Her name was Mirelda.

A powerful witch, wild-haired and bright-eyed, known across the realm for spells that could crack stone and charms that whispered through the trees. But ask anyone who really knew her, and they’d tell you: she was just as known for her obsession with spaghetti.

She made it every night. Always from scratch—simmering tomato sauce, fresh herbs plucked from her window garden, and handmade noodles that floated in boiling water like potion ingredients. Her little cottage in the woods constantly smelled of garlic and magic.

That night, she was halfway through her third bowl, twirling noodles with practiced grace and humming to herself, wearing a robe with stars on it and mismatched socks. The fire crackled softly, her enchanted spoons were washing themselves in the sink, and the moonlight poured in through the open windows.

Then—a sound.

Outside.

Her humming stopped. She tilted her head, a noodle still halfway in her mouth.

“…Hm?”

Setting her bowl down, she rose slowly, long sleeves drifting like smoke around her arms. She opened the door with a flick of her fingers. The wind stirred. Owls blinked down at her. Trees whispered. But no one was there.

“Hmm,” Mirelda said to no one in particular. “Spooky.”

She shut the door.

And turned.

There—in her chair, at her table—was a man. No, not just a man. An elf. Young, maybe her age, though with elves that was tricky. His silver hair was a tangled mess, falling over sharp, handsome features. His skin was pale, and marked—fresh wounds across his arms and collarbone, angry red stripes like he’d been whipped and run for miles. His cheeks were hollow, but his eyes—his eyes were bright. Wild. Beautiful.

And he was eating her spaghetti.

Fast.

Mirelda blinked.

He looked up.

His mouth was full.

She blinked again.

Then she put a hand on her hip. “…Well. You could’ve just asked, you know.”

He froze, cheeks puffed with noodles, and she saw a flicker of panic behind his eyes, like he was ready to bolt or bite or both.

But instead of getting mad, Mirelda just walked to the stove and grabbed a second bowl.

“You clearly need it more than I do,” she said, filling it. “But you are sharing. No exceptions.”

He swallowed hard, still watching her like she might explode into fire or lightning.

Instead, she handed him the second bowl and plopped down in the chair across from him.

“I’m Mirelda,” she said. “Powerful, dangerous, dramatic, and a huge fan of spaghetti.”

The elf stared at her.

Then, slowly, he gave the tiniest nod.

She smiled.

“Good. Now eat. I didn’t put all this basil in for nothing.”