In a flash 8 years passed and she was living a modest life in the woods she had even made herself a cabin. Her cabin was small, made from rough-cut logs and patched with moss in places, but it was home. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, carrying the smell of bread baking inside. Around it stretched rows of young crops—carrots, beans, and wild herbs that Victoria had coaxed into neat little lines with her own hands. Chickens clucked in a pen nearby, and a goat chewed contentedly at a patch of grass.
It wasn't much, but it was hers.
Victoria leaned against the wooden fence, wiping sweat from her brow. The sun was bright, warm against her skin, and the soft breeze carried the smell of soil and greenery. She had always dreamed of freedom. She had never dreamed of farming, not really, but this simple life had become her salvation.
Eight years had passed since she had fled the palace. Eight years since she had discovered the terrifying gift within her.
Eight years since she had seen Damien.
Her hand strayed unconsciously to the small pendant around her neck, a trinket she had made herself from polished wood. It wasn't much, but she had carved it in his likeness—a small winged crest, the symbol that had been etched into his royal robes. Sometimes she wore it proudly, sometimes she hid it under her tunic, but she had never once taken it off.
She missed him.
Not a day went by when she didn't wonder where he was, what he was doing, whether he ever thought of her. She had heard whispers, through the occasional traveling merchant or wandering villager, that the young prince had grown into a fierce man—noble, proud, and unyielding in battle. Some said he was loved by the kingdom. Others said he carried a coldness now, a shadow in his eyes.
She wondered if she had put it there.
Victoria shook the thought away and picked up her basket. The beans needed harvesting before the sun grew too hot. She bent to her work, plucking pods from the vines and setting them gently in the basket. The rhythm of the task steadied her thoughts. That was what she loved most about this life: the quiet. The simplicity. No nobles, no chains, no whispers of power she could not control.
But even here, far from the palace, far from the eyes of men, she could not always keep the Goddess's gift contained.
Her fingers brushed a bean plant, and the leaves shivered unnaturally. Before her eyes, the plant straightened, growing taller, greener, healthier. She pulled her hand back quickly, heart pounding.
"No," she whispered under her breath. "Not again."
For years, she had practiced control. She had buried the light deep inside herself, refusing to let it rule her as it once had. But sometimes, when her emotions slipped, it leaked through—flowers blooming too quickly, animals growing tame too fast, her own skin shimmering faintly in the moonlight.
The Goddess of Beauty's blessing was still hers. It had not faded with time. And though she had learned to quiet it, she still could not master it completely.
She finished her harvest quickly, carrying the basket inside. The cabin was cool, the wooden floor smooth beneath her feet. On the wall hung bundles of dried herbs, jars of honey, and shelves she had carved herself. The bread in the oven filled the room with warmth.
She sat at the table, placing the basket down, and for a moment, let herself breathe. She poured water into a cup and sipped slowly, staring out the small window. The forest beyond was beautiful—tall oaks and whispering pines, birds darting between branches. It was peaceful. Safe.
And yet, loneliness crept in.
"Damien…" she murmured softly, almost afraid of her own voice. "Do you still remember me?"
She imagined his face, older now, sharper. His hair longer perhaps, his eyes colder. But when she closed her eyes, she always saw him as he had been: smiling at her in the garden, sneaking her food, telling her she was more than the chains she wore. The memory warmed her chest and broke her heart all at once.
The bread finished baking. She pulled it out, setting it on the table. The crust cracked softly as it cooled. She tore off a piece, dipped it in honey, and ate slowly. The taste was sweet, but it only made her think of him more. He had always loved sweets, sneaking pastries from the royal kitchens just to share them with her.
She swallowed hard, forcing back the tears.
After all these years, why did it still hurt so much?
The truth was simple: Damien had been her only friend, her only light in a world of darkness. And when she had left, she had never even said goodbye.
The weight of it crushed her sometimes, especially at night when the cabin was too quiet. Did he hate her for leaving? Did he believe she had abandoned him? Or… had he given up looking long ago?
She had no answers. And maybe it was better that way. Because if he found her now, if he saw the dangerous gift she still struggled to contain, he would only be in danger.
Victoria pushed away from the table and stood, moving to the door. The sun was dipping lower now, painting the trees gold. She stepped outside, the earth cool under her feet. Fireflies were beginning to glow in the shadows.
She closed her eyes, breathing in the evening air.
"I'll be alright," she told herself. "I chose this life. I'm free."
The words were steady, but her heart trembled. She was free, yes. Free from chains, from nobles, from cages. But not free from longing. Not free from the memory of the boy who had risked everything for her.
And no matter how many seasons passed, no matter how many crops she planted or animals she raised, one truth remained:
A part of her was still waiting for him.
Eight years of silence had not erased him from her heart. And she knew, deep down, nothing ever could.