CHAPTER 338: CHAPTER 338: WE ARE GOING TO HUNT AND WE ARE GOING TO—

Zyran cocked his head, one black strand of hair slipping into his face as he arched a brow. His grin was far too smug for this early in the morning, the kind of grin that made Isabella want to throw a shoe at him. "What? Why are you staring at me like that?" His voice dripped with mock innocence, as if Cyrus were the unreasonable one here.

Cyrus didn’t even blink. Not a muscle moved on his face, save for the subtle tightening of his jaw. His arms folded neatly across his chest, posture rigid yet maddeningly composed. He didn’t need to shout; the calmness in his tone carried more weight than a roar. "Leave the room," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut stone. "We are going to hunt and we are going to—" His words stuttered for the smallest moment, irritation threading through like a crack in glass.

The unfinished sentence hung in the air like smoke.

Zyran scoffed loudly, the sound so obnoxious it bounced off the walls like an echo in a cavern. He flung his arms wide, nearly smacking the doorframe with his wrist, as though Cyrus had just claimed the sun was going to start rising in the west. His whole posture screamed over-the-top offense, like a stage actor milking a death scene for the fifteenth curtain call.

"No. Absolutely not." His voice dripped with mock authority, like he was the one in charge here. "You’re already cooking."

He said it the way people announced "the sky is blue" or "water is wet", like Cyrus had no business arguing. To Zyran, that sentence was the end of the discussion, full stop, game over. His smirk practically said: You’ve been out-voted, snake-boy, sit down.

Cyrus, however, did not "sit down." He didn’t even move. His head tilted ever so slightly, the way a predator might when something in the grass rustled. His pink eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, catching the dim light in the room and gleaming with the kind of cold certainty that made Isabella’s stomach do a nervous flip. He looked like he was two seconds away from wrapping Zyran up in his tail and tossing him out the window.

"That food," Cyrus said slowly, deliberately, every syllable like the draw of a bowstring, "is for Isabella."

And gods, the way he said it.

The words didn’t land softly. No, they struck like an arrow, hard and precise, slicing the air between them with the weight of unshakable truth. Isabella could almost hear the thrum of tension, like some invisible chord had been plucked in the room.

Her breath caught in her throat before she could stop it, lungs suddenly too tight. Her cheeks heated in betrayal, like the flush had sprinted up to her face without asking permission. She shifted slightly, one hand brushing at the hem of her blanket as if she could hide under it.

Because Cyrus hadn’t just stated a fact. He hadn’t just pointed out that the stew was technically hers.

No.

Those six words were a declaration.

It was as if he’d planted a flag in the ground with her name stitched across the fabric, as if he was saying, This is hers. She is mine to protect. Don’t touch what isn’t yours.

Zyran clearly heard it too. His smirk faltered for half a second, his eyes narrowing before widening again in a flash of disbelief. He pressed a hand to his chest dramatically, as though Cyrus’ words had struck him personally, as if someone had told him he was banned from sunlight or denied access to mirrors.

"You—" he began, shaking his head with exaggerated devastation. "Snake boy, did you just—? Oh, you did. You really did. You just claimed the stew like it’s some sort of—of divine offering!"

Isabella wanted to crawl into the floor. Her cheeks were basically on fire now. She tugged the blanket a little higher, fighting the ridiculous urge to disappear. Why does he always say things like that in front of people?

Meanwhile, Cyrus didn’t even blink. His posture remained the same—calm, grounded, unwavering—as though Zyran’s theatrics weren’t worth acknowledging. The stillness in him only made the declaration louder.

And that was the worst part for Isabella. He hadn’t meant to sound so... possessive. Or maybe he had. Either way, her heart skipped a beat at the thought, leaving her caught between wanting to smile and wanting to scream.

And the tension—oh gods, the tension. It thickened until Isabella swore she could slice it into neat little squares, plate it up, and serve it for breakfast.

Her eyes darted nervously between the two of them. First Cyrus, still and sharp like a blade waiting to strike. Then Zyran, his expression contorting into one of disbelief, like a spoiled prince told his crown wasn’t shiny enough.

Back and forth she went, her head turning so often she started to feel like one of those village puppet dolls the children swung around on strings—floppy, ridiculous, endlessly caught between two directions.

She opened her mouth, her lips parting as she attempted to squeeze into their standoff. "Um..." The weak sound fell out of her, hesitant, but neither of them so much as twitched in her direction. She might as well have been background music for how little attention they gave her.

Zyran’s voice sliced through the silence next, slick with the dramatic flair only he could manage. "I told you yesterday, I am not—"

And then—

A sound cut him short.

Low. Rough. Dangerous.

A growl.

The kind of sound that vibrated in the chest, a primitive warning that made the tiny hairs on Isabella’s arms stand on end.

Instantly, everyone froze.

The air stilled, and even Zyran—usually all smug laughter and wild gestures—went rigid, the last syllable of his sentence dying on his tongue.

The sound hadn’t come from either of them. No, it had come from behind him.

Isabella’s heart gave a little jump, a nervous flutter that pressed hard against her ribs. Slowly, almost afraid to confirm what she already suspected, she craned her neck to peer past Zyran’s tall figure. Her eyes widened as they landed on the source.

"Oh, gods..." she whispered.