There—just behind her—stood a man. She didn’t recognize him imdiately. His fra was partially hidden in the shadows, but his tone was far too casual for soone who just snuck into a death room.
Isabella clutched Glimora tighter and used her other hand to grip Cyrus’ hand like a scared child pretending not to be scared.
Cyrus was already in front of her, magic humming faintly in his fingers.
Isabella, ever so Isabella, still had the guts to glare over his shoulder.
"Um, excuse , do you normally eavesdrop on grieving won? Do you pop out of shadows like a creepy vine and ask questions like a narrator?"
The man raised a brow.
"I was just checking."
Isabella huffed. "Check your manners instead."
Even Glimora squeaked in agreent.
She glanced back at Shelia’s body. That flicker of helplessness returned—but now it was tucked under a layer of resolve. No matter what. She wasn’t leaving this place without trying. Without doing sothing.
She straightened.
"I’m going to try," she said aloud, voice shaking but strong. "I don’t know how, or if I can... but I’ll try."
"So you can’t save her?"
The words slid from the darkness like a knife dipped in oil—smooth, cold, and unnecessary.
But this ti, Isabella’s reaction wasn’t panic. Her entire spine straightened, her ears perked up like a cat hearing the rattle of treats. That voice? That voice she knew. She would recognize it even in a crowd of ten thousand n mid-battle.
Her brows rose slowly. "Kian?" she said, voice dripping with unexpected sweetness—so soft, so gentle it made Cyrus glance at her suspiciously.
Cyrus blinked. Did she just purr his na?
"Is that you, Kian?" she said again, fluttering her lashes even though no one could see her eyes properly from the shadows. "Why don’t you walk in, Kian? Don’t be shy now."
And walk in he did, tall and poised, like he wasn’t the man who had just been hiding in the shadows like a gossiping housewife. He stepped out with calm grace, face unreadable, but his entrance scread I-know-you-want-.
"Why were you standing there?" Isabella asked with a smile that would make a man nervous on a good day. "Trying to catch at my worst mont, hmm?"
"I could sense your anger," Kian said smoothly, his voice deep and frustratingly calm. "And you tend to talk a bit too much when angry."
The silence that followed was thunderous.
Isabella blinked once. Then twice.
"Oh. Oh, okay," she said, voice still oddly sweet.
She then turned to hand Glimora to Cyrus, gently like she was passing over a sleeping baby, and tried to step out from behind him.
Only to realize sothing very unfortunate.
Cyrus wasn’t letting go.
"Why are you holding ?" she asked, confused, her arm still in his firm grasp.
Cyrus, with Glimora tucked securely in one arm, looked down at her as if she were a mischievous toddler about to run into traffic. He didn’t say anything, but his grip spoke volus: No.
Isabella frowned. "I just want to talk. Since that is what I do, apparently," she said sarcastically, shooting Kian a venomous glare. "Let talk to him, Cyrus."
But before Cyrus could make a decision, Kian raised a hand and spoke smoothly. "Don’t release her."
That wasn’t just a command.
That was an order.
Isabella’s mouth fell open. Her eyes narrowed into slits. That smug little half-smile on Kian’s lips? Oh, she wanted to slap it off with a slipper.
She gaped. "Oh, you, you!"
She launched forward with all the speed of a furious cat. Cyrus instinctively pulled her back like she was a wind-up toy trying to headbutt a lion.
Now she was mad mad.
Not regular mad. Not web-novel-female-lead mad.
She was "narrate-this-in-flas" mad.
"He kept her rotting in here like forgotten vegetables and now he’s calling talkative?!" she snapped, still trying to wriggle out of Cyrus’ grip. "This must be a universal joke."
Cyrus, to his credit, was still calm, even though his arms were practically wrapped around her waist now. Glimora had climbed onto his shoulder like a referee waiting to throw in a towel.
Then it got worse.
"I think you should calm down. You’re overreacting," said the man from earlier.
The entire room froze.
Isabella, Cyrus, Kian, even Glimora turned to stare at the man who had just said the sentence most likely to get a person maid in the next two seconds.
"And you are?" Isabella asked, eyes narrowing, wondering why this man was even here in the first place and why she hadn’t questioned it earlier.
"This is Hoise," Kian replied, not even turning around.
Hoise, standing just beside the curtain, blinked slowly. "I ant no offense. I just don’t think she—"
"You should leave now," Kian interrupted, his tone firm and final. "Your job here is done."
"Leave?" Hoise asked, clearly confused. "How are you sure she can save your sister? She’s a woman. That’s not possible."
Everyone stopped moving. Even the flas on the torches seed to pause, offended.
Cyrus’ grip on Isabella tightened so fast she squeaked.
"Okay. That’s it." Isabella lunged again, this ti swinging her hand toward Hoise’s face. "CO HERE AND REPEAT THAT—"
Hoise dodged, wide-eyed. "I just ant—plus, she’s strange! She acts crazy!"
Even Kian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Co. Let’s go," he said to Hoise as he began to lead him toward the curtain. "Thank you for traveling this far and checking on her. Goodbye."
"Wait, he doesn’t even get punished for what he said?" Isabella called after them, flailing an arm.
She turned around and squinted up at Cyrus. "Do you also think I’m crazy?"
The man froze like soone had just thrown ice water down his back. He slowly looked down at her with the gentlest eyes in the world. The kind of eyes that said no matter what you do, I will still give you soup and a blanket.
He shook his head so fast it was a miracle his neck didn’t snap.
"No," he said quickly. "No. Absolutely not."
"You’re lying," Isabella accused with a squint, her hands now on her hips.
Cyrus shook his head again, this ti with more emotional desperation.
"Let go," she demanded.
He shook his head. Again.
She let out an offended scoff.
"Since when did you learn to say no to ?!" she exclaid, voice high-pitched and dramatic like a rich lady in a soap opera who had just been betrayed.
Cyrus opened his mouth, then closed it.
Then opened it again.
Then closed it.
Words were dangerous in this mont.
If he told her it was because he didn’t want her to punch a guest and cause a scene, she’d take offense.
If he said it was because he didn’t want her to get hurt, she’d scold him for underestimating her.
So he said... nothing.
He just looked at her with soft, apologetic eyes.
And sohow, that made it worse.
She looked at him. At his soft expression. At Glimora staring down from his shoulder with her furry chin resting on his head like a queen claiming a throne.
"Ugh," Isabella muttered, rolling her eyes so hard it hurt.
"You’re lucky you’re adorable," she said under her breath.
Cyrus blinked. "What?"
"Nothing," she snapped, crossing her arms and letting out a long, dramatic sigh like she was the victim of a soap opera betrayal.
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