The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Zyran leaned one elbow on the edge of the low stone table, his bread still untouched, eyes fixed on the man standing at Isabella's side as if the position was his by right. "So," he began, voice silk over steel, "the man with a knife collection gets the prime spot and the first bowl. Must be nice."

Kian didn't move, didn't blink, didn't even look at him. He just stood there, calm as a monolith, hands loose at his sides, shadow spilling over Isabella's shoulder.

Isabella's brows rose. "Or maybe," she said, voice sweet but sharp enough to cut hide, "the man who earns it gets it."

Zyran's mouth curved. "Earns it? What exactly are we counting as 'earning' these days? Standing there breathing? Looking vaguely threatening?"

Kian's eyes flicked toward him. Just for a heartbeat. It was nothing. And somehow that nothing was enough to feel like a gauntlet thrown.

From the floor, Glimora made a small, muffled hum around a mouthful of soup. She was sitting cross-legged by the fire, tiny legs wrapped around her bowl, tail swishing against the packed earth.

Zyran crouched down so he could see her better. "Back me up here, little one. You've got sense. Tell her this is an outrage."

Glimora didn't even lift her head. She scooped up another chunk of root vegetable, chewed happily, then turned so her furry little back faced him. The tail wagged once in Isabella's direction like a flag of loyalty.

"Traitor," Zyran muttered.

Kian's lips twitched—just barely. Isabella caught it instantly and bit her lip, fighting to hide her smile.

From across the table, Cyrus spoke without looking up, his tone calm but razor-sharp, like someone who'd heard every ridiculous thing in the world and was just too tired to be bothered. "If you spent half as much energy eating as you do talking, your food wouldn't get cold."

The words dropped like a well-aimed arrow, precise and impossible to ignore. Zyran's eyes flicked to Cyrus, a flash of offended pride mixing with begrudging respect. "You heard her," he said with mock solemnity, "there is no food for me."

Cyrus remained calm, his hands folded neatly on the table as if he couldn't be bothered to waste energy on anything else.

"Then if there's no food, leave." The way he said it was almost... generous. Like he was offering advice to a lost traveler, not telling a grown man to get out of his seat. But for Zyran, that calm kindness was like a jab straight to the ego.

"Oh, so you're siding with him too?" Zyran's voice dipped into that subtle mix of irritation and disbelief, like discovering your best friend just joined the rival team.

Cyrus finally lifted his gaze—steady, unamused, and utterly unbothered. "I'm siding with silence," he said simply, folding his hands on the table. "It's rare these days."

The weight behind that statement hung heavy in the air. It wasn't just a witty comeback; it was a subtle reminder that Zyran talked enough for all of them. For once, silence was the ultimate power move.

Zyran's glare softened just enough to reveal a reluctant grin—half amused, half exasperated. He could deny it all he wanted, but Cyrus had just served him a slice of humble pie... and it was cold.

"Silence is overrated," Zyran said, straightening again. "You can't charm anyone into sharing their food with silence. And speaking of—"

He turned back toward Isabella, lowering his voice as if confiding something scandalous. "Do you know how many royal bakers in my hall nearly started a fistfight over who got to knead that loaf for you? Two of them tried to poison each other over the honor. I stopped them, of course. But only because I like drama in moderation."

"Really? Moderation?" Isabella's tone was flat, but her eyes carried a spark that gave her away. She was enjoying this far too much for someone pretending to scold.

Zyran didn't bother answering her with words. He didn't need to. The look on his face said it all—bold, unyielding, and dripping with silent defiance. I am not leaving this room until you give me soup. He could have etched it into the wall for extra emphasis.

Isabella let out a long, pointed sigh, the kind that carried equal parts exhaustion and amusement. Her eyes rolled heavenward before she turned toward the cauldron. The savory steam curled upward, filling the air with the warm, herby scent of chicken and root vegetables.

She reached for two bowls.

Kian, who had been leaning casually nearby, stepped forward with an instinctive, "Here, let me—" but her hand shot up like a barricade.

"I am not handicapped, Kian. Don't treat me like one."

Kian froze mid-motion, his hand suspended awkwardly in the air for half a beat. His blue eyes flicked to hers—measuring, maybe even a little amused—before he drew back with a quiet hum and retreated to his spot.

The room seemed to breathe with her movements. She ladled the thick soup into the first bowl, generous scoops that sent broth and meat shifting gently. She handed this bowl to Kian without ceremony, though it was heavy with chicken, each piece glistening in the rising steam.

And still, the cauldron sat nearly brimming, the soup inside barely dented.

Because—let's be honest—Isabella didn't eat much. She never had. A few bites, a handful of sips, and she'd quietly push her bowl away. The rest was always left untouched, cooling in the pot until someone else claimed it.

Normally, that someone was one of two people. Meals were made in reasonable portions because it was usually just Isabella and Ophelia at the table. And while Ophelia's appetite far outstripped Isabella's—perfectly normal given Ophelia's frame and energy—it still never reached the volume of what now sat in that cauldron.

Once in a while, maybe once a month, Cyrus would decide to join them for a full meal. Not the polite nibbles he sometimes took just to appease Isabella, but an actual plate—heaping and deliberate. It was a small event in its own way, though Cyrus himself would never treat it as one.

Even then, Isabella was relentless in pressing him to eat more frequently. "Once every few days," she'd insist, as if nagging could change the slow, measured rhythms of a snake beastman's appetite.

Still, Cyrus had his own quiet code. He would not leave Isabella to eat alone at the table if he could help it. That was how these dinners went: he'd sit with her, unhurried, matching her pace with his own small sips or bites. And later, when the room was empty and the air quiet, he'd have the rest to himself—no interruptions, no demands, just him and the food.

That had been the plan tonight.

But apparently, the gods—or perhaps hell itself—had other intentions.

Because now he was seated at the same table with two other men. Two grown men, no less. Men fully capable of hunting their own food, preparing it, cooking it, and doing so without so much as glancing at Isabella's kitchen. And yet, here they were—wedged into what had once been a quiet arrangement, making a claim on the food like they were part of some long-standing agreement.

Cyrus's jaw didn't move, but in his head, the thoughts were sharp as the edge of a blade. This was not in the arrangement. This was not the plan.