Isabella’s POV (still in third person)
While the won poured their hearts out in trembling voices and halting sentences, Isabella stood just a little behind them, arms loosely crossed, her posture calm yet alert. Her eyes, however, weren’t entirely on the won. Ever the observer, ever the strategist, her gaze flicked back and forth across the crowd—quietly scanning.
She wasn’t one to miss patterns, and today, she saw one clear as day.
Not every man in the village had co. So were out hunting, of course, and others... others simply didn’t want to face this reckoning. But of those who had gathered, there were four in particular who drew her attention. Not by doing too much—but by doing too little.
They stood oddly stiff, backs a little too straight, eyes darting toward each other every few minutes in an unspoken panic. Not once had they spoken. Not once had they looked toward the won sobbing in front of them. They weren’t mourning or confused—they were calculating.
Isabella’s eyes narrowed.
Luca, who stood close to her side, instantly noticed the shift in her deanor. He had been around her long enough to sense the subtle change in her breathing, the way her weight leaned slightly forward, or how her brows twitched for just a second longer than necessary. It was her silent cue—her way of saying: "Get ready."
Without needing a word, Luca followed her gaze and spotted the four n. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. Instead, he slid a hand to his side and casually gestured at two of the palace guards who had accompanied them earlier from the stone fortress. His movents were discreet—quick enough that most wouldn’t notice, yet deliberate enough for trained eyes.
The guards didn’t approach right away. Instead, they began to inch toward the outskirts of the gathering, positioning themselves near the suspects. It was a silent, calculated maneuver.
No one noticed.
Well—almost no one.
Kian did, of course, but he chose not to react. His attention remained fixed on the crying won, though his ears were just as sharp as his instincts. He trusted Isabella. Whatever she was planning, she was doing it for a reason. He respected that.
And Cyrus... Cyrus had noticed even earlier than Luca. He had been watching her from the mont she folded her arms and began tapping her finger against her bicep—her usual "thinking" rhythm. He caught the flick of her lashes, the subtle twist of her lips. She had spotted sothing long before anyone else had. He didn’t interrupt.
He simply leaned against the stone slab that was in front of the hut and waited, eyes fixed on her like she was the only thing that mattered.
Garan noticed too. Unlike Cyrus, however, he bristled. The mont he saw the guards inching toward the group, he muttered under his breath, "What is she doing now..."
Euphim, surprisingly, was sharper than Garan gave him credit for. He gripped the younger man’s arm and leaned close. "Stand down," he hissed. "Watch. You might learn sothing."
anwhile, the won were still taking turns—each story a new stab in the collective heart of the village. The tales were all slightly different in the details, but the tone remained the sa: fear, humiliation, helplessness.
"He told if I spoke, he’d twist my mate’s leg while hunting and claim it was an accident," one woman whispered.
"He followed into the woods... and when I told him to stop, he grabbed my arm and said my word ant nothing here," another confessed, her voice barely audible.
"I didn’t even tell my mate," said a third woman, her head bowed in sha. "I was scared he’d believe Gerwin over . He’s one of the most respected n here, after all."
So of the won who had been quiet earlier were now beginning to weep openly, emboldened by the solidarity forming around them.
Kian asked questions gently, pressing for details when necessary.
"Did anyone witness this?"
"Did you ever try to report it to your elders?"
"What made you stay quiet for so long?"
One woman bit her lip so hard she bled. "Because the last girl who tried... vanished."
A chilling silence followed.
"She disappeared after a hunt. Everyone said she got lost. But she’d told the night before she was going to speak up."
The murmuring began again—soft and horrified.
Another added, "He would only act when we were far from the village. During those long trips with our mates, when the others were off hunting, and we stayed back to gather or prepare at. He always knew when no one would be around."
"He told I should feel grateful a male like him even looked at ," another scoffed bitterly.
"Sa," said a younger girl, hugging her arms. "He said... I looked just like a female he used to fancy, but she rejected him, so now I owed him."
"That’s insane," one of the other won muttered.
Kian’s face darkened with each new story. He wasn’t a stranger to darkness in this world, but sothing about hearing it from so many voices at once—so many broken tones—made it all the more real.
He was about to say sothing when a loud, commanding sound split the air.
Ahem.
Isabella cleared her throat sharply, loud enough to be heard over all the muttering and murmuring.
Imdiately, heads turned. The crowd stilled, and all attention shifted to her as she uncrossed her arms and stepped forward with asured steps.
"Ladies," she said, voice calm but firm. "One at a ti."
Her tone wasn’t scolding—it was grounding. Reminding. Centering.
There was a pause, and then soft nods rippled through the group. Order returned to the chaos, and the won resud speaking, this ti in turns, their voices steadying with each word.
And while they spoke—so with strength, so with shaking fingers—Isabella stood like a mountain behind them. Silent, calculating, always listening.
When the final woman finished, when the last confession was laid bare, Isabella exhaled—slow and heavy. Her eyes turned toward the four n Luca had marked.
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