How To Lose A Dude In 10 Sighs

They came for me with torches.

I was in my greenhouse, fingers deep in a salve meant to stop the spread. But the pounding on my door wasn't someone needing healing.

It was fear. And fear needs no proof.

"She's the witch!"

"She cursed the mayor's son!"

"She speaks to plants—what more do you need?"

I ran.

Through roots and rot, brambles slicing my arms, I ran into the woods I knew better than myself. Behind me, the villagers howled.

I tripped. Hit the ground hard. Reached for my knife.

And found a sword instead.

The blade stopped an inch from my throat—held in a gloved hand.

The man at the other end wore a cloak too dark for the forest and eyes too calm for the situation.

"You done running?" he asked.

I stared.

"Dude," he added, almost as an afterthought.

And somehow, I believed him.

He didn't say much.

Just walked beside me. Let me lead. Didn't flinch when I showed him the mayor's son—half-turned to stone, skin marbled like quartz.

"I've been trying to stop it," I said. "I think it's the roots. Something buried under the village. I didn't do this."

"I believe you," he said.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "You're shaking like someone who still wants to save people. Cursed folks don't shake like that."

That night, he stood guard while I worked. Brewed. Bled.

He sat by the fire and hummed off-key. Again.

I almost smiled.

A thorn lashed me when I wasn't looking. Poisoned. The curse got in my blood.

I collapsed in the moss.

He caught me.

I woke to sweat. To skin. To his arms around me, heat keeping the chill away.

"Didn't know what to give you," he muttered. "So I just… stayed."

His shirt was off. His shoulder bare.

And on it—a crest.

A tree with black roots. Encircled in runes.

I gasped.

"That's House Umbros," I whispered. "From the codex. They were said to—"

His hand clamped gently over my mouth.

"Don't," he said. "Please."

I didn't.

Instead, I leaned in. Kissed him.

He kissed back like he'd been starving for it.

We burned the roots. Together.

The village didn't thank me. But they didn't chase me either.

When the last statue boy blinked awake, I looked for him.

Gone.

But in my satchel—his glove. Wrapped around a sprig of ivy.

And etched into my herb table—three letters: D-U-D

The rest had burned away.

But I remembered his hands. His silence. His warmth in the night.

And how, even cursed, he stayed.

I never trusted anyone.

Until him.