CHAPTER 203: CHAPTER 204: I—I THOUGHT IT WAS JUST ME

Her voice cut through the murmurs like a blade.

"Did you know the man you’re crying over beats women up?"

The hush was instant. Alena’s shoulders stiffened, and for a moment—just a moment—her lips parted like she might admit it. That maybe she’d known all along. That maybe her little sob fest was more performance than panic.

But before Alena could even cough up a word, Isolde stepped into the ring.

"So?" Isolde huffed with a smug little toss of her dark curls, crossing her arms like she was about to drop divine wisdom. "It’s normal for men to beat women who aren’t their mates. That’s why we women must strive to attract the best and strongest males."

The entire atmosphere shifted.

Something snapped in Isabella’s mind—like a door being kicked off its hinges.

Her right hand twitched. The fan. She needed it.

She tried to summon it with the quiet desperation of someone about to ruin a bitch with elegance and grace. But—

"Access to the fan denied," Bubu’s voice rang out in her head, sounding excruciatingly bored, like it was sipping tea in a hammock.

Her face didn’t move. Not even a blink. Her cold, soul-pinning stare stayed glued to Isolde like she was trying to disintegrate her with sheer willpower.

Internally, however, Isabella was about to combust.

"And why is that?" she demanded mentally, her voice low and sharp in her own mind.

"You should control your anger," Bubu replied in the same calm tone one might use to announce cloudy weather. "When I gave you that fan, it was for defense. Not to slaughter your fellow beast people."

"Eww, Bubu. I’m human. Not a beast." Isabella’s voice cracked with resentment.

"Yeah. Right," Bubu snorted. Then added with far too much pleasure, "No fan for the next 24 hours. Cool off."

Then silence.

The betrayal hit harder than expected. No fan? For 24 hours? That was practically a death sentence in this misogynistic jungle of morons and monsters.

Still, her face remained the picture of calm, her gaze locked on Isolde like she was watching the world’s most offensive advertisement.

Inside? A hurricane.

She hated people like this. Women who supported abusers. Women who smiled sweetly while shoving others off cliffs. Women like Isolde—who sounded just like him.

Her father.

Isabella’s hands clenched and unclenched by her side, but she didn’t lunge. No, not yet. Not with every fiber of her being screaming restraint.

"Control it," she told herself. "You’re not that girl anymore."

If only they knew.

If only they knew the screaming, the broken plates, the sobbing in corners, the nights spent wishing for silence. If they had even a speck of understanding of what abused women suffered, maybe they’d shut their idiotic mouths and stop pretending this violence was culture.

But no. Of course not.

Isolde’s words echoed in her head like nails scratching a chalkboard, and Isabella felt something sour stir in her chest.

And yet... she didn’t speak.

She just stared.

Unmoving. Unblinking. Like her eyes had decided to kill first and ask questions later.

Isolde started shifting on her feet, clearing her throat nervously. The silence stretched long and awkward, sweat blooming near her temples as she tried to look anywhere but into Isabella’s eyes.

After what felt like years, Isabella finally blinked.

Then she turned slightly, addressing the group of women standing to her left.

"Who has something to say?" she asked, her voice low. Flat. Like the air before a storm.

Every hand went up like it was tied to a reflex.

"Then speak up. For your king to hear you," she said quietly. Not bitterly. Not angrily. Just tired. So, so tired.

Because in that moment, she understood something that made her heart ache. She couldn’t be everyone’s voice. Couldn’t fight every battle. Couldn’t be the only one shouting against the tide.

She could guide. Teach. Show them the road.

But she couldn’t drag them across it.

A soft ding echoed in her mind.

{Congratulations on leveling up to level 4 leadership skill}

Another.

{Congratulations on leveling up to level 5 Beastman Culture Knowledge}

She blinked at the floating text, momentarily startled. Well. That explained it. She understood the leadership part—she had stepped back, let others speak.

But beating women being part of "Beastman Culture Knowledge"?

Was Bubu trying to piss her off?

She shook her head slightly, brushing off the notifications.

Kian’s voice finally broke through the stillness like the slam of a door.

"You can all speak," he said coldly.

His eyes swept across the gathering, sharp and unreadable, sending shivers down every spine present. A man who never raised his voice, yet made everyone feel like they’d been personally judged and found lacking.

The crowd parted slightly, nervous energy rippling through them.

Women glanced at one another.

Then one spoke.

Another followed.

And another.

The floodgates were creaking.

And Isabella?

She stood tall. Still. Waiting.

Not as their savior.

But as their witness.

The silence cracked.

It started with a shuffle. Then a whisper. Then—

"He slapped me when I told him I was too tired to follow him to the river," a woman said, her voice trembling but loud enough for all to hear.

"I—I thought it was just me..." another added, stepping forward with her hands clenched at her sides. "Once, I brought him the wrong meat. It was a mistake. He yanked my hair so hard I couldn’t sleep on my back for three days."

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

And then it happened all at once.

Voices collided. Women—some young, some older, some trembling—spoke over each other in a tangled mess of pain and rage.

"He groped me when my mate wasn’t around—"

"He said if I told anyone, he’d drag me into the forest and leave me there for the wolves—"

"He said it was a compliment! That I should be honored a warrior like him wanted to mount me!"

"My sister left the village because of him! And no one believed her!"

Kian’s jaw tightened. His icy blue eyes narrowed.