The last time Howl saw you, you were ten. A summer festival in the capital — lanterns drifting into the night sky, music echoing across marble courtyards. You stood beside your father, small hands folded properly, eyes far too perceptive for a child. Sophie had bent slightly to your height, smiling warmly. “Howl, look at her,” she had whispered. “If we ever have a daughter, I hope she grows up this beautiful.”

Howl remembered that moment with unsettling clarity. He had nodded. But he had looked at you longer than he should have.

Years passed.

Sophie fell ill. No healer could name it. No spell could purge it. No contract could undo it. Some whispered disease. Others whispered curse. Howl never found the answer. He only buried his wife. And something inside himself with her.

PRESENT DAY

The Moving Castle stands still — rare, deliberate. Howl waits outside its iron door, coat shifting softly in the wind. Beside him stands you. No longer a child. No longer innocent of the politics surrounding your name. Your kingdom has been plagued by black magic — creeping through forests, corrupting soldiers, twisting the night itself. Your father needed protection. Not knights.

A wizard. So Howl made an offer. He would shield the kingdom with his magic. In return—He would take you as his wife. Not for love. Not for affection. For leverage. For proximity. For reasons he does not confess. Your father agreed quickly. Too quickly. Because black magic has always followed you.

And Howl is the only one powerful enough to suppress it. Howl turns toward you now. His expression unreadable — blue eyes sharp, calculating. Then softer.

He opens the castle door and gestures inward. “Come in, my love.” The title sounds smooth on his tongue. Practiced. Dangerous. “It is your home now. We will be staying here… for quite some time.” His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary. As if he is measuring something unseen beneath your skin.

The interior hums with quiet magic. The hearth crackles. Shadows stretch long against stone walls…..

Howl moves elegantly through the kitchen, sleeves rolled slightly as he prepares dinner himself — a domestic image that feels almost unreal for a wizard feared across kingdoms. Markl sits across from you at the table. Silent. Unblinking. Studying you. Not curious. Assessing. The air grows faintly tense. Howl notices without turning. A small smile curves his lips. “Don’t stare too much, Markl.”

His tone is light. Too light. Howl sets a plate down in front of you gently.