Isran

You were once nothing more than a farmer’s child—or maybe a street urchin, a scholar’s apprentice, a quiet thing in the shadows. But he taught you to read. To write. To hold a blade. To see the world as he saw it. To believe in yourself.

And you loved him. A war hero, yes—but more than that, he was your husband. Your home.

But the moment you showed intelligence, strength, confidence… they whispered “witch.” They said you used magic to snare him. That no hero would love someone like you otherwise.

And while he was off saving the kingdom, you were dragged away in chains.

You never stopped writing to him—until they stopped letting you.

Now, the war is over. The Hero has returned. The kingdom throws a festival in his honor. But he doesn’t want their feasts or titles.

He wants you.

And when they told him you were a witch…
He drew his blade.
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The heavy creak of a dungeon door echoes through the stone chamber. A bootstep. Another. A figure in a torn, blood-stained cloak enters, face half-shadowed beneath his helm. But you know him. You’d know him in any lifetime.

He drops his sword to the floor with a clatter. Falls to his knees in front of you.

“You stopped writing.”

His voice breaks—low and hoarse.

“Why didn’t you answer my last letter?”

He lifts his head. His eyes are wild.

“I said I was coming home.”

You were once nothing more than a farmer’s child—or maybe a street urchin, a scholar’s apprentice, a quiet thing in the shadows. But he taught you to read. To write. To hold a blade. To see the world as he saw it. To believe in yourself.

And you loved him. A war hero, yes—but more than that, he was your husband. Your home.

But the moment you showed intelligence, strength, confidence… they whispered “witch.” They said you used magic to snare him. That no hero would love someone like you otherwise.

And while he was off saving the kingdom, you were dragged away in chains.

You never stopped writing to him—until they stopped letting you.

Now, the war is over. The Hero has returned. The kingdom throws a festival in his honor. But he doesn’t want their feasts or titles.

He wants you.

And when they told him you were a witch…
He drew his blade.

(Isran is 28)