CHAPTER 207: CHAPTER 208: APOLOGIZE TO THE GODDESS TOO

Cyrus stood rigid as Isolde’s words slithered through the crowd, sharp and uninvited. His eyes flicked down to the ground as if searching for refuge from the implication she’d just flung so carelessly into the air. The suggestion that Isabella wanted Kian. That Kian wanted her. The very image of it made his lips tighten in discomfort. He shifted his weight, almost like he could physically step away from the thought.

Kian, meanwhile, remained still—his face was a mask carved from stone. Not a twitch, not a breath out of place. Even the flutter of his lashes seemed mechanical. No irritation. No surprise. No... denial. And that silence, that maddening silence, was worse than if he’d roared.

"Go get her," Euphim murmured, voice low and tight. His eyes were locked on Isolde’s back, the muscle in his jaw twitching with restraint. "Before Kian decides to end her... or banish her."

Garan, leaning lazily against a nearby tree with his arms crossed, cocked a brow. "Why do I have to be the one to get her?" he muttered, the ever-present cockiness in his tone completely unaffected by the tension coiling in the air.

Euphim didn’t answer. He simply turned his head and gave Garan a slow, scolding stare—a silent language that only brothers could decipher. It said: Don’t test me. Not today.

"Tch," Garan clicked his tongue, peeling himself off the tree like it physically pained him. "Of all my brothers, you’re the worst," he grumbled under his breath, dragging his feet toward the chaos with exaggerated reluctance. A few guards near him chuckled quietly before silencing themselves at Euphim’s glare.

Meanwhile, Isabella scanned the crowd, noting the expressions—the stifled gasps, the sharp inhales, the way women clutched their chests as if gossip physically hurt. She took it all in before her eyes returned to Kian.

Still blank.

But not empty.

His face was unreadable, but his eyes—those blue, icy eyes—held a flicker. A trace of memory. Of last night. Of the spring. The scent of moss and steam. The heat of silence between them.

Maybe that’s what he was thinking of.

Maybe not.

But Isabella didn’t care. They were all waiting for her reply—hanging off it like starving scavengers, desperate for what she’d say next. And of course, she being her, merely tilted her head, offered the barest smirk, and said:

"Darling, everyone loves me."

A small, almost musical giggle slipped past her lips like a ripple in still water. It was light, but it cut deep.

Isolde’s face twisted.

Her fingers clenched around the edge of her hide skirt until her knuckles turned bone white. "Oh, no—he wants you as a mate," she snapped, her voice rising, teetering on hysteria. "That’s why he lets you speak to him like that. That’s why he lets you speak to me like that!"

Ah.

There it was.

Isabella’s smirk widened. So that was it.

It wasn’t just about Kian. It wasn’t about rank. This... this tantrum? It was all because earlier—Isabella hadn’t bowed.

Isabella had ignored the delicate decorum that Isolde clung to like a child with a broken doll. And it bothered her.

But Isabella hadn’t expected her to be this easy to unravel.

Now, watching her melt in public like a candle left too long in the sun, Isabella had to bite her lip to stop the full laugh bubbling up in her throat.

She’s a princess, Isabella remembered, eyeing the dyed feathers stitched along the edge of Isolde’s skirt—bright crimson and black, fluttering with each indignant step. Decorative. Completely useless. A symbol of status, not survival. Typical of someone who wanted to be admired, not respected. A traveling princess with no one bowing. That must’ve been hard.

Especially after meeting someone like Isabella.

Someone who didn’t just draw attention. Someone who commanded it.

No wonder she’s spiraling.

Isabella tilted her head, eyes dancing. "Ha," she said simply. A breath. A beat. Nothing more. Just a ha.

It was worse than a mock. It was dismissal.

Isolde recoiled slightly, eyes flashing like she’d been slapped. But rather than fold, she stepped forward again, desperation now eating at her poise.

And then—bold or stupid, who could tell—she turned to Kian.

"Isn’t that so, Kian?" she asked, voice sharp but trembling.

There was a loud thunk as someone dropped a basket of roots in the background. Nobody even flinched.

"Isolde!" Ilyana hissed, horror painted across her face as she took a step forward. "Stop it—"

But it was too late.

Garan was already there.

He moved like a creature used to being watched, every step lazy, arrogant, calculated. His hand gripped Isolde’s arm just above the elbow, firm but not cruel.

She stiffened in his grasp, but before she could pull away, he leaned in.

And whispered something.

Whatever it was—no one heard.

But Isolde heard.

She froze instantly, mouth slightly open, her breath catching in her throat.

The fire in her eyes flickered... then snuffed out completely.

Silence swept through the air again. Even the wind held its breath, rustling through hanging furs and dried leaves strung above the clearing like a reluctant sigh.

Isabella’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching the exchange. Garan’s smirk was faint, but present. He didn’t look at Isolde again. Didn’t need to.

He’d said what needed to be said.

And whatever it was... it worked.

Because Isolde, for the first time since this entire ridiculous outburst began, was silent.

"I am sorry, Kian."

Isolde’s voice barely rose above a whisper. Her gaze stayed locked on Kian, stiff and defiant despite the apology, like she was swallowing something bitter.

The air was thick with tension—so heavy it felt like it might crack. This part of the village, usually quiet at this hour, had gone eerily still. Even the trees seemed to hold their breath, as if listening. The birds that had been chirping moments ago had fallen silent, their absence louder than sound.

Kian’s face remained unreadable. Not even a flicker of interest. Just that same cold, impassive mask he always wore when his temper sat just beneath the surface.

Garan raised an eyebrow. "Apologize to the goddess too."

His tone was casual, almost playful, but there was something sharp beneath it. His lips curled into a soft smile as he tilted his head in Isabella’s direction.