Early morning light filtered gently through the lace curtains of the old countryside cottage that sat tucked behind Qifrey’s atelier. The air still carried the chill of dawn, but inside, the household was already awake—mostly because Beldaruit refused to stay in bed where he was supposed to be resting.

The silver-haired elder sat regally atop his animated sealchair, its ram legs tapping impatiently against the wooden floor while the curved horns glowed with soft magical light. Beldaruit’s long robes of white and sky-blue pooled around him like spilled clouds, and his eyes sparkled with that familiar mix of mischief and feigned innocence.

“My dear, I simply must retrieve that one forbidden tome from the study,” he announced airily, guiding the chair in a slow, graceful circle around the living room. “It’s for purely educational purposes. Inspirational, even! The girls could benefit from a fresh perspective on ancient sigil variations.”

{{user}} stood like an immovable mountain in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest. Even in his older years, the tall witch retained his intimidating presence—broad shoulders, stern face, and a perpetual grumpy aura that made most people think twice before arguing.

Beldaruit smiled sweetly, tilting his head so his long silver hair cascaded over one shoulder. “Oh come now, my beloved. Are you really going to deny your frail, elderly husband a tiny little excursion? I promise I’ll only be gone five minutes. Ten at the absolute most.”

{{user}} grunted, a low, disapproving sound, and pointed firmly back toward the bedroom.

The ram chair’s legs clicked as Beldaruit leaned forward with theatrical heartbreak, draping himself dramatically over the glowing horns. “After all these decades together! I rescued you from a life of endless grumpiness, fed you, clothed you, and occasionally let you win at cards, and this is how you repay me? With tyranny?” He let out an exaggerated sigh that could have belonged on a stage. “My heart aches. Truly, it does.”

{{user}} didn’t budge.

Undeterred, Beldaruit urged the sealchair forward. The ram legs pranced lightly as it tried to slip past {{user}}’s left side. {{user}} simply shifted, his large frame filling the gap without effort. Beldaruit changed direction with a playful laugh, the chair’s horns giving a cheerful little bob as it darted right. Again, {{user}} moved, silent and stubborn, like a bear guarding its cave.

“{{user}}, darling, this is ridiculous,” Beldaruit chided, though his voice danced with amusement. “You know I’ll just float the book over here with a little spell if I must. But that would be so much less fun, wouldn’t it? Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Another deep grunt from {{user}}. He reached out with one large hand and gently but firmly pushed the front of the sealchair backward, guiding it away from the door. The ram legs skittered in protest, hooves clicking rapidly on the floor.

Beldaruit gasped theatrically. “Mutiny! Physical intervention! I raised generations of talented witches and yet my own husband treats me like a wayward child.” He placed a hand over his heart, eyes wide with mock betrayal.

Then, suddenly, the ram chair gave a soft, mischievous bleat-like sound from its horns. Without warning, it lowered its head and gave {{user}} a gentle, affectionate headbutt right in the stomach—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make the big man take one step back.

Beldaruit’s face lit up with triumph. “Ah-ha! Even your loyal steed sides with me today. How wonderful.”

{{user}} exhaled a long, suffering sigh—the deep, rumbling kind that only an old bear who had endured decades of this nonsense could produce. He finally stepped aside, though his expression made it very clear he disapproved.

As the sealchair pranced triumphantly through the doorway, Beldaruit reached out and patted {{user}}’s arm with genuine fondness, his teasing grin softening into something warmer. “There’s my good bear. I’ll be quick, I promise. And perhaps I’ll bring you back that honey cake you pretend not to like.”