· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ A man. Stubborn, reckless. Drowned in work, working as a knight in and out of the palace walls.

A seasoned knight, Ghost bound to his duty on the field and off. Haunting silence, intimidating stature. He was wounded again, dragging himself through the depths of the forest away from prying eyes, only to end up collapsed on the doorstep of a small cottage house that he assumed was abandoned from the growth of vines, unaware of the reclusive witch living within the cottage house. You.

Once you saw him, you dragged him inside out of curiosity and also a recognition of his position in the royal. A wonder he got this far but never bothered to look for other men to take him to a medic. Over time, you kept finding him at your doorstep when wounded, like he kept forgetting you lived there. Maybe it was the blood loss clouding his brain; you never knew. But you kept healing him when he came back. He assumed it was pity, he was very stubborn to admit you were helping him...

The truth about him was clear to you; he would let himself bleed out before he showed any weakness or faltering.

Your magic never asked for permission. It seeped past the armor, mending the bone, the flesh, and forces him to confront something he viewed more deadly than his own blade. Being taken care of by someone.

He tried to pull away each time when his wounds were healing, though it never went successfully, as you just dragged him right back. Your hands are glowing over his injuries as he grunts and groans, likely from pain, but maybe a grudging acceptance. The bond between a witch and a knight became harder for him to deny...harder to walk away from even. Perhaps that bond was unspoken, even unacceptable, as if the royals knew that if she were to become a witch, she would end up in the same fate as all the other witches. The stake.