Five years passed like quiet fire beneath stone. Time, for Victoria, was measured not in seasons or days, but in expectations. She grew under the crimson sky of the imperial palace, shaped not by gentle hands but by pressure—by the chisel of her mother's will.
At eleven years old, she was already called Lady Victoria in the halls of the Crimson Palace, though none dared use her full name without a bow. Her presence, even at that young age, stirred something in others. Not fear. Not awe. But gravity.
The halls of Kael-Terun whispered that she was born of a miracle. The common folk said she was carved from starlight, the child of love or divine intervention. But within the royal walls, there was no such softness. In the eyes of her mother, Seraphine, the Tyrant Empress, Victoria was not a miracle.
She was destiny.
Every day for the last five years had been ritual and rigor. She woke before the sun, already dressed by her handmaidens in armor or gowns depending on the day's agenda. Her morning routine began with sword drills in the obsidian courtyard, the heat of sunrise kissing her red hair as she practiced against older squires.
"Again," said her swordmaster, a grizzled man missing three fingers.
She did not protest. She never did. She repeated each form, each stance, each calculated strike. Over and over until the blade felt like an extension of her bones.
Later came studies in statecraft and conquest. She learned to read maps not as representations of geography, but as chessboards for dominion. She could already recite the names of ten legendary generals, their victories, their failures, their final words before death.
She knew the price of war.
She just hadn't paid it yet.
At midday, her mother walked with her in the rose garden. Seraphine wore a battle robe instead of a gown, crimson threads stitched with gold. Her crown tilted slightly over her red hair, eyes sharp and unreadable.
"Tell me," she said, voice calm but edged. "If two of your enemies are fighting, what do you do?"
Victoria didn't hesitate. "Wait until one weakens the other. Then strike the victor while they're still bleeding."
Her mother smiled faintly. "You're learning."
Victoria said nothing, but inside she churned. She didn't hate her mother. She admired her. Feared her. Loved her, perhaps. But sometimes, it felt like she was being raised not as a daughter, but as a sword.
Her education was relentless. Manners and etiquette by day, military history and mana theory by night. Her tutors rotated frequently, but their lessons were always the same: how to walk, how to speak, how to command.
And still, something was missing.
Mana theory frustrated her more than anything.
Her tutors praised her perfection. "Remarkable control," they said. "Flawless incantation."
But the results never matched the form.
She could replicate every spell taught to her. She saw herself doing it—across countless selves, countless timelines. She would stumble once or twice, and then the spell would ignite perfectly on her third attempt. Fireballs, shields, light constructs—she could do them all.
But they were small.
Weak.
"You must push more mana," one instructor advised. "You must force it."
But her core resisted. It didn't burn like others. It flickered. Quietly. Incomplete.
It wasn't until one night, alone in the palace library, that she whispered aloud:
"Why does this feel like someone else's magic?"
No one answered.
She often sat at her balcony at night, watching the stars above the blood-hued banners of Kael-Terun. The hum had started again. A melody she did not know but remembered. Soft. Faint. She would sometimes hum it under her breath without realizing it.
It calmed her. Made her feel whole.
And every time she did, the incomplete feeling inside her twitched.
Her Becoming magic—the power given to her by the shapeless gods in the web—was rooted in identity. She could see alternate versions of herself: in every fight, every decision, every path. She learned by experiencing all versions until the correct one emerged.
It was why she never failed twice.
But unlike the power of others—her magic wasn't fueled by raw force.
It was precision.
She could become faster, stronger, wiser—by learning from the other Victorias that never were.
But something was holding her back.
"You hesitate," said her mother one day during their sparring session.
"No. I calculate."
Seraphine struck harder. "Victory does not wait for certainty."
Victoria parried, though the force rattled her bones. She was fast—too fast for her age—but not strong.
"Perhaps not," Victoria said, gasping. "But I'd rather bleed for the right victory than die for the wrong one."
That earned her a pause.
Seraphine lowered her sword and studied her daughter carefully. Then nodded once.
"Then be sure your calculations are always faster than fate."
Her mana core continued to grow slowly. But it remained unsettled. Not broken, but... searching. Her Becoming magic didn't feed it the way elemental spells might have.
And yet, she felt power waiting.
Something buried deep.
Something older than fire or frost.
In moments of solitude—when the palace fell quiet and her body stopped aching from the day's drills—she would close her eyes and feel herself.
The other Victorias. Hundreds. Thousands. Versions that lived. Versions that died. Versions that burned kingdoms and others that healed them.
They were not phantoms. They were seeds.
And sometimes, one of them would speak.
They didn't use words. They gave her instincts. Warnings. Lessons learned through deaths that she would never know.
On the eve of her eleventh birthday, Victoria stood in front of the mirror.
She was small, but not delicate. Her frame carried weight. Her eyes, crimson like her mother's, held years of discipline.
She had learned nobility. How to bow and when to break someone who bowed too deep.
She had learned warfare. How to flank, to siege, to divide.
She had learned poise, strategy, and vengeance.
But not magic.
Not yet.
She clenched her fists.
She stared at the mirror.
And she saw them all—the other selves.
Each one stepped forward. Each one whispered a different path.
And she reached inward.
To her core.
And for the first time, she asked it what it wanted.
The answer wasn't a roar.
It was a hum.
The melody returned.
And she knew: her magic wasn't elemental.
It was identity.
It was the refusal to become what the world demanded.
It was the choice to be something new each time.
The core flickered, then surged—just once.
Her aura pulsed faintly.
And she smiled.
Because it wasn't perfect.
But it was hers.