CHAPTER 304: CHAPTER 304: IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT

"How much do you need to get your eyes off her?" Zyran asked, tone casual—too casual. He stood with his arms folded, his black cloak swishing with the wind like he was auditioning for a dramatic villain role. His gaze? Fixed on Cyrus with the kind of smug confidence that made people want to commit crimes.

Cyrus didn’t answer at first.

Didn’t even flinch.

But he did finally turn his head. Slowly. Like the bare act of acknowledging Zyran was a spiritual burden.

And when he looked at him, it wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t even annoyed.

It was blank. Like he was staring at a piece of lint that had spoken out of turn.

"You can’t buy her," Cyrus said flatly, voice low and unbothered.

And damn. That hit.

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even aggressive.

But it carried weight. Heavy, quiet weight. The kind that landed in the gut and lingered.

Because Cyrus was right.

You can’t buy her time. You can’t buy her loyalty. You can’t buy her heart.

You can’t toss some pretty words and shiny gifts and expect her to stay.

She wasn’t that kind of girl.

And they all knew it.

Even Zyran, who despite being a walking ego wrapped in gold and chaos, fell quiet for half a second. A whole half second.

"...Dealing with them will surely be tough," he muttered to himself with a sigh, eyes flicking between Kian and Cyrus like they were two cursed NPCs in his tragic romantic side quest. "Maybe I should just make her hate them," he added under his breath, rubbing his temples like this was some management crisis and not a literal three-way crush standoff.

Because the idea of sharing?

Yeah, no.

Zyran would rather wrestle a sand viper blindfolded than let anyone else have a single molecule of Isabella’s attention.

The thought alone made his eye twitch.

Meanwhile, a few paces away, Isabella had crouched beside Kian, gently blowing on the fresh gash across his ribs.

"You sure you’ll be okay?" she asked, her voice soft, her brows pinched in concern.

Kian—stoic, golden, untouchable—looked down at her and smiled. A small, soft thing that cracked through his usual ice.

"I’m okay, Bella," he said. And it was true. He was okay. Four-striped beastmen were built different. He’d heal. But the way he said her name? It wasn’t just comfort.

It was ownership.

It was hope.

It was a man quietly saying, I’m not letting go.

Isabella gave him a sad smile. There were so many things she wanted to say to him. Apologies. Promises. Questions. But they got tangled in her throat, so instead she stood and looked around—

Only to find an empty space where Cyrus had been moments before.

Her eyes scanned the field.

Dead soldiers being carried off. Survivors helping the wounded. Blood in the cracks of the stone. And then—

Him.

In the shadows.

At the far end of the courtyard, ducked under a leaning support made of bound logs and stone.

He was with Ilyana.

Again.

The girl had her hands on him. Not in a romantic way—just that over-familiar, overly-touchy, "are you hurt? are you breathing? should I cry for you?" way.

And behind her?

The men she called mates stood awkwardly, looking like their favorite toy had been stolen and they weren’t allowed to complain.

Isabella’s eyes narrowed.

Her nose flared.

Her lip twitched in disgust.

She didn’t need to see any more. She looked away, rolling her eyes so hard it almost gave her whiplash.

"Shameless," she muttered under her breath, face scrunched like she’d just smelled something offensive.

Kian, who had followed her gaze with mild interest, raised a brow.

He didn’t look mad. If anything, he looked... entertained.

"That for me?" he asked, clearly knowing the answer and already smirking.

Isabella snapped out of her sulk and looked up. "No, not you, idiot," she grumbled, voice half-annoyed, half-pouting.

Kian chuckled under his breath, the smirk widening.

He liked this.

Not her pain, of course. But her reaction? Her jealousy? Her focus? It meant she wasn’t as indifferent as she tried to be.

Zyran, watching from a distance, took the whole scene in like he was watching a particularly trashy reality show. He dragged a hand down his face.

"Look at them. One brooding, one sulking. And somehow I’m the red flag?"he muttered to himself. "This is what I’m up against? A stoic wall and a silent snake? I’m competing with a rock and a noodle."

He looked back at Isabella, who was now staring silently at the wounded soldiers being tended to. Her expression had shifted. No more pouting. No more snark.

Just that haunted look.

The one she wore when things got real.

Zyran’s amusement faded a little.

Because whatever joke this messy love square had been five minutes ago—it wasn’t funny anymore.

Not when bodies were being carried away.

Not when blood was still fresh on her slippers.

Not when this was the price they paid for one man’s greed.

He took a step forward, but stopped himself.

She didn’t need him right now.

She needed a moment.

And for once, Zyran decided to be patient.

Just this once.

"It’s not your fault," Kian said, his voice low—softer than it had ever been. His rough, calloused hands cupped her face like she was made of glass, his thumbs brushing the corners of her eyes where tears hadn’t even fallen yet.

Isabella’s lashes fluttered. She hated how warm his hands felt—how safe. "But they came for me, Kian. What if they come back again?" she whispered, her voice cracking as she bit her bottom lip, trying—failing—to stay strong.

A flicker of something dark passed through his blue eyes. Anger, maybe. Guilt. Fear. He didn’t know.

He just knew he’d rather burn the entire world to ash than watch her flinch like that again.

He pulled her close, letting her forehead rest against his chest, arms wrapping around her like a shield.

"They won’t," he said, quiet and certain—even if he wasn’t.

"I won’t let them. Not while I’m breathing."

...

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