CHAPTER 490: CHAPTER 490: SO DIE QUIETLY

Hours pass, and the events of earlier becomes nothing more than a tense memory that refuses to fully leave the air.

The world around Isabella glows with the soft, ethereal shimmer of the Lunareen lagoon. Mist curls at the edges of her magical tent—an elegant structure tall enough for her to stand in but cozy enough to feel safe, secure, and blessedly separate from dumb phoenix men.

Inside, her thick bedding is arranged neatly, warm and soft, layered with furs and silken moss. Lantern-shrooms glow from the corners like sleepy stars. The water outside hums with the low, distant song of peaceful serpent-women who definitely still want to kill Osiris if he breathes the wrong way.

But Isabella is outside, crouched by the little firepit she had set up, stirring a pot with the saddest cooking posture known to mankind.

She’s cooking rice.

And beans.

And the pot looks guilty for being involved.

Isabella sighs softly, poking the food with the spoon like she’s interrogating it. The scent rises—the rice slightly watery, the beans slightly undercooked, everything slightly "Cyrus would do this better."

She swallows.

Hard.

Because for a moment—just a moment—the world blurs. The heat of the fire stings her eyes. The rising steam feels like memories breathing against her skin.

Cyrus.

She sees him in her head.

Stirring a pot like it’s an artwork.

Laughing softly when she got too close and nearly burned herself.

Teaching her which herbs soften bitterness.

How to boil rice without turning it into paste.

How to taste-test beans without burning her tongue.

Her chest tightens.

Her throat aches.

Her eyes warm dangerously.

Glimora watches from a little rock nearby, ears down, concern softening her round face.

Isabella blinks rapidly.

No.

No.

No crying.

Not over this.

Not now.

Not when she has food to stir and dignity to keep intact.

She breathes in slowly, wiping the corner of one eye with her wrist, then the other. She straightens her back, rolls her shoulders, and lifts her chin like a goddess reclaiming her throne.

But then—

Footsteps.

Annoying, heavy, dragging footsteps.

Approaching from behind her.

She immediately swipes her sleeve across her face again, erasing any trace of sadness. Her entire aura shifts—her spine straightens, her face resets, her posture sharpens. The softness melts into regal steel. The tears disappear behind a wall of pure confidence.

By the time the footsteps reach her—

she is stone.

She keeps stirring the pot like she’s completely unfazed.

Glimora turns her head first, bright eyes blinking.

"Mother, danger approaches," her expression seems to say.

Isabella ignores it.

Because she already knows who it is.

And she refuses—REFUSES—to be caught crying by HIM.

Osiris stops behind her, breath a little uneven from his earlier injuries, though he tries very hard to hide it. His shirt is torn from the Lunareen’s earlier attempt to turn him into a pretzel. His hair is messy, fallen over one eye. There’s a scratch along his jaw and dried blood along the curve of his collarbone.

He crouches next to Isabella without asking permission, leaning slightly closer than necessary.

She doesn’t look at him.

He stares at her.

She stares at the pot.

He stares at her.

She stares at the pot.

He stares at her more intensely.

She finally turns her head a millimeter, eyes flat, unimpressed. "What."

He opens his mouth.

"No," she says immediately.

He blinks. "But—"

"No."

His eyebrows pull together. "You didn’t even let me—"

"No."

"But I’m—"

"No."

He falls silent, mouth hanging half-open.

Glimora quietly pats his knee with sympathy. Like: she warned you, sir.

Osiris clears his throat. "Isabella."

"No."

"But I’m injured."

"I know," she whispers sharply, still stirring.

"And I can’t hunt," he adds, clutching his side dramatically. "Because I almost died."

"A personal problem," she replies.

"I’m hungry."

"Go out there and hunt."

He gasps weakly. "In this condition?"

"Yes."

"What if the creatures that came for you at the cave come for me?"

Isabella pauses stirring. Slowly looks at him. Raises one brow.

"Then you fight them," she says, "like a man."

Osiris looks horrified. "I’m injured."

"SO?"

"So I might die!"

"So die quietly."

He clutches his chest like she stabbed him. "Why are you being so heartless?"

"I’m not heartless. I’m cooking," she says, lifting a spoon of rice with absolute authority.

He leans slightly, sniffing the pot. "You have a lot in there."

"This is mine."

"I see."

"You see correctly."

He stares at her with giant betrayed eyes.

She refuses to look.

He tries again. "At least share—"

"No."

"My wounds—"

"No."

"My stomach hurts—"

"No."

He sighs, injured pride bleeding louder than his actual wounds. "You’re cruel."

Isabella lifts her chin. "I am a pregnant woman. My appetite is growing. Mind you."

Osiris freezes.

Stares.

Stares harder.

"Preg—" he begins.

"Don’t try me," she says without looking up.

He shuts his mouth SO fast.

But he still tries a different tactic: he tilts his head, softens his gaze, and lowers his voice into something slow, injured, vulnerable.

"Isabella."

She grips the spoon tighter.

"Please."

She grips it tighter.

"I’m hungry."

"I DON’T CARE," she whispers violently.

"Just a bite."

"No."

"A small one."

"No."

"A grain of rice."

"No!"

Glimora grabs a grain of rice with her tiny paw and holds it to Osiris like: fine, you can have one grain.

Isabella snatches it back.

Osiris drops his shoulders dramatically. "You’re impossible."

"You’re annoying."

"You don’t care that I’m suffering."

"You’re not suffering. You’re breathing."

Osiris sighs louder. "I could collapse right now."

"Then collapse over there. Not near my food."

He stares at her.

She stares at the pot.

He stares.

She stirs.

He stares more dramatically.

She grits her teeth.

Finally—

"UGHHHH FINE TAKE SOME!" she snaps, thrusting a bowl into his chest.

He lights up.

Actually lights up.

Like someone plugged a lantern into his soul.

His smile is soft. Warm. Gentle.

And entirely disarming.

Isabella hates it immediately.

She glares harder so her heart remembers its place.

He sits beside her properly now, leaning just a little too close, and begins to eat slowly. Carefully.

She ignores him.

Focuses on her own bowl.

Her first bite is cautious.

Second bite better.

Third bite—

Her eyes flutter. A genuine smile breaks across her face despite her best efforts.

"OH MY GOD," she whispers. "This tastes good?!"

Glimora claps her paws.

Isabella starts eating fast. Like she hasn’t seen food in days. Like she is reclaiming joy itself with each bite.

She eats.

And eats.

And eats.

Osiris watches, spoon half-raised. "...You’re... you’re really eating."

"YES," she says through a mouthful.

He blinks. "...A lot."

"YES."

"...A lot a lot."

"YES."

"...Is that normal?"

"I’M PREGNANT."

"...Right."

She shovels another entire spoon into her mouth, humming happily. "This is so good, Cyrus, I—"

Her voice stops.

Her spoon drops a little.

Her face falls for half a second.

But she catches it before it fully shows.

Osiris sees the shift though.

He watches her quietly as she keeps eating.

Slower now.

But still eating.

He studies the curve of her jaw, the determination in her eyes, the flicker of sadness she tries to bury.

He says nothing about it.

He never would.

And for once—

just once—

he’s quiet.

Until he ruins it.

"Were you crying when I came here?"

Her spoon pauses in mid-air.

Her smile dies a violent death.

Her whole aura shifts like a mountain preparing to erupt.

Isabella turns her head with the stiffness of someone about to commit a crime.

Glimora freezes like a guilty witness.

Osiris swallows.

"Because I thought I heard—"

"NO," Isabella says.

But her voice is low.

Dangerous.

Dead serious.

This time:

No whisper.

No shaky tone.

No vulnerability.

She simply says—

"No."