The throne room of Aurenfell was silent except for the sound of Damien's boots pacing across the marble.
Scrolls and sealed letters covered the table beside him—reports from spies, merchants, and messengers. One lay open, its wax still soft from the courier's ride:
"Subject located in Redmarsh Crossing.
Uses name 'Liora.'
Member of local Adventurers' Guild.
Under protection of Crown Prince Rowan."
The parchment shook faintly in his hand. He read the lines again, slower this time, as if they might change.
Under protection of Crown Prince Rowan.
The words tasted like ash.
Eight years had turned Damien into something the world called a king, though he rarely felt human at all. The soft edges of youth—the warmth that once made him stay up late talking with Victoria—had hardened into something colder.
He had thought himself ready for every kind of betrayal, but not this.
Not her smiling under another man's banner.
He crushed the scroll in his fist.
"Your Majesty?"
General Roen entered carefully, armor clinking, eyes wary. "You summoned me?"
Damien turned. "How many soldiers can we move south without drawing the council's notice?"
The general blinked. "South, sire? To Redmarsh?"
"Answer the question."
"Three divisions at most," Roen said after a pause. "But Redmarsh is neutral territory under Prince Rowan's crown. A move against him could be seen as—"
Damien's glare froze him mid-sentence.
"I don't care what it's seen as," he said quietly. "He has something that belongs to me."
Roen shifted uncomfortably. "My king, if I may—this girl the reports mention, she's… an adventurer. A commoner. Surely—"
"She is not common," Damien snapped. "Do you think I'd send half my spies chasing a rumor for years if she were?"
He moved toward the window, hands clasped behind his back. "She's alive, Roen. After everything, she's alive."
For a fleeting moment his voice softened, almost human.
"I thought she'd died that night."
The general hesitated. "Then perhaps that is mercy, my lord. Let her live quietly. She poses no threat."
Damien turned slowly, and the look in his eyes made the older man take a step back.
"She is my threat," Damien said. "And my salvation. She's the only one who ever looked at me and didn't see a crown or a monster. I will not let her be taken."
After the general left, the room felt suffocatingly still. Damien sat at his desk, staring at the crushed scroll. His hand trembled once before he forced it still.
He knew the politics. Attacking Redmarsh would risk war. The council would question him; the priests already whispered about his "woman of light." But none of it mattered.
In his mind, the image of her—free, alive, smiling beside another man—burned brighter than any logic.
Rowan.
A prince with a good heart, they said. A kind ruler, loved by his people. The kind of man who would see Victoria's light and not be afraid of it.
That thought stung more deeply than any blade.
Damien rose again, walking to the balcony that overlooked Aurenfell. From here he could see the whole city—its towers, its banners, its people. All his. All beneath his control.
Except her.
He whispered into the wind, "You think you can hide from me, Victoria? You think he can protect you?"
Far below, the city torches flickered.
"I made this world. I can burn it if I must."
Then, quieter, almost to himself:
"I'll bring you home. You'll see. I'll make it right."
Behind him, the door opened again.
It was the High Priest, robes trailing, face pale. "My king," he said, bowing deeply. "The council requests audience. They've heard rumors—about Redmarsh, and about… her."
Damien didn't turn. "Tell them to pray instead. The gods won't save them from what's coming."
The priest hesitated, then bowed again and left.
Damien's reflection stared back at him from the dark glass—crown gleaming, eyes hollow, smile thin as a blade.
He wasn't sure anymore if he wanted to bring her back or burn the world that had taken her.
But he knew one thing with terrifying clarity:
No one—not Rowan, not the guild, not even the gods—was going to stand between him and Victoria again.