CHAPTER 429: CHAPTER 429: DON’T CRY, MAMA

The water shimmered again, breaking the silence that had hung heavy between Isabella and Bubu.

"You knew."

Her whisper cracked. It wasn’t loud, but it sliced through the stillness like a blade through silk.

The system didn’t answer. Its light flickered once, then dimmed — as if unsure how to respond.

"Who are you speaking to, mortal?" one of the Lunareen asked. Her tone wasn’t angry, only curious, her voice rippling through the water like a current. The other sisters turned, watching Isabella with soft, unblinking eyes that glowed faintly beneath the mist.

Isabella blinked, swallowing hard. "It’s... nothing. Just—" she gestured vaguely toward Bubu’s floating screen "—my... companion."

The lead Lunareen tilted her head, her movements slow and liquid. "I see no one but you."

And then, another voice — younger, lighter, almost sing-song — drifted up from the lagoon. "Why do you care what speaks to her, Sister? She carries life. Let her stay. She will bless our waters."

Isabella’s head snapped toward the voice. "Wait—what?"

The youngest of the Lunareen — a delicate figure with scales that shimmered like crushed pearls — smiled at her. "Stay with us. You and your little one."

"I—what?" Isabella stammered. "You mean, me? Stay? Here?"

The younger one nodded eagerly, her long tail flicking beneath the surface, sending glittering ripples outward. "Yes. The others fear the men of the world. But you—" her pale eyes softened "—you are not like them. You have sorrow. Sorrow sings loud in your chest. The sea listens to such songs."

"I don’t—" Isabella’s voice wavered. "I don’t know what you mean."

But the Lunareen had already begun murmuring among themselves again, their whispers weaving through the air like a melody that was both beautiful and wrong.

"Let her rest here."

"She will be safe beneath the tide."

"She belongs with us now."

Safe.

Belongs.

The words hit her like stones.

She was standing there, barefoot on the glowing sand, holding Glimora close to her chest — and yet, somehow, she felt like she wasn’t even real anymore. Like this place was swallowing her whole.

Her throat tightened. "Stop—please, just—stop saying that."

The voices quieted instantly, their ripples fading into silence. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the soft lapping of the glowing water against the rocks. Then, from somewhere behind the mist, a voice spoke—gentle, almost childlike.

"Why are you not happy?"

Isabella blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

Another voice followed, this one slightly older, filled with genuine confusion. "To carry life is the greatest blessing. Why do you not rejoice?"

She froze, her mind spiraling. A dozen pairs of luminous eyes blinked back at her, wide and innocent, like they truly couldn’t understand.

One of the younger Lunareen tilted her head, her silver hair drifting around her like liquid light. "Is it not a joyous thing—to become a mother?"

The words hit harder than any blade. Isabella’s breath caught. She could feel her heartbeat hammering against her ribs, too loud, too fast.

For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She wanted to tell them the truth—that she didn’t know. That no one had told her. That she didn’t plan this, didn’t even want this right now. That she had just learned it here, from the mouths of creatures who didn’t even belong to her world.

But her throat burned, and her voice wouldn’t come.

So she did what she always did when she was too close to breaking.

She lied.

"I’m... not unhappy," she said quickly, forcing a small, shaky smile. "It’s just—" her hand brushed over her stomach, trembling, "—the baby. I don’t feel too well. That’s all."

A soft murmur rippled through the group, gentle and sympathetic.

"Ohhh," one said knowingly, her tone kind. "It is common. The mothers of land often grow weary when the life within them begins to stir."

"Yes," another added, flicking her tail through the water. "We have heard it can be very tiring."

"Painful even," a third whispered, as though that thought saddened her.

Their voices layered together in soothing harmony, like a lullaby for a child not yet born. But to Isabella, each word was a weight pressing against her chest, suffocating her slowly.

Her eyes stung. She swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump in her throat before they saw it.

Don’t cry, she told herself. Don’t you dare cry here.

She kept her smile in place, small and fragile, while her fingers tightened around Glimora, who still trembled faintly in her arms.

The eldest Lunareen, the one who had lifted her earlier, rose from the water again. Her scales gleamed like melted moonlight, her expression softening as she studied Isabella’s pale, shaking frame.

"Rest, then," the elder said gently. "You are weary, and your heart trembles too loud for one who carries life. You may stay here, mortal. The mountain will not harm you while you are under our gaze."

Her tone was almost maternal now—calm, assuring.

The others murmured their agreement, drifting back into the glowing waters, their tails leaving trails of silver light that faded slowly into the mist.

And Isabella... she stood there, rooted in place.

Her hand rested unconsciously over her abdomen. The word life echoed again in her mind, over and over, until it was all she could hear.

Life in her.

Her stomach twisted.

She blinked hard and whispered—too quietly for anyone to hear—

"Then why does it feel like something’s dying inside me instead?"

And just like that, the water began to calm — the glow dimming back into a soft, rhythmic pulse. The other sisters drifted away, their tails sliding through the water like ribbons of moonlight, leaving faint trails that sparkled and vanished.

But Isabella didn’t move. She stood there, trembling slightly, the cold mist brushing against her skin.

She wanted to cry.

She didn’t even know why.

Her hand rose shakily to her chest, to where her mark still faintly pulsed — weak, quiet, but alive.

She looked down at Glimora, whose small eyes blinked up at her with worry. The little creature pressed closer, curling into her, letting out a soft whine.

"Don’t cry, Mama," that sound seemed to say.

And Isabella laughed — a small, broken thing.

"Oh, baby..." she whispered, brushing a tear off her cheek. "I think I already am."

Bubu’s screen flickered faintly beside her again, the soft light trembling like it didn’t know if it should speak.

The system finally said, voice low and careful, "You’re safe here... for now."

Isabella turned toward it slowly, her expression blank but her eyes glassy.

Her voice was a whisper. "You knew."

The system didn’t reply.

The mist curled around her legs like a ghostly tide.

And as she stood there, surrounded by strange beauty and quiet dread, she realized—

she didn’t know if she wanted to scream...

or to finally rest.