The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Meanwhile, Kian, seated beside Isabella, had the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his lips. Oh, he knew that look in her eye. She was winding up for something. And judging by Zyran's growing confusion, it was going to be interesting.

Isabella leaned down a little, locking eyes with Glimora's pitiful face. The pup blinked up at her in silence, waiting for guidance, completely unaware she was about to be weaponized in a petty war.

Then, with exquisite theatrical timing, Glimora's head swiveled toward Cyrus. Her expression was pure betrayal. Those big, wet eyes said, You promised me…

Cyrus froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. The guilt hit him instantly, even though he wasn't sure what exactly he'd done wrong. He set the spoon down slowly, debating whether he should just get up now and fill her bowl or wait to see what Isabella was plotting.

"Someone ate your portion of soup," Isabella murmured, voice rich with fake sympathy, and oh, the way she bit back a smile.

Glimora didn't technically gasp—mythical forest beasts had more class than that—but her dainty ears flicked like they'd been caught gossiping, and she blinked hard. Basically the deer-goddess version of clutching pearls.

She turned her head back toward Isabella, who gave a subtle shrug and tilted her chin ever so slightly toward the opposite side of the table.

The pup's gaze followed the invisible arrow, and then—bam—locked straight onto Zyran's red eyes.

And Zyran… oh, he didn't look remotely guilty. If anything, he looked irritated to be accused, his brow creasing as if to say, Are you seriously dragging me into this over soup?

But Glimora wasn't looking for nuance. To her, the message was clear: Zyran had stolen her food. Her tiny body stiffened in outrage. The betrayal doubled.

"My soup was the smallest!" Zyran blurted, his voice climbing in volume with pure indignation. He gestured toward his own bowl as if holding it up would serve as irrefutable evidence in his defense.

Cyrus gave him a slow, silent side-eye, Kian smothered a laugh into his cup, and Isabella—queen of chaos—just sat there, spoon daintily stirring her soup, the very picture of innocence.

Glimora didn't just glare—she radiated betrayal. Her snowy fur bristled like a puffed-up cloud of righteous indignation, her tiny body trembling with the sheer effort of containing her rage. Those bright blue eyes were locked on Zyran, and the message was loud and clear: You. Stole. My. Soup.

Zyran stared right back, red eyes narrowing just a fraction. His spoon hovered halfway to his mouth, and for once, he didn't have that smug little smirk. He set the spoon down with deliberate care, leaning back in his chair, elbows resting lazily on the armrests. It was the posture of a man saying, I could swat you across the room if I wanted to… but I won't.

"Don't even think about it," he murmured, voice low enough that it wasn't clear if he was warning Glimora or himself.

Glimora, being Glimora, thought about it anyway. She padded forward on silent feet, every step measured like she was stalking prey. Her ears angled forward, her long tail flicking once—then twice—before she lunged with lightning speed.

Her tiny, pearly teeth sank into the leather cuff of his sleeve, nowhere near his skin, but she shook like she was taking down a full-grown elk. The motion was so ridiculous that Kian's brow twitched upward in the barest flicker of amusement.

Zyran just… let her. He didn't flinch, didn't move, didn't even bother to stop her. Instead, he slowly looked down at the fluffball gnawing on his arm like it was the most annoying bracelet in existence. "Really?" he drawled, tone dripping with disbelief. "This is your war?"

Cyrus, meanwhile, froze mid-bite, torn between laughing and leaping in to defend Zyran. His kindness meter was screaming, She's just a baby! but another part of him—the part that had watched Zyran torment Isabella all week—whispered, Let her have this.

Kian sat there, silent as ever, sipping from his cup like he was watching theatre. But his eyes tracked every movement, sharp and calculating, as though keeping score for some internal game only he knew the rules to.

"Careful," Zyran finally said, not to threaten, but almost like he was giving Glimora advice. "You're lucky your owner's sitting right there, or this would end differently."

That caught Isabella's attention. She had been eating quietly, pretending she was above the whole mess, but her lips twitched at the sight of her pure white beast trying to murder Zyran's sleeve. "Glimora," she said lightly, "be nice."

Glimora didn't even pretend to listen. Instead, she released his sleeve only to leap onto his lap—graceful as a falling sack of flour—and plant her hands on his chest. She stared into his eyes like she was trying to read his soul, then let out a single, judgmental huff.

Zyran's expression didn't change, but his jaw flexed. "You done?"

Apparently, she was not done. The next second, she attempted a strategic little nip near his wrist. Not enough to hurt—she wasn't stupid—but enough to make a point.

The table was silent for a beat. Cyrus shifted uncomfortably. Kian's lips curved, the tiniest ghost of a smirk. Isabella… oh, Isabella was holding back a laugh so hard she thought she'd choke.

Finally, Zyran sighed. A deep, exaggerated, you're all ridiculous kind of sigh. "Fine. You win." He nudged her off his lap with a careful hand, not tossing, just guiding—gentle enough that even Cyrus couldn't accuse him of being rough.

Glimora landed on the floor, tail flicking high in triumph, and trotted back toward Isabella with the confidence of a warrior returning from battle.

Isabella let her spoon clink against the side of her bowl, finally setting it down. Her lips curved into a knowing smile as she reached down to scratch behind Glimora's ears.

"Okay, Glimora," she said, voice warm but still tinged with mischief. "You can come here. I'll bring some soup for you."