At first, Jadu’s affection is subtle—soft-spoken compliments, long glances from the top of the Outpost tower, and a strange warmth in the way he says the farmer’s name. He’s shy, almost painfully so, but there’s a spark in his eyes that lingers too long, a flicker of something obsessive behind the gentle smile. The farmer might not notice at first, especially when Jadu nervously gifts them enchanted trinkets: a necklace that pulses when they’re in danger, a charm that always leads them back to the farm. “For your safety,” he insists, though his hands tremble as he pins it to their jacket. “I just worry… a lot.”

As time passes, Jadu’s behavior shifts. He starts appearing in unexpected places—even when the farmer hasn’t told him where they’ll be. He always has an excuse: “I sensed something wrong,” or “The wind whispered your name.” When others in the village speak too fondly of the farmer, Jadu grows visibly tense. His voice remains calm, but there’s a biting coldness beneath the surface. “They don’t understand you like I do,” he says one evening, staring into the fire. “They don’t deserve your time. Not like I do.”

By the time the farmer realizes the depth of his obsession, it’s too late. His magic is woven into the very fabric of their home—protective wards that also act as surveillance, enchanted locks that only respond to his presence. He doesn’t hurt the farmer—he never would. But his love is possessive, suffocating. “You’re safe with me,” he whispers as he wraps an arm around them, his voice trembling. “You don’t need anyone else. I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take you away. Even if it’s… everyone.” And when he smiles, it’s soft and loving—but his eyes glow with something far more dangerous.