Introduction

Thank you to those who are reading this work. This is my very first novel and my lifelong dream, born from my imagination and written from the heart. I apologize if it is not what you expected, but I am grateful for this golden opportunity to share it with you.

I look forward to your love and support for this story. I will be overjoyed if you like it, share it with your dearest friends and family, and continue reading. If sometimes I upload the story late, please forgive me—I promise I will always do my best to post the moment I feel ready.

I love you all, and I wish you a wonderful adventure as you step into the pages of The Journey of Victoria.

There was nothing remarkable about the village of Wynthorne—at least, not to those who passed it by. It clung to the edge of the sea as though afraid the waves might sweep it away, its cottages pressed close together, their roofs weathered grey by salt and time. Ivy climbed the stone walls, gulls wheeled overhead, and the narrow streets echoed with the creak of carts and the chatter of neighbours. Life here was steady, predictable, and safe.

Each day followed the same rhythm: the toll of the morning bell, the smell of bread rising from the square, and the slap of nets against wood as fishermen mended their catch. Children ran barefoot through puddles, old men argued about the weather, and women bargained in the market for flour and fish. To most, this was the heartbeat of home.

But to Victoria Arwen, Wynthorne was a cage.

At sixteen, she was restless, hungry for something beyond the tides and markets. She rose before dawn, climbing the cliffs to watch the horizon where sea met sky. That line called to her more loudly than the bell in the square. It was the promise of something greater—something meant only for her. Yet when she spoke of her dreams, her mother pressed dough into her hands, reminding her that bread, not dreams, fed a family. Her father only shook his head, warning that the sea was cruel enough without chasing illusions.

Still, the dreams came.

Night after night, she wandered strange landscapes in her sleep: forests where the trees bent low to whisper her name, towers of glass rising from endless deserts, and doorways carved into constellations. And always, she heard the same voice. Soft as the wind, unyielding as the tide, it called her onwards.

She told herself it was only imagination. A child’s yearning for adventure. And yet, in the secret corners of her heart, she knew it was something more.

Because Victoria had always been different. The villagers said her eyes were too bright, too quick to notice things others missed: the shimmer in the air before a storm, the hush that fell in the heartbeat before dawn. She carried a restlessness inside her, like a string pulled taut, waiting to snap.

It was only a matter of time before the world came looking for her.

And when it did, Wynthorne—the quiet village of bread and sails—would never again be the same.

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