The sky was grey—no sun, no rain—as if waiting for something to decide how it should respond. On this cold morning, Ophelia was preparing for a journey unlike any she had taken before.
Damian sat near the table, watching her quietly as she adjusted her cloak, pretending her hands weren't trembling.
"Are you sure?"
He asked softly, as if offering her one last chance to turn back.
She answered without looking at him.
"No. I'm not sure of anything anymore… but the weight of running has become heavier than fear."
"What will you say to them?"
Damian asked, his voice cautious.
"I don't know…"
She whispered, then added, "I won't blame them. Maybe… I just want to see them."
When they left the palace, the road wasn't long, but to Ophelia, every mile felt like crossing through years of her life. Her eyes stayed on the window, watching fields she didn't recognize, houses with no memories attached.
But her heart was already ahead of the carriage, racing toward a door she didn't know would open.
Damian didn't speak much. He was simply there.
His presence beside her was the only constant since her life had begun to crack and reshape itself.
"I just wonder…" she said suddenly, "Did they think of me all these years? Or did they forget?"
Damian didn't answer right away. He took a moment, then said,
"Forgetfulness doesn't happen so easily. Sometimes, the ones who disappear are thought of more than those who stay."
Ophelia nodded silently, though the worry lingered in her eyes.
She wasn't searching for a new family—she was searching for peace.
Something she had always hoped to find in reality, not just in dreams.
As houses began to appear along the roadside, her heart grew heavier.
She wanted to ask the driver to stop, to turn back… but something inside her whispered:
If you don't face this now, you may never move forward.
The carriage approached an old house, its balcony worn, its windows tightly shut.
It didn't announce itself, but it felt strangely familiar.
"This is it, isn't it?"
Damian asked quietly.
Ophelia didn't respond. Her hand gripped the edge of her cloak, as if drawing courage from it.
"I won't knock today…"
She whispered, surprising both Damian and herself.
"I just need to see it from afar. To breathe the same air they breathe… That's enough for now."
She stopped a short distance away, eyes fixed on the house.
There was a small plant on the doorstep, and a faint sound from inside—a laugh, maybe. Or just the echo of a hope she had long imagined.
Damian didn't press her. He sat beside her in silence, giving her space to feel.
"Would it be selfish if I knocked?"
She asked at last, as if speaking more to herself than to him.
"You wouldn't be selfish for wanting the truth."
Damian's voice was gentle but firm. "The real question is… are you ready for it?"
Ophelia turned to him—for the first time since the journey began. She looked at him for a long moment, then said,
"I think… I'm starting to understand why they left me. Not everyone chooses to run. Sometimes life makes the choice for us."
Silence returned, but this time it wasn't heavy. It was thoughtful—like the kind that comes when you realize some answers don't arrive through words, but through acceptance.
On the way back to the carriage, Ophelia wasn't the same. Not stronger, exactly—but less afraid to admit her vulnerability.
"I'll come back one day…"
She said, glancing behind her at the house growing smaller in the distance.
"But when I do, I won't come as a child searching for her mother… I'll come as a woman who knows she wasn't broken."
Damian smiled and raised an eyebrow.
"Does that make me a witness to your transformation?"
She looked at him, her eyes shining with something that hadn't been there in days.
"No. You're the one who started it."
The next day, Ophelia sat at a small table in a warm room inside the palace, a sheet of paper and a pen before her.
"To Oscar…
To Caroline…
To Adelia…
And to those who were strangers to my blood… but shaped my life…"
She began to write—not because words would change anything, but because she wanted to leave something behind.
Something real. Something that felt like her.
In the days that followed her letter, everything seemed different. Not because the world had changed, but because Ophelia had finally chosen to see it differently.
She no longer hid her vulnerability; she made it part of her strength.
She no longer rejected memory; she welcomed it—not to dwell in it, but to let it go peacefully.
She sat in the palace library, where many of her early chapters had begun, flipping through old books, worn maps, and notebooks that once belonged to the first emperor.
Beside her, Damian moved papers to the table, careful not to disturb the moment with his voice.
"I'm thinking of rebuilding the old fortress,"
Ophelia said, running her fingers over a faded map.
Damian raised an eyebrow.
"To live in it?"
She kept her eyes on the page.
"No… to build something I never had. A place for those who haven't found where they belong. A refuge. A school. Maybe even a small community…"
She paused, then looked at him.
"A place where people aren't judged by their titles, but by their hearts."
Silence followed—not hesitant, but full of quiet respect.
"You'll need someone to guard that place,"
Damian said with a smile.
She replied with a soft grin,
"I know someone—eccentric, stubborn, unpredictable… but more loyal than he admits."
"I hear he's handsome too,"
Damian teased.
"By hybrid spirits standards… maybe."
She laughed—and for the first time in a long while, it wasn't just a mask.
One evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ophelia and Damian walked along the edges of the land designated for rebuilding the old fortress. The breeze carried the scent of wood and ash, the sound of workers echoed in the distance, but between them… there was a warm, quiet calm.
Ophelia spoke suddenly, without warning:
"Have you ever thought about having a real name? A title, land—something that ties you to this world?"
Damian turned to her slowly, his eyes flickering with a rare, childlike surprise.
"Isn't it enough that I'm your haunting companion?"
He said with playful sarcasm.
She smiled, but her tone remained serious.
"I mean it, Damian. You've sacrificed so much. You helped me, saved me, and stood by me in every defining moment of my life. I don't want you to stay in the background. I want you to belong to this world… to be seen."
She paused before continuing:
"I'll speak to Oliver. I'll ask him to grant you a title, a place among the nobility. I want them to know you the way I do."
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and hesitation.
"Are you trying to turn the abandoned devil into a duke?"
She laughed.
"No. Into someone real."
The next day, Ophelia walked alone into the throne hall. Her steps were steady, but her heart wouldn't stop racing. She stood before Oliver, who was quietly reviewing state documents, then raised her head and spoke with confidence:
"I'm requesting something outside protocol… but it matters."
Oliver looked up and gestured for her to continue.
"I'm asking that Damian be granted nobility."
The courtiers lining the hall frowned, exchanging glances, but Oliver didn't respond immediately. He simply watched her as she went on:
"I know it's unprecedented. But Damian fought for this kingdom. He saved me. He helped bring down the darkness. He's not a servant, not a shadow—he's a man who deserves a place here."
She paused, then added in a quiet voice:
"I want him to be seen. He deserves that."
After a long silence, Oliver gave a faint smile and said,
"We'll hold a formal ceremony… and he will take his place among the nobles."