CHAPTER 305: CHAPTER 305: CYRUS! YOU’RE HURT!

Isabella stayed still, soaking in the rare comfort he never gave anyone—not even himself. His scent surrounded her. Earthy. Warm. A little wild.

For a second, just one second, it felt like nothing could hurt her.

"You can’t promise that," she mumbled, barely audible.

"I know," he admitted, voice tight.

And maybe that’s what made it worse. The fact that he knew. The fact that he still said it.

Because Kian never said things he didn’t mean.

He wasn’t the kind to soothe. He wasn’t the kind to lie. He wasn’t the kind to hold people like this.

But here he was.

Isabella looked up slowly, her cheek brushing against his chest. His jaw was clenched, his brows drawn in that permanent frown. He looked like he was trying not to fall apart.

For her.

"You’re really bad at this whole comforting thing," she whispered with a watery laugh.

Kian blinked down at her, stunned for half a second—then something shifted. His lips twitched into the tiniest smile. Barely there. Gone in a second. But she saw it.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his eyes searching hers. "Then tell me what to do. I’ll do it."

Isabella blinked, caught off guard.

That wasn’t teasing. That wasn’t bravado. That was real. Raw. Honest.

She let out a breathy laugh, surprised by the lump in her throat.

"You’re doing fine," she whispered. "This... is good."

And just like that, the tension in Kian’s shoulders eased.

Not completely. Never completely. But enough.

Enough for her to feel it. Enough for him to show it.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead gently against hers.

She tucked her face back into his chest, arms wrapping around his waist.

And Kian?

Kian let her hold him.

And for the first time in a long time, he let himself hold something that mattered.

Meanwhile, on Cyrus’s path...

Cyrus had walked off the moment he felt Zyran’s presence dragging at his patience. He didn’t stomp away or raise his voice like some people might—he was too composed for that—but the air around him shifted. Sharpened. Like something cold and heavy had moved through the courtyard with him.

He found himself at the far end of the clearing, ducking under a leaning structure of bound logs and stone—primitive scaffolding used by the guards during training. It cast just enough shadow to offer seclusion, and for a while, it worked. The chaos felt distant here. Muffled.

He leaned one arm on a beam, the other pressed against his side where he’d taken a hit. Not a deadly one. Not even a bad one. But it ached—and the ache gave him something to focus on besides the bitterness curling in his chest.

He hadn’t seen her.

Not once had she come to him.

Not after he’d stepped forward without being asked, fought without being thanked, and stayed—because it was her.

Was she still mad?

Or was it something worse?

Was she over it?

He didn’t get long to dwell before footsteps crunched rapidly over the dirt behind him. Cyrus didn’t turn, but he didn’t need to. He could feel who it was. And the moment her voice rang out, sweet and strained with concern, his entire spine stiffened.

"Cyrus! You’re hurt!"

Ilyana.

Her hands were already on him before he could shift away. Searching. Brushing over his arms, his chest, his jaw like she had any right.

Cyrus kept his face neutral. His voice even.

"I’m fine, Ilyana."

He spoke the same way he spoke to everyone—calm, polite, distant.

That softness? That warm, quiet tenderness in his voice? He only had that when he was talking to Isabella. It was gone.

Ilyana’s brows furrowed as her hands slowed. She looked up at him, clearly startled by the unfamiliar chill in his voice. He wasn’t cold—not exactly. Just... indifferent.

And indifference from Cyrus hit harder than anger.

Still, she smiled, trying to brush past it.

"You’re not fine, look at this cut—"

"I said I’m fine."

She blinked, taken aback by the interruption. Behind her, her two mates exchanged stiff glances. The taller one clenched his jaw, already stepping forward like he might say something, but Ilyana shot him a sharp look that made him back off.

Cyrus didn’t even acknowledge them.

Because deep down, the only reason he was upset wasn’t because he was injured. It wasn’t because she was here.

It was because she wasn’t.

Isabella.

He hadn’t expected much. Just... something. A glance. A word. A brush of her hand against his to say she saw him. That she remembered. That she cared.

But she hadn’t come. And this—this—was who ran to him?

He hated how that stung.

"Cyrus—"

"I want to be alone."

There was no heat behind the words, but the finality in his tone made the air go still.

Ilyana’s mouth opened slightly, her expression stunned. She stared at him like he’d just slapped her, unsure how to even react. This was new. This was not the Cyrus she knew.

She scrambled for a reason—any reason—and landed on the easiest one.

The invasion. The bodies. The blood.

Maybe that was it.

Yeah. That had to be it.

That’s what she told herself. Because Cyrus had always been kind. Gentle. Steady. He wouldn’t push her away unless he was hurting, right?

So she reached for comfort the only way she knew.

"Okay, I’ll go prepare medicine for you—"

He moved away before she could touch him again.

Just a small shift. Barely a step.

But enough to make her pause.

"I don’t need medicine."

His voice was flat.

Because he didn’t. He could heal himself. That was the thing. He could fix the bruises, the cuts, the cracked ribs. With a flick of his fingers and a pulse of magic, he could be whole again.

But that wasn’t the point.

He didn’t want to heal.

He wanted her to want to heal him.

To care.

But she wasn’t here.

And this girl? This well-meaning, stubborn shadow of something he used to feel?

He didn’t want her hands. He didn’t want her medicine.

He wanted Isabella.

Ilyana said nothing else. She simply held his gaze, confused and quiet, then turned to go. Her two mates followed, both of them casting one last look at Cyrus like they couldn’t decide if they should be angry or relieved.

He didn’t even watch them leave.

Because the second they turned, his eyes locked onto something in the distance.

Across the courtyard. Bathed in pale moonlight.

Kian.

And Isabella.

Her hand on his chest.

His lips brushing her temple.

Cyrus stood still—his body unmoving, his face blank.

But inside?