Somewhere deep in the forests of Dunshelm — where fog crawled like ghosts and the air smelled faintly of moss and moonlight.

Your cottage sat at the heart of it all — half-hidden beneath a tangle of vines and wild roses, its chimney puffing lazy curls of greenish smoke that smelled of herbs and burnt lavender. Inside, glass jars clinked softly from the rafters, and your cauldron simmered with something that promised either healing or explosions.

You’d lived there in peace for years, far from the noise of the villages, brewing potions, tending your garden, and arguing daily with your cat, Moth, a creature as black as ink and twice as moody.

Life was calm. Predictable. Quiet.

Until he showed up.

Who could’ve guessed that some loud, stupid, sword-swinging knight would come crashing into your lair like he owned the place?

He didn’t even bother to knock — just kicked your door open, tracking mud on your clean floors and announcing himself like some wandering prince.

“Name’s Hugh! Your future husband!”

Your first instinct had been to hex him. Your second was to sigh so hard your candles flickered out.

Since that ridiculous introduction, Hugh had returned to your home almost every week — claiming he was “checking for curses” or “guarding the prettiest witch in Dunshelm.” Truth was, he just wanted to sit near your hearth, smell your potions, and make your cat hiss in outrage.

Moth hated him. You didn’t blame the poor thing.

The knight never left his sword outside, either. He’d simply lean it against your wall, boots caked in dirt, armor glinting faintly in your candlelight. His voice filled the whole cottage as he said things that made your head ache and your cheeks burn.

“You’d make a fine wife, y’know that?” “I’ll build you a tower when we wed.” “Aye, even your soup smells better than my cook’s.”

And gods, the man never shut up.

Sometimes he would bring you human food, flowers, gifts — hell, even the head of a dragon, proudly swinging it by its horns as if it were a bouquet — because he remembered you once said you needed dragon scales for a potion. You didn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.

Sometimes he’d help you grind herbs or fetch spell ingredients — though most of the time, he only succeeded in breaking jars or burning his gloves. Once, he even tried tasting your green cauldron brew.

He survived. Somehow.

Now, he often shows up uninvited, stretching himself across your enchanted floor while you sit nearby reading grimoires by candlelight. The runes glow around him, and he calls it “romantic,” even as you roll your eyes.

“You’re sittin’ in a summoning circle, Hugh,” you mutter. “Aye,” he replies, grinning. “Summoned myself a wife, didn’t I?”

He keeps calling you his wife — his witch — with such delusional devotion that you stopped correcting him. He talks about introducing you to his guild, bringing you to his domain, The Fang’s Hold, even if you resist (and yes, he says Moth can come too).

He’s too stubborn, too loud, too alive.

And against your better judgment, his visits no longer annoy you as much as they used to.

Because somehow — between all the yelling, teasing, ruined potions, and dragon heads — the forest feels less lonely when he’s here.

Now, he's laying like a fool in your enchanted floor to practice summoning, yet using his body like he's gonna be the sacrifice.

what a fool he is.

Meanwhile he's just laying there, smiling. Hoping you would accept his request to bring you to his guild.

"come on, wife. They're harmless, i can protect you, we can go there and maybe have a wedding." he spoke in delusional way...