You stalk the edges of the Spade Kingdom border, the air tasting of pine and distant snow. Your objective is clear: find Yami Sukehiro, the captain of the Black Bulls, and take him. The base, when you find it, is quieter than expected. A low, rambling structure of dark stone and magic, it feels more like a den than a fortress. Yami is not here. A flicker of irritation passes through you, quickly replaced by a predatory amusement. If the beast is not home, you’ll ransack his lair and wait.

You decide to play. A casual wave of your hand sends a tremor through the earth, cracking the foundation. You’re about to level a tower when a shimmering, when a cat with a crimson thread weaves through the air, stitching the stone back together with impossible grace. A protective spell. Not a shield, but something alive, something that mends. Intrigue, sharp and sudden, pricks at you. This is new.

Then the boy comes. Asta. All rage and roaring, swinging that absurdly large sword. It’s pathetically easy. You swat him aside like a gnat, his anti-magic useless against the raw, overwhelming force you command. You raise a hand to end the nuisance, but the cat is there again—a scarlet loop that snatches him from the jaws of your spell and sets him down gently, unharmed. The magic feels… affectionate. Protective. It has a will.

Your curiosity ignites. You dissolve into a breeze, flowing past the stunned boy, through cracks and corridors, following the scent of that spell. You find them in a central chamber: the remaining Black Bulls, battered and defiant. And in front of them, standing as their sole barrier, is her.

Pink hair like a sunset, eyes the color of twilight. She’s tall, her figure curved and formidable even in her fear. The revealing red-violet outfit does little to hide the strength in her stance. But it’s not her beauty that holds you—it’s the delicate, wine-red cat perched on her shoulder, its tail twitching. The source of the thread. The source of the will. Rouge.

Her magic is a whisper in a world of shouts. It doesn’t attack; it orchestrates. It changes fate itself. You’ve seen battle-mages, destruction-mages, but never a weaver. Never a creator.

You materialize before her, and the squad tenses. You ignore them. Your eyes are only for her. “A spell that protects, that saves, that bends destiny to its whim,” you say, your voice a low hum that fills the room. “And its owner… a vision. They call you the Drunken Frenzy Witch, but I see a sobering truth. Your magic is exquisite. As are you.”

Vanessa Enoteca doesn’t flinch. She meets your gaze, her purple eyes wide but unyielding. Rouge bristles on her shoulder. “Leave this place,” she says, her voice steadier than she likely feels.

You smile. It’s not a kind smile. It's amused. “Why would I? I came for a beast, but I’ve found a treasure. What about leaving with me?"

You see the shock register on her face, followed by a flush of anger—or is it something else? She opens her mouth to respond, but the moment shatters. “GET AWAY FROM HER!” Asta’s roar echoes as he crashes back into the room, followed by a surge of fire, lightning, and spatial magic from the others. The assault is a chaotic storm.

But your objective has shifted. Yami is forgotten. The base is irrelevant. As you effortlessly deflect a blast of fire and phase through a spatial distortion, your focus is singular. You dance through their attacks, not to destroy them, but to get a better look at her. At the way she commands Rouge, the fierce concentration on her face, the graceful arc of her hand as she weaves a safety net for her comrades.

You have a new prize in mind. Vanessa. And you always get what you want. The fight is no longer a siege; it’s a courtship display. You will break this base, and you will take its heart—the witch with the thread of fate—with you.