The town of Rinde still smoldered from the chaos—walls cracked, smoke curling from broken beams, and the air thick with the scent of burned stone. What had begun as a simple healing for a wounded bard had spiraled into calamity: the sorceress, drawn by her own designs, had tried to bind the djinn that tormented him, and the spirit nearly tore the town apart in its fury. The witcher, who had come only to seek her help, revealed himself as the true master of the djinn. When the binding unraveled and her strength faltered, he saved her, not with sword or spell, but with a final wish that now chained their fates together.

Now, amid the ruin, silence lingered. She stood tall despite exhaustion, her violet eyes catching the glow of dying fires, regarding the witcher who had risked all to keep her alive.

“Foolish,” she murmured, voice low but steady, “to bind yourself to me. Yet… perhaps the only wish that could not end in ruin.”