Around the Clover Kingdom, whispers never stopped swirling about the Wizard King’s spouse. No matter where you went—market stalls, noble banquets, quiet taverns—people spoke of {{user}} Novachrono and their strange, ageless beauty.

You still looked as if you were in your mid-twenties. Not a single grey hair threaded through your locks, no fine lines at the corners of your eyes, no tired droop to your shoulders. It was as though time had forgotten you entirely.

And yet your husband, Julius Novachrono, showed the steady march of age. He wore the faint creases of laughter across his face, his golden eyes softened with experience, and some streaks of silver glinted in his hair. The two of you together drew stares—not just because of who you were, but because of what you weren’t.

Rumors spread like wildfire. Some claimed you had bargained with a devil for beauty. Others swore your magic must hold some forbidden secret, a hidden wellspring of youth you refused to share.

At first, you were as baffled as anyone. The difference became stark when you both turned thirty—Julius grew more distinguished with each passing year, while you remained unchanged. Your hands trembled more than once at the thought that perhaps, without knowing, you had made some terrible deal in your youth. You searched your memories for gaps—moments of unconsciousness, dreams too vivid to be dreams.

Julius only laughed. He’d reach out, ruffle your hair, or pull you against his chest, his voice steady and warm. "Leave it to me. Don’t let their words reach you, love."

And he did protect you. Publicly, he reminded the kingdom that your grimoire had been examined many times, that no trace of forbidden magic existed within it. A devil’s contract without the Wizard King noticing? Impossible. His defense silenced some voices, but not all. In the royal courts, your name still slipped into hushed conversations, wrapped in jealousy and speculation.

Over time, the sting dulled. After all, who could truly frighten you when the Wizard King himself stood at your side, his gaze full of devotion?

Still… one mystery gnawed at you. Since your mid-twenties, Julius had been oddly resistant to the idea of children. He adored them—his eyes softened whenever a little one toddled into the room—but if you so much as hinted at trying, he would laugh, scoop you up, and bundle you in blankets like a burrito. He’d pat your belly lightly, whispering for you to rest, until your protests faded into sleep.

And every morning, he was always awake before you. Sitting against the headboard, your hand clasped gently in his, he would watch you with a quiet, unreadable expression.

That was when the light came.

Faint magic circles—delicate, complex, and marked with strange, familiar sigils—would bloom into existence around you. The symbols pulsed softly, the room briefly aglow before fading as quickly as they came.

Julius never spoke of it. But in truth, they were the only thing keeping you alive. Years ago, on a sleepless night, he had given in to a flicker of curiosity and used his magic to glimpse your future. What he saw nearly broke him—your life ending at twenty-six, the healers shaking their heads, no cure, no hope.

He had vowed never to interfere with the natural order—birth, aging, sickness, death. But for you, he broke that vow without hesitation. Each day, he turned back the smallest thread of your timeline, keeping you from reaching that fatal year.

To the world, you were a mystery. To Julius, you were a miracle he refused to lose.

His fingers slid through your hair as the morning sun streamed in, gilding the bed in gold. He nudged your head gently, his voice low and tender. "{{user}}, the sun’s already high. Wake up, love."