The march continued.
Day by day, the palace drew closer. Victoria felt it in the rhythm of the soldiers' boots, in the taut discipline of the ranks, in the subtle excitement that flickered in the army like a current of electricity. Soon, they would reach the seat of Damien's power.
And when they did, she knew, her chains would only grow heavier.
Every step was a reminder. The iron cuffs rubbed her wrists raw, bruises dark and ugly against her skin. Her ankles ached where the chains dragged at her stride, the bar clinking with each movement. The soldiers carrying the other end never spoke to her, never looked at her, as though she were a curse they'd been ordered to ignore.
Yet she could feel their eyes sometimes—furtive, fearful glances when they thought she wasn't watching. They had seen her light. They had seen her burn a man blind in an instant. And fear lingered.
That fear was dangerous.
But it was also power.
At night, when the camp settled, Damien came to her. Always Damien.
Sometimes he said nothing, only stood in the shadows, watching her as if to remind her she was never free of his gaze.
Other nights, he knelt beside her, brushing his fingers against her cheek with startling tenderness. His voice would soften, almost pleading as he spoke of the years he'd spent searching for her, of the emptiness she had left in her wake.
"Eight years of conquest," he murmured once, his thumb tracing the hollow of her cheekbone. "And none of it mattered. Not the victories. Not the throne. None of it filled the void you left."
Her throat tightened, but she forced steel into her voice. "And do you think this fills it? Chains? Fear?"
He had only stared at her for a long moment before answering, "It keeps you here. That is enough."
It was not enough. Not for her.
Victoria had begun to notice things.
The soldiers avoided her, but they couldn't help whispering. In the crackle of firelight, in the weary mutters after long marches, she caught fragments.
The woman of light.
The prince keeps her caged.
Why does he protect her?
If she's his weakness…
They thought she couldn't hear. They thought their voices drowned in the night. But she listened, piecing together the murmurs, the fears, the resentments.
It wasn't just the soldiers. Even some of the captains glanced at her with suspicion, with envy, with barely veiled contempt.
Damien's iron grip held them all in line. But cracks existed.
And cracks could be widened.
Every night, when she was certain Damien's eyes had turned elsewhere, Victoria practiced.
She couldn't flare her light openly—not after the punishment. But she had learned to focus it inward, small, controlled, whispers of mana barely enough to warm the cuffs.
The iron resisted, drinking in her light. But sometimes, she thought she felt the faintest tremor. The smallest weakness.
Her wrists burned from the effort, but she didn't stop.
I will master this, she told herself. And when the chance comes, I'll be ready.
One evening, after another grueling day of marching, Damien called the army to halt earlier than usual. The sun had barely dipped when the order rang out.
Soldiers exchanged surprised looks but obeyed, setting camp near the shelter of a rocky outcrop.
Victoria was chained in the usual place, a heavy spike hammered into the earth at the center of camp. She sat silently, watching as the soldiers worked with unusual eagerness, sensing something in the air.
She didn't have to wait long to learn why.
Damien emerged from his tent, cloak trailing, eyes fixed on her. His captains flanked him, their expressions unreadable.
"Tomorrow," Damien announced, his voice carrying across the firelit camp, "we reach the gates of the capital."
A cheer rose from the ranks, weary but triumphant.
Damien raised a hand, silencing them instantly. His gaze flicked to Victoria, deliberate, cold.
"And when we arrive," he continued, "the kingdom will see what belongs to me."
Her chest twisted violently. She clenched her fists, digging nails into her palms until pain steadied her.
Belongs.
The word echoed in her skull, sharp as the chains biting into her wrists.
The soldiers cheered again, though quieter this time. Some looked at her, their faces shadowed in the firelight. She caught the gleam of suspicion, of curiosity, of hatred.
Her heart pounded.
If she entered the capital in chains, before all those eyes, she would never escape. The palace would swallow her whole.
She had one night. One final chance.
That night, Damien came to her again.
He dismissed the guards, crouching before her where she sat chained to the spike. His hand brushed her cheek, his eyes searching hers with unsettling intensity.
"You're quiet," he murmured.
"I have nothing to say."
His thumb traced her jawline. "You've always had something to say."
She forced her voice to stay steady. "Would you even listen?"
His hand stilled. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, softer, "Always."
Her breath hitched, confusion burning with her hatred. For a heartbeat, the boy she remembered was there again—the boy who had laughed with her, who had shielded her, who had called her his best friend.
But the chains between them were heavy, unforgiving.
"Damien…" she whispered. "If you love me, truly love me… let me go."
His jaw tightened. His hand fell away.
"You still don't understand," he said quietly, his eyes darkening once more. "I let you go once. Eight years ago. And it hollowed me into this." His hand gestured at the armor, the cloak, the blood still staining his gauntlet. "I will not let you go again."
He stood, his shadow falling long over her.
"Sleep," he ordered. "Tomorrow, you will be mine before all the world."
And he walked away.
Victoria's whole body trembled, her breath ragged, her wrists aching.
But inside her chest, the light burned hotter than it ever had before.
Tomorrow.
She had one night left.
One chance.
And no matter how heavy the chains, no matter how close the palace loomed, she would not let him drag her into that cage.
She would escape—or she would burn trying.