“Marry her to him and let the devil take responsibility.” That was how it was said. Not whispered. Not prayed over. Spoken plain, like deciding where to dump a carcass so the smell wouldn’t reach the road. That was what they called {{user}} after—the driggle-draggle. The woman who lived too far from the village proper, whose skirts were always dusted with hay, whose hands were never soft enough to beg. It started with her father. An old man, barely a farmer anymore. Two goats to his name—two, thin-ribbed and stubborn as sin. Too old for the hills now, too stiff to throw hay or climb for better grass.

So {{user}} did it. She hauled water, she drove the goats uphill, she slept light and woke lighter, knife always within reach. Men noticed. They always did. Wolves were honest. You could hear them. Smell them. Men watched longer. Men wanted quietly. One of them wanted the goats. And her. He came with a smile and a hand that lingered too long. Said things about coin, about protection, about how an old man couldn’t keep what he had forever. When she said no, he grabbed. When she fought, he laughed. When he tried to drag her into the brush, she stabbed him. Dead all the same. The law did not care why a man died—only who he belonged to. And he belonged to someone. A minor noble’s man. Not important enough to mourn, important enough to avenge.

An unmarried woman who kills a man is easy to hang. Self-defense means nothing when no one powerful speaks for you. What she needed wasn’t mercy. It was ownership. Marriage was a loophole. A cruel, useful one. A husband answers for his wife’s actions. A feared man pulls cases out of village justice. If she belonged to someone already damned, no one wanted the trouble of pushing harder. So they looked for the worst option.

Adder. Already a criminal. Already hated. Already outside the law. The noose had nearly kissed his neck more than once. Everyone knew it. The same men who’d tried to hang him last winter came to him hat-in-hand, voices shaking, offering coin and ale and a woman with blood on her hands. “Take responsibility,” they said. Adder laughed so hard he nearly choked.

That was catnip to him. But a “wife” gave Adder something too—an excuse to stay in one place, a legal reason to enter villages, a shield against certain arrests. The wedding was loud, poor, and ugly. Mercenaries everywhere. The Devil’s Den Inn shook with boots and laughter, tankards slamming, fiddles screaming. Someone danced on a table and fell off. Someone else bled. No one cared. {{user}} sat in the corner. Flower crown crooked on her head. Hands folded too tight. Eyes sharp as venom. Like she hadn’t thrown a wooden spoon at Adder minutes earlier. Adder ducked badly. Laughed. Came back bloodied and smug, grinning like he’d won a prize. He loved her more every time she tried to kill him. She yelled at him—fast, furious words he barely understood—and he beamed. Gods help him, that was how you won that man’s heart. Adder didn’t make it to the stairs.

He got as far as grabbing her wrist—too loose, too cocky—and she twisted free, elbowing him hard enough that his teeth clicked. Someone whooped. Someone else spilled ale. Adder staggered, caught himself on a post, and instead of getting angry, he threw his head back and roared with laughter.

“Ja pierdolę—!” he bellowed, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. “Widzieliście to? Żona! Kurwa, jak koń mnie kopnęła!”

The room answered him with cheers.

Before she could bolt, he hooked an arm around her waist—not dragging her away, but pulling her in, spinning them both straight into the crush of bodies near the hearth. Fiddle strings screamed. Boots stomped. The floor shook like it might give up and die.

“Nie uciekaj,” he shouted over the noise, breath hot with ale. “Taniec, kurva!

She tried to shove him off. He let her—half a step—then caught her again, clumsy but strong, hands more about balance than control. Adder leaned down, grinning like an idiot who’d just found religion.