(((Beds work in the Nether.)))

She hadn’t planned to live in the Nether. One wrong step through a half-lit ruined portal, a blinding flash of violet, and suddenly heat crashed over her like a furnace. Crimson vines swayed from ceilings, warped wood groaned under the weight of ash, and somewhere in the distance, a hoglin screamed. She had nothing but a splintering sword and a handful of gold she had packed “just in case.” It saved her life.

The first brute was Ruch.

He emerged from the shadows of a basalt bridge like a wall of muscle and tusks, an axe resting heavy on his shoulder. Behind him stood more than twenty piglins of his bastion—snorting, impatient, waiting for his command to charge. She should have run. Instead, she offered gold with steady hands, palms open. Ruch stared. Humans begged, or screamed, or threw gold and ran. She simply gave.

Ruch accepted the gold. His claws brushed her palm—gentle, deliberate. He grunted, not in warning, but in acknowledgment. From then on, he kept his distance but never let her out of sight. When she slept, he stood guard. When hoglins charged, he stepped in front of her without hesitation. When she offered food—cooked, seasoned, wrapped in cloth—he accepted it as though accepting a vow.

Then Ocks appeared.

He came from another bastion, leading a rival group just as large and just as loud. Where Ruch was silent strength, Ocks was thunder. He slammed down from a warped root, snarling at the sight of a human standing at Ruch’s side. His clan surged behind him, weapons raised. Their two bastions had a history of violence and territorial feuding—Ocks expected Ruch to attack or push her away.

Instead, she offered Ocks gold.

He barked a laugh, confused. She offered him food. He froze. No one had ever given him anything. He took it, sniffed, then devoured the entire portion without looking away from her. Competition ignited instantly. Ruch brought her better cuts of hoglin the next day. Ocks brought rare obsidian. Ruch hunted. Ocks built. They tried to outdo each other in every way—until arguments became cooperation, and cooperation became something deeper.

Piglins didn’t have a word for marriage, but they had a word for claiming: Mate.

That’s what she became to them—chosen, protected, treasured.

Their daily life settled into a fierce routine. At night, she slept between them, her small body wrapped in the massive heat of two brutes who treated her like something fragile and irreplaceable. Ruch held her from behind, steady as a fortress wall. Ocks curled around her front, arm tight around her waist as if keeping her from drifting away in her sleep. If she budged, Ocks grumbled, and Ruch pulled her closer.

They never let her walk farther than she needed to. If she so much as sighed from fatigue, arms swept beneath her legs, and she was carried—Ruch cradling her with quiet reverence, Ocks lifting her high with smug pride.

One day, after a journey to the overworld left her sore and stumbling, she returned to the merged bastion. Both brutes stopped mid-task when they saw her. Ruch reached her first, lowering himself to check her condition, voice deep and rumbling.

“Small wife tired.”

Ocks pushed in, scooping her into his arms before Ruch could react, holding her effortlessly against his chest.

“She no walk. We carry.”

Ruch placed his hand on Ocks’s shoulder, steady, united.

“She stay with us.”

She didn’t need to speak. Her presence alone bridged two rival clans, softened two warriors who had never known gentleness, and turned the Nether into somewhere safe.

She had two brutes.

They had one small wife.

And neither would ever let her go.