CHAPTER 209: CHAPTER 210: UGH. WHO GAVE YOU PERSONALITY PERMISSIONS?

Ophelia bit down on her lip, lowering her gaze. Her hands trembled, but she said nothing.

She wouldn’t dare.

Everyone could see it now—Isabella’s mercy was already stretched thin. And this, they knew, was mercy.

The guards hesitated for a heartbeat, glancing toward Kian for silent approval. Kian, still stone-faced and detached, gave a single nod.

Only then did they move.

"Take them away," Isabella snapped, her voice firm, crisp, leaving no room for argument. "You’ve already wasted my morning. Don’t try that with the rest of my day."

The guards seized the criminals at once, dragging them through the square. Cries erupted, but the villagers remained still, not one daring to object.

Isabella scoffed under her breath. She could still feel the sting of annoyance buzzing in her chest. Her gaze drifted—landing on Cyrus.

Her expression shifted.

That man.

Even standing there silently, he exuded an unnatural calm. Like nothing ever surprised him. Like he belonged in the center of chaos.

She smiled at him.

And he was already walking toward her.

His pace was steady. Measured.

Isabella arched her back in a deep, satisfied stretch, arms high above her head. Her joints popped in tiny protests after standing so long under the sweltering morning sun.

Around her, the village began returning to its usual rhythm, the tension from the punishment slowly melting into whispers and side glances.

But something—

Something in the air changed. The breeze stilled.

And that’s when Isabella felt it—

something lunging toward her—

With a sudden whoosh, a puff of white fur launched from a low-hanging tree branch straight into Isabella’s arms.

She caught it midair without even flinching, the movement so smooth it could’ve been rehearsed.

The fluffball blinked up at her with wide, glistening eyes and an award-worthy expression of innocence. Glimora’s soft limbs clung to Isabella’s dress as if she were holding onto the edge of a cliff. Her tiny tail swished once, then wrapped tightly around Isabella’s wrist like a plush vine.

"Oh, look who’s pretending to be all soft and loyal again," Isabella muttered, squinting down at her. "You were spying from the tree the whole time. Don’t act like you weren’t enjoying the chaos."

Glimora answered with a soft squeak and tilted her head, the very picture of adorable guilt. Her little tongue poked out.

Isabella raised one brow. "Yeah right. Still mad at you."

She kept her face blank, betraying no affection, and promptly handed the creature to the person nearest her—Cyrus.

Glimora squealed in betrayal. She tried desperately to claw her way back up Isabella’s arm like she was scaling a cliffside in a storm, but Cyrus gently peeled her off like a sticker. The puffball whimpered dramatically as though she’d just been sentenced to exile.

Isabella didn’t even glance back. Her eyes were already fixed on the sight of the guards dragging away the bloodied men, their groans fading into the distance.

Cyrus, with Glimora now firmly in his arms, blinked down at the sobbing bundle of fluff clinging to his chest.

A muscle in his cheek twitched as the fur ball wailed even louder, but instead of reacting, Cyrus simply blinked—slow and calm—then offered Glimora a soft, almost fond look.

With quiet patience, he cradled her closer and gently patted her tiny head, like she was the most precious thing in the world.

Meanwhile, Isabella’s gaze found Kian’s across the open space. For a single moment, everything else dulled—the murmurs, the wind, even Glimora’s whining. He was still standing there, arms crossed, posture stiff as stone. Cold, unreadable. But his eyes—

Oh, those eyes were anything but indifferent.

She gave him a slow, sly smirk.

Kian didn’t react. Not even a twitch of his mouth.

Isabella tilted her head and muttered to herself under her breath, just low enough that only the breeze could hear, "He really loves me."

Cyrus, completely unaware of her whispered delusion, adjusted Glimora in his arms with quiet care, his attention focused entirely on the still-sobbing fluff ball.

She turned back to survey the area. Several women were gathering up their mates, who now looked bruised, exhausted, and clingy. One woman had two—no, three—men fussing over her like she was made of glass. They were practically fighting for the honor of carrying her bucket.

Isabella rolled her eyes. "Hmph. How do they even sleep with that many limbs around them at night? Must be like rolling into a spider web."

Then she turned her focus to Glimora, who was sniffing dramatically at Cyrus’s chest like she’d been abandoned in the wild for years.

"Make sure she doesn’t disturb me," Isabella ordered, flicking a hand in dismissal as though dealing with a particularly clingy mosquito.

Cyrus gave her a short nod, though Glimora wailed louder at the gesture.

"Traitor," she squeaked at him in beast language that only Isabella could understand, but Cyrus didn’t need to speak fluffball to read the betrayal in her eyes.

Isabella bit her bottom lip to hold back a laugh. "Drama queen," she muttered, shaking her head. Her stomach gave a tiny growl, just loud enough for her to wince.

Cyrus noticed immediately.

"What do you want to eat?" Cyrus asked quietly, his voice low and calm, a hint of worry in his eyes. "I’ll cook something for you. You can eat once you’ve rested."

"Tsk," she clicked her tongue. "Tired of soup and meat. If only we had bread. Or rice. Or potatoes. Or cake. Or..."

She trailed off as a familiar chime rang in her ears. A soft blue screen lit up midair—Bubu’s system interface.

"Nope!" Isabella mentally shouted before the system could even speak. "No, Bubu. I’m not going back to that stupid mountain. Forget it."

The screen dimmed instantly.

A beat passed, then came Bubu’s voice—disembodied, smug, and far too pleased with itself.

"We’ll see about that~"

Isabella gave an exaggerated eye roll. "Ugh. Who gave you personality permissions?"

Cyrus, completely unaware of the system banter, watched her with a soft smile.