Isabella froze for a beat. The air in the room seed to still as her jaw clenched.
"Gosh, fine," she muttered, dragging her palm down her face. "But I’m still so fucking mad at you."
Bubu twirled smugly in the air, her misty form practically glowing from satisfaction.
"Yeah right," Bubu muttered under her breath with the exhausted flair of soone burdened by a dramatic destiny, "I won’t stop until you start cultivating—mark my words, I’ll haunt your soup, I’ll whisper in your dreams, I’ll tattoo it on your forehead if I have to."
Isabella’s head snapped up.
"What did you just say?" she asked, voice sharp as a sword drawn halfway.
Bubu froze mid-spin and imdiately replaced her mouth with the fakest smile Isabella had ever seen. "Nothing~"
"You little parasite," Isabella growled, eyes narrowing.
"Anyway!" Bubu sang, twirling like she hadn’t just been caught red-handed. "So yes! I know the ways you can save Shelia."
Isabella rolled her eyes, exhaling through her nose as she flicked her fingers, making a get-on-with-it gesture. "What are they?"
"Okay, so since it’s a—"
"Wait. Wait a fucking mont." Isabella sat up so fast the log creaked beneath her weight. "Did you just say ways?!"
She pointed at Bubu like she was about to throw a shoe.
"Well, yes," Bubu said with a slow blink. "It’s a whole process—"
"Who said ways?" Isabella shouted, as if soone in the back row of her life just dropped a brick on her toes. "As in plural? Not one way? Not two? You an more than that?!"
"Calm your dramatic nipples," Bubu mumbled, crossing her arms, clearly unfazed. "It’s not that deep."
"Oh it’s deeper than the crack of doom, you evil floating Siri!"
But before Bubu could respond, a sudden voice sliced into the tension.
"Who said ways?"
It was female.
Instantly, Bubu vanished into thin air like a snapped bubble, leaving only faint sparkles and the vague scent of ozone behind.
Isabella’s eyes turned slowly, her scowl already locked and loaded.
And there they were.
Ilyana. Isolde. And a man Isabella had never seen before.
Her irritation surged like a tidal wave. The mont she saw them, especially that smug, unknown man standing with way too much confidence in her space, she didn’t even try to mask her disgust.
She stood slowly, Glimora curling her tail tighter around her ankle like a cloud with fur.
"The three of you," Isabella said sharply, her voice a whip crack across the awkward silence, "walk out and announce yourselves again. Properly this ti."
Her tone wasn’t just rude—it was imperial.
She didn’t care.
If it had been only Ilyana, she would’ve let it slide with a warning and a sigh. Maybe even a snarky eyebrow. But now? No.
She did not like Isolde.
And worst of all?
A man. A strange man. A strange tall man. One who had the audacity to walk in with smugness as if the world owed him rent. Like his feet didn’t just track mud across her mood.
He stood with his arms folded, shoulders too broad, expression too unbothered—like he belonged. Like this wasn’t her room. Her morning. Her crumbling life.
Isabella blinked slowly and thought: This is why I need doors in this world.
Not curtains. Not vines. Not makeshift straw blinds. Real, slam-it-in-your-face doors with hinges and locks.
Her hands clenched.
Gosh, she had so much to do. She had a half-burnt best friend. A squeaky emotional support beast with separation anxiety. A clingy system with a god complex. And now these three wanted to add their nonsense to her morning?
Was she sent here to die?
"What?" Isolde said, the word brimming with disbelief as she stared down at Isabella.
Isabella, anwhile, had resud her lounging position on the log, one hand propping her head while the other draped lazily over Glimora’s back.
She looked every bit like a fed-up queen who hadn’t had her wine yet.
Then Glimora, sensing her mama’s rising irritation, suddenly leapt to Isabella’s lap with a soft thud and narrowed eyes. The little beast puffed up, claws out and tail flicking like a whip.
Glimora let out a low snarl—a guttural little thing that sounded surprisingly nacing for her size.
In beast language, it translated to:
"My mama doesn’t like you. So I don’t like you either."
And Isabella?
She just smiled sweetly at the shocked silence around her.
"Hey," Isabella snapped, her tone sharp as a whip, "don’t glare at my baby like that. I don’t tolerate that kind of attitude."
She punctuated her warning with a dramatic snap of her fingers, redirecting Isolde’s hateful glare back to her.
Isolde stiffened, but it was Ilyana who quickly stepped in, trying to smooth things over.
"We didn’t an to intrude, Isabella," she said nervously, voice soft, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. "We’ll just step—"
"No, we won’t be stepping out," Isolde cut her off with a hiss, her voice slicing the air like a dagger. "We are of royal blood, Ilyana, and she is not. Why would you bow to a peasant like her?"
There it was. The word.
Isabella blinked once, lips twitching.
She slowly turned her gaze to Isolde, lifting one elegant brow as she took in the girl’s ruffled dress, crooked posture, and absolutely crusty attitude.
Oh, no. You just poked the beast.
"Really?" Isabella said dryly, glancing down at her perfectly clean nails like she couldn’t be bothered. "A peasant? That’s the best insult you could co up with?"
She paused. Dramatically. Let it breathe. Then looked up again, locking eyes with Isolde.
"If I’m a peasant," she said, voice lazy with mockery, "then you must be one of those wild turnips the beasts refuse to eat."
Isolde’s face twitched. Her fists clenched so tight the veins popped like angry vines.
But Isabella wasn’t done. Oh, not even close.
"Actually, no," Isabella continued, tilting her head with mock thoughtfulness. "A wild turnip at least fills a belly in desperate tis. You? You’re more like rotten at—no one wants you, and you make everything around you worse."
Ilyana’s lips parted in horror. Even the strange man behind them stifled a cough that might have been a laugh.
"Just by looking at you and ," Isabella went on, gesturing vaguely between them, "you can tell—oh, sorry, you can’t even compare us."
She placed a hand to her chest, eyes fluttering dramatically.
"You see, darling," Isabella said, flicking an invisible speck off her arm, "I’m shaped by the gods. You? You look like a goat rolled in ash and wandered into the wrong fire pit."
She laughed lightly at her own joke, sipping on her own brilliance like wine.
Then, to her surprise—Glimora let out a tiny, amused squeak. It was a small, breathy noise but unmistakably a giggle.
Isabella blinked and turned to her beast-baby, eyebrows raised in amusent. "Oh?" she said, hand over her chest. "Did you just laugh?"
Glimora snorted, puffing out her cheeks and doing it again, more confidently this ti.
A slow grin spread across Isabella’s face, pride blooming like a flower in spring.
"Look at that," she cooed, lifting Glimora proudly in her arms like Simba on Pride Rock. "Even my baby agrees with ."
Glimora purred in response, nuzzling her head under Isabella’s chin.
Isolde, on the other hand, looked like she was ready to combust. Her face had gone redder than a blood moon, her jaw clenching so hard Isabella half-expected a tooth to fly out.
And then—
"BITCH!" Isolde shrieked, voice echoing through the room like a banshee on fire.
With all the grace of a raging bull, she lunged forward, arms stretched, aiming for Isabella like she planned to claw her soul out.
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