he hissed, voice low and furious.
Her chest heaved. "I saved myself."
"You revealed yourself," he snapped, grabbing the chain and yanking her upright. His grip was brutal, his face inches from hers. "Do you want every scavenger in this land hunting you? Hunting us?"
Her lips trembled, but her voice came steady. "Maybe I do. At least then, I'd have a chance."
For an instant, raw fury crossed his face. Then he crushed it down, shoving her back against the iron spike.
"Careful, Victoria," he said softly, dangerously. "You think you're playing with light, but you're playing with fire. And I will burn before I let you slip away."
Her heart pounded, but she met his glare unflinching.
Because for the first time, she had seen it—the soldiers' fear when her light flared, the hesitation in Damien's eyes, the truth in his rage.
He feared her.
And that meant she wasn't powerless.