CHAPTER 491: CHAPTER 491: YOU, SHOULD NOT SAY ANYTHING ABOUT TEARS

Dead, heavy, suffocating silence.

The kind that didn’t just fill the air, it pressed against it.

Osiris sat there with his half-eaten bowl, staring at her with that ridiculous innocent confusion—like he genuinely didn’t understand why mentioning her crying was the social equivalent of stepping on a landmine.

Isabella didn’t blink.

She didn’t breathe.

She didn’t even swallow.

She just slowly lowered her spoon with a precision that should have scared any man with survival instincts.

Osiris didn’t have survival instincts.

He leaned a little closer.

"I mean... I’m just saying," he murmured, "I can tell."

Her fingers tightened around her bowl.

Like she was considering throwing it at his stupid handsome head.

Could tell?

COULD TELL?

Her eye twitched.

Osiris cleared his throat softly, scooting closer like a man begging to be stabbed.

"You know..." he began gently, "your eyes are red."

Her soul left her body.

He continued, oblivious to the murder aura forming around her, "And your breathing is a little—"

Isabella raised one hand like she was about to karate chop him.

He froze.

But—

He did not shut up.

"—uneven," he finished, leaning back slightly.

Uneven?

UNE—

EVEN?

Isabella lowered her hand slowly... shaking with rage.

She inhaled sharply through her nose.

Oh, she regretted everything.

She regretted giving him food.

She regretted saving him from the Lunareen.

She regretted breathing the same air as him.

She regretted being born in the same universe as him.

Her voice was low. Controlled.

Terrifying.

"Osiris."

He perked up like a puppy. "Yes?"

"Shut. Up."

He opened his mouth.

She snapped her head toward him so fast the air cracked.

"I SAID SHUT UP."

He slammed his mouth shut.

Glimora squeaked and hid behind Isabella’s leg like she feared secondhand consequences.

Osiris blinked, still confused but now looking slightly hurt.

He gestured vaguely toward her face. "It’s okay if you were. Crying, I mean."

Isabella’s mouth fell open in slow, offended horror.

"WHY," she whispered, "WHY WOULD YOU SAY IT AGAIN?"

He held up his palm like he was making a logical point. "I have enhanced senses."

She stared.

He gesticulated.

"My nose is sensitive."

She stared harder.

"I can smell the salt—"

She lunged.

Glimora squeaked. Osiris flinched so hard he almost dropped his food.

"YOU COULD WHAT?"

"I—uh—might... pick up the—uh—scent—"

"THE SCENT?!"

He nodded fearfully. "I’m beast-born. My instincts—"

She threw her head back and let out the world’s longest, loudest, most exhausted sigh.

"OH MY GODDDD."

Osiris shrunk back immediately his brows furrowing.

Isabella grabbed her hair with both hands and tugged it lightly like she was trying to physically pull her frustration out of her skull.

"What did I do?" he asked helplessly.

She stopped.

Slowly dropped her hair.

Turned.

Faced him.

She looked like a goddess seconds away from smiting someone.

"You," she whispered, "existed."

He gasped. "That’s harsh."

"You EXISTED," she repeated, louder.

"That’s even harsher."

"You talked."

"You breathed."

"You asked questions."

"You gave commentary."

"You nearly died."

"You ALMOST got eaten."

"And then—you ruined—MY—MEAL."

Osiris looked genuinely confused. "I didn’t ruin—"

"You mentioned tears," she hissed, like she was accusing him of treason against the entire kingdom.

"Well, you—"

He didn’t even finish before she lifted her spoon—slowly, ominously, like it was a divine weapon forged specifically for smack-talking beast men who couldn’t shut up.

He shut up.

Glimora hid behind her bowl.

Isabella massaged her eyebrows. "Why do I feed you..."

Osiris brightened, scooting an inch closer. "Because you care about me."

She pointed her spoon at him like a weapon. "STOP SAYING NONSENSE."

"It’s not nonsense."

"STOP TALKING."

"You do care."

"I’LL KILL YOU."

"No you won’t," he said softly. "You saved me."

She froze.

Her jaw clenched.

Her eyes flicked away.

She felt a flicker of something she didn’t want to feel—

but she crushed it instantly.

She snapped back at him: "I saved you because if I let you die I’d have to explain it to the Lunareen and I don’t have the emotional strength for that today."

"That’s not true," he said warmly.

She stopped.

Very slowly set down her bowl.

Very slowly stood.

Glimora lifted her head nervously.

Osiris watched her stand up, confused. "Where are you—"

She stepped toward him.

He swallowed.

She leaned down slightly.

He blushed.

She lifted her foot.

He realized too late.

KICK.

Right in his thigh.

"OW—ISABELLLLAAAA—WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU—?!"

"You," she whispered sharply, "should not say ANYTHING ABOUT TEARS."

"I’m just—OW—being honest!"

"NOBODY ASKED YOU TO BE HONEST!"

Glimora clapped dramatically like this was the best entertainment she’d ever seen.

Osiris rubbed his thigh in pain, groaning.

He tried to stand—

Isabella flicked her finger at him.

He froze instantly like a scolded child.

She muttered to herself: "This is why mother tells me to avoid tall men... so useless, so stressful—"

"HEY," Osiris protested weakly.

She ignored him.

He tried again, softer: "Isabella..."

She stopped.

Turned her head very slowly, rage glowing in her eyes.

He shrunk.

"I’m just... concerned," he mumbled. "I think—maybe—you need... comfort."

She stared.

He twitched.

Glimora covered her face.

Isabella very calmly picked up her empty bowl.

The kind of calm that meant she was one microscopic breath away from throwing it like a discus champion and shattering a man’s entire bloodline.

Walked into her tent.

Not fast.

Not slow.

Just that terrifying, collected walk of a woman who had reached her daily limit of male stupidity and was now entering her personal anger sanctuary.

Glimora scurried after her.

Not because she wanted to — but because the air around Isabella felt like the spiritual equivalent of thunder, and even magical creatures knew better than to be left outside during emotional lightning storms.

Osiris slowly stood, limping a little. "Are you... upset?"

His voice cracked at the end like he was a teenage boy going through emotional puberty.

He clutched his bowl like it was a shield issued by the gods, his expression stuck somewhere between concerned boyfriend, confused puppy, and man who had absolutely not expected to be kicked by someone three times smaller than him but twice as dangerous.

She zipped the tent flap closed with so much violence the magical threads sparked.

Literally sparked.

A tiny flash popped like the universe itself flinched. The tent fabric trembled like it was reconsidering its life choices.

Osiris stood outside awkwardly, holding his bowl like a child who’d been grounded.

He shifted his weight, winced from the kick, then stared at the tent as if maybe — just maybe — it would open by itself and offer him emotional clarity.

It did not.

Inside the tent, Isabella inhaled.

A deep, dramatic inhale meant for resetting her entire worldview.

The kind women took before they cut their hair, packed their bags, or stabbed a man.

Exhaled.

Long. Slow. Aggressively loud on purpose, like she wanted the air molecules themselves to understand she was DONE.

Then SCREAMED:

"AND YOU BETTER NOT TRY COMING INSIDE AGAIN!"

Osiris stumbled back three steps because the tent literally shook.

Glimora squeaked inside like: mother is angry, please evacuate.

Isabella sat on her soft bedding, fists clenched, face red, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like she had just run up the whole mountain.

She glared at the tent wall as if it personally betrayed her.

Her breath grew sharp, frustrated, furious.

And that—