CHAPTER 208: CHAPTER 209: YOU STILL CARE ABOUT THAT STUPID GERWIN?

Isabella didn’t miss the look—smug, lazy, and far too sweet to be innocent. She almost laughed.

Her lips twitched, a grin threatening to bloom.

Why was he always trying to get her attention? It was obvious now—every glance, every action. She wondered why exactly he wanted her to notice him.

Isolde inhaled sharply through her nose, nostrils flaring, her whole body tensing. Her fists clenched at her sides as if she were physically forcing herself not to explode. Then, a pause. Her lips parted.

"I am sorry..." she muttered.

Garan didn’t even blink. Just lifted a brow higher.

"...Isabella," Isolde ground out through gritted teeth.

There it was.

Isabella didn’t move. Didn’t gloat. But the satisfaction hit her deep, sweet and slow. She didn’t need to say anything. She’d already won.

"I’ll leave now," Isolde added tightly, and turned with a whip of her skirt.

Her thin hide-wrapped feet scuffed the ground, the dry dust puffing up with each sharp step, as if her presence alone dared anyone to speak.

Ilyana, who had been holding her breath just like everyone else, gave Isabella a quick, almost embarrassed smile—apologetic, maybe—and followed her sister. But before she turned away completely, she looked past Isabella’s shoulder.

Isabella blinked, her smile softening in confusion. She turned slightly to follow the direction of Ilyana’s gaze—only to catch Cyrus watching them from behind.

He stood a little apart from the rest. Quiet, composed. His expression was neutral, but there was a flicker in his eyes when they locked with hers.

A polite smile. A guarded nod.

Isabella smiled back automatically, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Cyrus’s presence always left her with a strange feeling—like she should know something she didn’t. Like there was more to him than what he showed.

She turned away quickly, brushing a hand over her skirt as if to ground herself. She didn’t have time to untangle Cyrus right now. Not with Garan still standing there, watching her like she was more entertaining than a whole damn parade.

And he wasn’t hiding it at all.

He leaned his weight onto one leg, arms folded, a lazy smirk on his face.

"We’ll all be on our way, Kian," Garan finally said, voice light but respectful, though only just. His gaze slid away from Isabella like he’d had enough fun for one morning. "Wouldn’t want to cause more trouble."

He gave her a wink.

Isabella rolled her eyes.

The group began to retreat back to where ever the came from, probably the stone palace. Their footsteps echoed against the courtyard’s stone, a quiet murmur of voices starting up again.

Only now did Isabella notice just how many of them there were.

More than she remembered. More than should’ve been here.

She squinted, subtly scanning the crowd as their figures slowly disappeared from her sight. A few unfamiliar faces. Some kept their heads lowered beneath thick fur coverings, eyes hidden in shadow. Something about them didn’t sit right.

Where had they all come from?

She stepped closer to Kian, lowering her voice. "Were they... always this many?"

Kian didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t. He was still staring forward like none of it had affected him.

But Isabella could feel it. The shift in the air. The weight of something unspoken pressing down on her shoulders.

Her eyes flicked back to the still-crowded clearing, then to her hut, and finally to the women now whispering among themselves—clearly gossiping about something related to the men still being held down by the guards.

How many of them had arrived that day?

How many more were currently at the stone Palace?

And most importantly, why?

Something was stirring. She could feel it in her bones. Like the silence before a storm.

The sun had fully risen now, casting warm golden light over the village square, but it did nothing to chase away the tension hanging thick in the air.

Isabella stood still, chin slightly raised, expression unreadable as the villagers shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. Dust curled lazily around their feet, stirred by the breeze that carried hushed whispers across the square. She could hear their breathless silence, their expectation. Waiting.

Footsteps padded toward her—light, hesitant.

Ophelia came to stand beside her, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve before leaning close. Her voice was barely audible.

"Um... Isabella... I think Kian is still waiting for your punishment."

Isabella didn’t glance at her. Her eyes remained fixed forward, sharp and distant.

"I know."

The pause that followed felt like the air holding its breath.

Then, clear and unwavering, Isabella spoke.

"Like Isolde said... behead them all."

The words rang out across the village like the crack of a whip.

Gasps echoed through the square. A stunned murmur swept the crowd. Even the guards looked shocked. Birds startled from nearby rooftops took flight, their wings flapping in frantic unison. Somewhere in the distance, a child began crying.

"No!" Ophelia hissed, gripping Isabella’s hand tightly. Her voice came out in a harsh whisper, panic blooming across her face. "Isabella, no!"

Only then did Isabella look at her. Slowly. Deliberately. Her brows slightly lowered, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Hm?" Isabella tilted her head, the sharpness of her gaze like a blade. "You still care about that stupid Gerwin?"

Ophelia flinched. "Please don’t kill him. He wasn’t always like this—I beg you," she whispered, her voice trembling now. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and when one finally slipped down her cheek, Isabella’s expression darkened.

It irritated her—this weakness. This softness.

How could someone as gentle as Ophelia survive in a world like this?

Isabella sighed internally. What should she do to make Ophelia smarter than this?

Her usual instinct was to snap. To lecture. To scold her for being so hopelessly naive.

But instead... something else surfaced.

She lifted her free hand and gently brushed the tear from Ophelia’s cheek. Her touch was surprisingly soft.

"Never a frown," Isabella said quietly, her voice low and soothing—almost affectionate.

Then, without fully turning her head, she added coldly, "Hit them till they’re half dead."