They had tried to blend into the crowd. One had even begun to edge backward as if to slip away. But the guards had already moved. With silent precision, they descended like shadows, grabbing the n by the arms before they could flee.
The sound of buckets falling and bodies being dragged across the dirt cracked through the air.
The n struggled. One shouted. Another tried to swing at a guard and received a swift punch to the gut for his trouble. But none of them escaped. They were weaker, slower, and not nearly as smart as they thought.
Gasps echoed from the crowd. So won flinched. A few n—those who hadn’t noticed what was happening—stood in shock.
Isabella didn’t flinch.
She stepped forward, stopping just a ter from where the n were now on their knees, their faces pressed into the cold, dusty earth.
She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she looked down at Gerwin’s nearly motionless body. He looked like he was about to pass out.
"I never knew he was considered a warrior," she said dryly, clearly judging the half-dead man. Sarcasm dripped from her voice like honey over poison.
Then she turned her attention back to the crowd.
She took her ti.
Let them look at the scene. Let them absorb the consequences.
And when silence had fallen again, when every eye was locked on her, Isabella crossed her arms slowly, exhaled once more, and said—
"And he is not the only one."
The effect was imdiate.
Gasps erupted like thunder.
Confusion rippled through the air like a stone thrown in still water.
Eyes widened.
People turned toward each other, mouths parting in shock, so too stunned to speak.
A storm was coming.
And Isabella had just lit the match.
The four n were already forced to their knees by the palace guards, their wrists pinned behind their backs, their faces pressed to the dirt. A few scattered buckets lay on the ground, rolled aside in the commotion, contents spilled and forgotten.
Isabella stepped forward, arms crossed, her gaze sharp as obsidian. Her feet moved without hesitation, deliberate and calm, the crowd parting instinctively for her as if they could feel the weight of her thoughts.
Kian narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly toward her. "Why them?" he asked quietly. "Why do you think they’re part of this?"
Isabella didn’t look at him. She stared down at the n, one brow raised. "Isn’t it obvious?"
The silence that followed wasn’t just confusion—it was awe. So villagers leaned closer, as if afraid to miss her answer.
Her voice, though calm, carried across the tense air. "Look at that one," she nodded toward the second man from the left. "Everyone else was gawking or whispering when the won started talking... but he didn’t flinch. He wasn’t shocked. He was watching ."
Her eyes moved to the third man. "That one? He shifted his stance right before the won admitted everything. It wasn’t nerves—it was retreat. He was preparing to run."
She pointed to the first man. "He’s got sweat dripping down his neck but it’s not hot out here, is it? That’s fear. Not fear of scandal—fear of being caught."
"And the fourth..." she leaned slightly, studying him like a predator eyeing its prey. "He mouthed sothing to Halric when he thought no one was watching."
The crowd turned to Halric, who kept his gaze elsewhere.
His shoulders tensed, jaw locking as if resisting the urge to speak. A bead of sweat slid down his temple. Soone in the crowd gasped. Halric’s hand twitched at his side, fingers curling into a fist.
Isabella’s eyes narrowed. "You looked nervous the mont they started speaking. You’ve been fidgeting ever since."
Halric swallowed hard, but said nothing. His silence said everything.
"I don’t need a confession," Isabella said. "Their bodies already gave them up."
She turned toward Kian now, and for the first ti, t his gaze. "They must be dealt with properly."
A small smile harmless appeared on her lips, but the words struck with finality, and the entire clearing seed to hold its breath.
Kian stared at her for a long mont. Then he gave a slight pause... and said, "You choose their punishnt."
Gasps erupted louder than before. A ripple of movent passed through the villagers. Heads turned, lips parted. Even the guards shifted.
Isabella looked around, her eyes scanning every corner of the crowd. Her voice was even when she spoke again, almost too calm.
"Even if it’s death?"
Kian’s deep voice answered simply, "Mmh."
Before another word could pass her lips, a voice rang out, too high and too loud.
"Ohhh, I get it now!"
All heads snapped to the side. Isolde stood near the front, arms thrown slightly out, eyes gleaming with sudden mischief or clarity—but what exactly she was thinking was anyone’s guess.
Ilyana, her ever-watchful sister, imdiately reached out to gently pull her back by the wrist. "Isolde, stop," she whispered, barely audible over the murmurs.
But Isolde didn’t even glance her way. She pulled free without effort and stepped forward again, chin lifted like she was about to deliver divine judgnt.
From where he stood, Garan muttered, "What is this girl doing again?" His tone carried a mix of dread and disbelief.
Euphim, however, didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. As always, he just watched.
Isolde kept going. "It’s because you love her, right?"
The sentence detonated.
Gasps flew like stones thrown in every direction. So won clutched their mouths. A man nearly dropped the basket he’d been holding. Even a few guards glanced at each other.
"That’s why the mighty village lion king Kian lets a woman talk to him like this," Isolde said, grinning now, clearly feeding off the chaos she’d ignited.
"I—Isolde, stop it," Ilyana hissed again, stepping forward, cheeks flushed with panic.
But it was too late. The words were already out. All eyes were now flicking from Isolde... to Isabella... to Kian... and back again.
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