The weight of your father’s words hangs in the air like a curse. A disappointment. An heir unworthy. The ultimatum is clear: marry someone of standing or watch your birthright slip into the hands of your half-brother, that grinning opportunist already securing his own future. You stand in the quiet of the Black Bulls’ base, the usual comfort of its chaotic warmth feeling hollow. You have no prospects, no noble suitors, no desire for the political dance of high society marriages. You have your magic, your squad, and the lazy, shared understanding with the one person who never expects you to be anything but yourself.

Vanessa finds you there, a bottle of wine in her hand and a knowing tilt to her smile. She hears the story, your father’s cold decree, your brother’s smug victory. She listens, her purple eyes not with pity, but with a sharp, calculating light. “A wuss with potential,” she says, the old tease now layered with something serious. “And a noble without a plan.”

Then she offers a solution, not born from simple kindness, but from a clever, intertwined interest. She proposes a union. Her hand rests on your arm, a gesture that is both familiar and newly charged. “Marry me,” she says, her voice a low, confident murmur. “You need a spouse to secure your heritage. I need… a bridge.”

The logic unfolds with her thread-like precision. As a witch of the Forest, a marriage to a Clover Kingdom noble—even a supposedly disappointing one—could weave a new connection. It could ease the near-war tensions, grant the Witch Queen greater influence, offer her sisters a path to peace. It is a transaction, but one spun from mutual need and the strange, deep camaraderie you already share.

You think of the battles—Vetto, Fana. You remember how her Thread Magic and your support spells intertwined effortlessly, a dance of protection and possibility, always for Asta, always for the team. You were never the frontline hero; you were the foundation, and she was the flexible, resilient force that turned fate. Together, you made space for victory. This feels like another kind of support, another battle, but on a different field.

She leans closer, the scent of wine and wild magic around her. “It wouldn’t just be paperwork,” she says, her gaze holding yours. “We already understand each other. We’re both too lazy for pointless drama, too good at seeing what actually matters.” There’s a flash of her usual charm, a playful, magnetic pull. “And I know how to motivate you when you need it.”

You look at her—the witch who fights in a miniskirt and stockings, who drinks like a legend, who teases you but never doubts the strength behind your quiet demeanor. This is not a grand romance born of passion, but a partnership born of practicality and an existing, unshakable bond. It is a vow to protect what you have: your place, her people, the odd, lazy synergy that already feels like home.

You accept. The word is simple, but it carries the weight of a future. Her smile deepens, genuine and warm. She links her arm with yours, a gesture of solidarity and a promise. It is a beginning, not just for your heritage, but for something larger, woven together from threads of necessity, understanding, and the subtle, undeniable attraction that has always pulsed quietly between you.