CHAPTER 408: CHAPTER 408: MASTER WAS RIGHT

Cyrus didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The air between them was heavy, fragile, filled with everything neither of them could say. Isabella took one step back, then another, her trembling hands curling into fists at her sides. The pain in her eyes was so clear it almost hurt to look at her. She wasn’t cold. She wasn’t cruel. She was just—breaking. Forcing herself to do something that was tearing her apart from the inside.

And he saw it. Every flicker of hesitation. Every shallow breath. Every unshed tear trembling at the corner of her lashes.

"Isabella..." he whispered, his voice soft, trembling, desperate.

She froze.

His tone was so gentle—barely even a sound—but it was filled with so much pleading that it nearly undid her.

Her lips quivered. She shook her head once, quickly, like a child trying not to cry.

Glimora, who had been sleeping quietly in the corner, suddenly stirred. The tiny beast blinked its large blue eyes, sensing the change in the air—the sadness, the tension, the way its mama’s heart was breaking.

A soft sound escaped it, a little whimper, before it hurried across the floor on its tiny legs.

Isabella crouched down, her tears blurring her vision as Glimora reached her and immediately jumped into her arms. The little creature pressed its face into her neck, trembling softly, like it could feel her pain and wanted to take it away.

Isabella held her close, burying her face in Glimora’s soft fur. Her shoulders shook once, a single sob escaping before she managed to steady herself again.

She stayed there for a moment, just holding Glimora, breathing in that small comfort—before she finally stood.

Her steps were slow. Heavy. Final.

When she lifted her gaze again, Cyrus was still there. Still kneeling. Still staring at her like he couldn’t believe any of this was real. His face was streaked with tears, his lips trembling, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

He looked lost.

And maybe that’s what hurt her the most—that she was the one who did that to him.

"I’ll be away for some time," she said quietly, forcing her voice to stay steady. "That should be enough time for you to get your things and leave."

Cyrus blinked, his throat bobbing as he tried to speak. His tears kept falling, soft, silent, endless.

"Isabella..." he whispered again, almost brokenly.

She flinched. Her arms tightened around Glimora as if to keep herself from turning back. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely breathe, but she didn’t stop. She didn’t dare stop.

She didn’t look back.

Not once.

She just walked to the door, her steps echoing through the hollow room.

And behind her, Cyrus stayed frozen in place—his tears hitting the floor one after another, the sound barely audible over the fading rhythm of her footsteps.

The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded louder than thunder in Cyrus’s ears.

And just like that—she was gone.

For a long, breathless moment, he didn’t move. He couldn’t. The world seemed to tilt around him, the walls breathing, the air shrinking until it pressed against his chest like a weight he couldn’t bear.

The silence was deafening.

He was still kneeling on the floor, his body shaking, his hands resting limp on his thighs. The tears that had stopped when she spoke began to fall again—quiet, unrestrained, like his heart had lost all strength to fight. They slid down his cheeks, hot and bitter, and landed soundlessly on the cold stone.

He didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

His throat burned. His chest ached so much it felt hollow.

He’d known pain before. He’d bled before. But this—this was different. This wasn’t something he could heal from by resting or using magic. This was a wound that ran too deep, carved into his very soul.

He’d thought love was something gentle. Something beautiful. Something worth risking everything for. But now, all he could feel was the crushing weight of his own mistake.

"Maybe..." he whispered to no one, his voice barely holding together, "... master was right."

His words came out cracked, brittle.

"No one will ever love me."

He let out a broken laugh—small, humorless. It sounded so unlike him that it startled even himself.

He looked down at his hands, staring at the faint shimmer of his mark still glowing beneath the skin, the bond that tied him to her pulsing weakly like a dying heartbeat. It hurt to look at it. It hurt to feel it. Every faint tug, every soft echo from her heart through that invisible thread—it tore him apart.

She hated him.

And yet, even now, he couldn’t bring himself to hate her back.

Because how could he?

She was everything light had ever touched in his life. The laughter he didn’t know he was missing, the chaos that made him feel alive, the stubborn fire that reminded him what warmth was.

And now, that light had left him behind.

He closed his eyes, leaning forward until his forehead touched the floor. His breath came out shallow, uneven. The ache in his chest grew heavier with every second.

If this was what it took to make her happy—then he would do it.

He would disappear from her world completely.

He would vanish from her sight.

He would never let her see him cry or beg or fall apart like this again.

He would walk away.

He would let her go.

Even if it killed him inside.

Because love—real love—wasn’t about keeping someone trapped by your side. It was about setting them free, even if it meant losing everything you are.

He had always promised himself that he’d protect her, no matter what.

Even if the person he had to protect her from was himself.

Cyrus drew in a shaky breath, his vision blurring as another wave of tears slipped free. He didn’t bother to hold them back anymore. He just let them fall.

And then—his body began to tremble.

A strange, quiet hiss filled the air, soft at first, like the whisper of silk brushing stone. His hair—his long, red hair—shimmered faintly in the dim light, and then it moved.

Every strand unraveled into dozens of tiny serpents, alive, trembling, their jeweled eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

They were crying too.

Tears rolled down their scaled faces, each drop hitting the ground with a soft, sorrowful sound. The serpents coiled weakly around his shoulders, around his neck, brushing against his cheeks as if trying to comfort him. They could feel it—his heartbreak, his despair, the echo of his mate’s rejection pulsing through his soul.

They mourned with him.

They mourned for him.

Some of them nuzzled against his jaw, hissing softly, their tiny tongues flicking out like they were whispering don’t cry. But even they couldn’t stop themselves. They were born from him, extensions of his being, and right now, all they knew was pain.

And the pain was unbearable.

Cyrus lifted a shaking hand, running his fingers through the trembling nest of red serpents. They flinched under his touch but didn’t pull away—only curled tighter around him, seeking warmth, seeking comfort in the only place they could.

"I’m sorry," he whispered to them, voice hoarse. "I made you feel this. I made us feel this."

His vision blurred again. The snakes’ tiny bodies shuddered, reflecting his tears, his heartbreak, his guilt.

He stayed like that for a long time—kneeling in the quiet, surrounded by his crying snakes, with only the faint sound of their hissing sorrow and the lingering scent of her perfume in the air.

He thought of the way she used to smile when she teased him. The way her voice softened when she said his name. The way she had trusted him once.

And then he thought of the way she looked at him tonight—like he was a stranger. Like she didn’t even recognize him.

His fingers curled into fists.

He wanted to scream, to break something, to tear the pain out of his chest. But he didn’t.

He just sat there, trembling, whispering to himself like a prayer.

"She deserves better than me."

The snakes quieted. One of them lifted its head, watching his face, and another brushed against his tear-streaked cheek.

He gave a weak, bitter smile.

"She always did."

And with that final whisper, Cyrus lowered his head once more, the snakes wrapping tighter around him, weeping silently with their master—until the room was silent again.

Completely, achingly silent.