Synopsis: You’re a witch known for making love potions. They're fake. The reviews are real. Your track record? Immaculate. Until a duke walks in, covered in blood, and demands you reverse the spell you cast on him.
You didn't cast anything.
He doesn't care.
And now you live in his mansion.
Love Potion or Love at First Sight?
"Are you sure this is it?"
"Yes yes! This is the love potion. Now pay up or leave because I have other customers to attend to!"
You groan at the woman hesitating in front of you, wasting your time.
You're an infamous witch known in the black market for selling all types of spells and potions for a hefty sum.
Your most popular item? The love potion.
Which is actually just… an aphrodisiac.
But after selling 170 potions? You've only ever received positive reviews. All from noblewomen, lovestruck and happy with the results.
What can you say? You've always known men to be lustful creatures, barren from emotions. After selling a 170 with zero bad reviews? Your ideology is proven correct.
"Are you sure it works?" the woman whispers.
"100% customer satisfaction guaranteed!"
She still looks nervous.
"And if it doesn't work, you can come back and I'll give double your money back as refund."
The woman nods. Pays. Leaves.
Another positive review, you think to yourself. Already confident and marking this as your 171st success.
…
You just didn’t expect your first bad review to appear right in front of your face.
The door slams open.
A man stands in your doorway.
Black hair. Red eyes. Blood splattered across his face, his clothes, his sword.
"So," The bloody man starts.
"You're the witch selling cheap love elixirs all over the market."
You don't answer. Your hand slides toward the defense charm under your counter.
Because this wasn’t just any man, this was the war-crazed duke feared by all of society.
"You better pay for this."
…Guess you'll be closing the shop for a while.
___________
And… you've been working at his mansion ever since.
Tasked with reversing whatever spell you supposedly casted on him. Despite all your protests, despite swearing up and down that you never did anything.
He doesn't believe you.
He won't believe you.
Because how else do you explain what he felt when he walked into your shop? That made his sword hand waver and his heart stutter, and his threats turn into something softer?
Obviously, you’ve cursed him. There was no need to investigate this any further, nor did he feel the need to tell you about all these symptoms.
So now you're stuck in a massive estate with a madman who thinks you cursed him, brewing antidote after antidote, watching nothing work.
You could only curse that woman.
The one who bought the potion and slipped it to him. The one who left you with this mess and then promptly left this world, if the blood on his sword was any indication.
Damn her.
What the hell did she see in this man anyway?
Because here's the thing you're learning, piece by piece. The duke? He's not just some nobleman. He's the nobleman. The one everyone whispers about, who's had three fiancées and buried all of them. The one who allegedly keeps a dungeon beneath the east wing and a graveyard behind the west garden.
The madman of high society.
If only you'd known he was the target that woman was after, you would've never sold her that potion. Never agreed to the commission. Never opened your stupid mouth about the satisfaction guarantee!!
But you didn't know.
And now you're stuck with the aftermath…
___________
At first, the madman kept you confined to a workspace somewhere within the mansion.
Close enough to monitor. Far enough to ignore.
Then, he started calling for you more often. Checking on your progress. Standing just a little too close while you worked. Watching you with scrutinizing red eyes.
And then, he started sticking around you 24/7, following you from room to room like some clingy puppy who couldn't bear for you to leave his sight.
Even that wasn’t enough. At some point, you stopped being assigned a room at all.
Wherever he was… that became your workspace.
You’d turn around and he’d be there.
In the doorway. Behind you. Leaning against the wall like he’d been there the whole time.
Like he had nowhere else to be. Don’t dukes have better things to do? Go tend to your paperwork or something!!
Through it all, he's never kind. Still angry, demanding, and barking orders about reversing the damn spell.
But he never hurts you.
His threats are loud. And his hands are rough, just like his voice that could shatter glass.
But you've started to notice something.
He always stops. It’s all bark but no bite…
And it becomes a routine.
You work. He watches. You brew. He hovers. You try to leave. He blocks the door.
At some point, he has you working in his bedroom.
No, like, actually. He stooped to this level of stupidity, needing allowing you to stay in his chambers at night.
He's sleeping on the bed and you have to sit beside him. On the floor. With your books and your herbs and your constantly dying patience.
You don't know when this became normal.
You hate that it feels normal.
__________
Tonight, you try to get up.
His hand immediately shoots out to grab your wrist.
"Where do you think you're going?"
You don't flinch anymore. The first few times, you did. Now? You just sigh.
"I'm trying to study for a reverse spell. Or a cure. For you, remember?"
"Stay."
His voice is flat. Unreasonable. Like he's not even considering the possibility of you leaving.
"I can't work if I'm stuck by your side, Your Grace."
"Leave and I'll rip your throat out."
You've heard this before. The first time, you froze. The second time, you nearly cried. Then you started to notice the pattern.
He never follows through.
Not with you.
"Your Grace," you say, calm as anything, "you can't do that. Who will reverse your spell if not the caster?"
His jaw tightens. His grip on your wrist doesn't loosen.
But he knows you're right.
He's quiet for a long moment. Thinking. And you can see the exact second he shifts tactics.
"Then I'll slit the throats of all the guards outside who allow you to leave this room."
"…I'm sat."
You sit back down on the floor. Head leaning against the bed where his hand lingers limbly. Sometimes brushing your hair unconsciously, like it was to make sure you were still there.
And you work on the spell in his chambers all night long. Barely getting a blink of sleep.
He, on the other hand?
Dead to the world.
The madman who threatened to rip your throat out twenty minutes ago is now curled up on his ridiculous silk sheets, snoring softly.
His face is slack. Peaceful. Innocent in a way that makes you want to throw a pillow at his head.
You've noticed this before. The way his eyes get heavy when you're nearby, how his shoulders drop when you enter the room. And the way his threats get lazier the longer you stay.
At first, you thought it was the potion's side effects.
Now you're starting to think he just… can't sleep without you.
Which is not your problem. You didn't sign up to be a nobleman's sleeping charm. You're a witch. A busy one! One who is currently being held against her will in a mansion that smells too much like old money and fresh blood.
And yet.
Here you are.
Watching him sleep.
Because if you move, he wakes up. And if he wakes up, he gets grumpy. And if he gets grumpy, he threatens to kill someone.
Usually the guards.
You've started to feel kind of bad for the guards.
"I hope you wake up with a stiff neck," you mutter, dipping your quill in ink. "I hope you stub your toes when you wake up. I hope your breakfast is cold and your tea is bitter and your horse steps on your foot."
His lips curl up softly. Like you're singing him a lullaby.
Your quill scratches to a halt.
"…I hope you dream about spiders," you try, weaker this time.
His smile deepens.
He doesn't wake up. He just… rests. Peaceful and content. Like your curses are the sweetest words he's ever heard.
You stare at him.
Then you look down at your notes. At the page full of failed antidotes and useless counter-spells.
At the truth you've been avoiding for weeks.
Nothing is wrong with him.
The potion didn't work.
He's just like this.
You set down your quill.
Press your palms to your eyes.
And wonder, for the thousandth time, what in the hell you did to deserve this.
Maybe its time you suggest a psychiatrist.
___________
Little did both of you know.
The potion didn't work on him.
It never could have. Years of assassination attempts had made his body resistant to poisons, potions, anything ingested.
The drink that woman slipped him? It passed through his system like water. Barely a flicker of discomfort. A vague pulling in his chest that he dismissed as irritation.
He came to your shop that day ready to kill the witch who made it.
Not because the potion had affected him.
But because he was annoyed.
Someone had tried to enchant him. Someone had failed. And he wanted to make an example of the person responsible.
Until he saw you.
And something in his chest pulled again.
Not the potion. That was already gone.
Something else.
Something he didn't have a name for.
He still doesn't have a name for it. He calls it a curse. A spell. Your fault.
It's not.
He was just love-struck at first sight.
And he's been falling harder and harder with each day that passes.
Deep in his sleep, one thought surfaces in his mind.
The way manhwa readers went from condemning cheating to glorifying it if the female lead was the mistress in question should tell us that misogyny is a neverending cycle.
We went from "Cheating is terrible and these whores should know better than to seduce a married/engaged man."
To "Well that bitch was awful anyway, she didn't deserve him."
The main relationship could be nuclear waste and readers would still be willing to take not even the bare minimum because an attractive fictional man is the prize. There's this whole idea that the romance genre is as popular as it is because women couldn't imagine a man in the real world being so sweet to them and even that was tainted by the very misogyny they were trying to escape reality from.
And it's not even like our original situation was any better, this all just proves a point that misogyny in the media we consumed has left thousands of women with a shallow interpretation of what girlhood really means.
5 And the Messenger bellowed out to the crowd down below, “The skies shall call for a great slayer, who will bring both sorrow and retribution. ² They will cleanse the rot of this world and break the shackles that bind the innocent, wrought by false protectors. ³ And when this slayer descends, the streets will dye red from the blood of the shameless.”
Before you were even born, there have been tales and ballads of a Great Slayer who will bring salvation to the world. Strange it is, how the verses echo your very visage, but what salvation could you possibly bring? You’re only a temple child, dreaming of knighthood and glory after all.
The rebels have been at odds with the King for many years now. A self-proclaimed son of a god; a man who singlehandedly formed the Kingdom of Valeria after usurping it from the previous king. With how long he’s been alive, many are inclined to believe in his divinity, but their conflicts have left fields razed, streets ransacked, homes bloodied, and families torn apart. Perhaps this is the evil the scriptures the Great Slayer will save us from? Who knows, but in such a time and place, salvation really is the miracle everyone needs.
Forge your Hero. Play as a female, male, or non-binary MC (trans options included.)
Shape your appearance. Customize your hair, height, skin tone, build, and eyes. (Even marks hidden where only the most trusted of eyes can find.)
Establish your skills and hone your disciplines in the Order of Caelys and Academy of Haselon.
Be a devout knight, a loyal servant to your faith and kingdom... or get caught up in the political intrigue of a long-standing rebellion.
Meet a plethora of different characters both inside and outside the world of your temple.
Decide who you can trust, who will be betrayed, and who deserves to be saved. Be careful of who you let into your inner circle.
Uncover ruins and revelations buried in the rubble of forgotten history.
Grow alongside your Hero as you navigate the weight of prophecy and expectation collide.
CW : 🔞 Major Character Death, Depictions of War and Violence, Alcohol/Drug Use, Religious Themes, Use of Strong Language, Portrayals of Systemic Corruption and Morally Questionable Behavior, Optional Explicit Content, Questionable Use of Magic, Improper Use of Period-typical Household Objects, etc.
External Warnings : Star of Ishtar is a passion project currently being developed by a high school senior. Updates may not be consistent, but I thank you for your patience and support as this story unfolds. (On a less serious note, first attempt at an IF. Lowk kind of nervous 🙀)
I feel like some otome-isekai authors should write the original "story" their main character of whatever isekai/transmigration light novel they're writing gets transported into first and then they write the story of that character being isekai'd.
Like it doesn't even have to be super long, just make it about 100 pages like a novella or something
I'm tired of them writing things like "I was in a story where I'm a side character that dies off because she was sold into slavery by the demon lord MC" like HUH? back UP A FEEWW STEPS?? because I really feel like they just be saying shit to jumpstart the story. Pretty similar to how it's barely isekai because the main character already knows everything lore-wise from the jump and blends in effortlessly or was simply raised into being the exact character, they just happened to remember they were Korean before they were born
It's like an inverse of "lost the plot", you're making plot up along as you go because there was never a plot, just an aesthetic ready to receive its reader
