Zyran had already, without a second thought, used his powers to take the bite out of the bread’s heat before Isabella’s hands even reached for it. He didn’t do it to show off—there was nothing flashy about the gesture. He just... couldn’t stand the idea of her burning herself. The thought alone felt wrong, like sothing in him wouldn’t let it happen.
He didn’t say anything, of course. No grand announcent, no smug little quip. Just quiet action, the kind that slipped under the radar. Let her think it was luck or timing or whatever else. He didn’t need the credit. He just needed to know she was fine.
And oh, the way her eyes lit up when she reached for it. He caught it instantly, like a thief pocketing sothing priceless. Her expression was the kind of pure, unfiltered joy that people spent their whole lives chasing. She looked at that bread as if she’d just stumbled upon a long-lost treasure chest in the middle of the desert. Like she’d been waiting for this exact mont for years without even knowing it—and now it was finally here.
It was the look of a woman eting her soulmate... except her soulmate was carbs.
For a split second, Zyran almost felt... smug. Well, more smug than usual. He leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of her small, genuine excitent. It was rare to see Isabella’s guard down like this, and rarer still to be the cause of it. Honestly, he could’ve bottled this mont, slapped a fancy label on it, and sold it for a fortune—"Pure Joy, now available in limited edition Isabella."
But, of course, the magic couldn’t last. It never did.
As soon as she realized what she was doing—getting excited over bread, of all things—her hand froze mid-air. The spark in her eyes flickered like a candle in the wind, and she very deliberately set the bread back down on the plate, as if it had personally offended her. You’d think it had whispered sothing insulting about her shoes.
Well, that hurt.
And who could bla her, really? This was a woman who’d been living on an endless loop of soup and at. at and soup. Sotis soup with yam. Occasionally—if the gods were feeling generous—at with stew. The variety was so depressingly predictable that she’d started treating altis like a chore.
Sure, she tried to mix it up here and there, pairing it with whatever else she could find lying around, but the options were... minimal, to put it kindly. And so her brain had been quietly plotting a food heist: the next ti she trekked back up the mountain, she’d take a little detour and hunt for sothing different. Sothing worth getting excited over.
She’d seen so familiar plants and berries on past trips, but she’d never had the ti to investigate properly. Next ti, she promised herself.
For now, though, she cleared her throat, schooling her face into a carefully crafted mask of indifference. When she looked up at Zyran, there wasn’t a trace of that earlier spark left—only a flat, businesslike stare.
"I don’t want anything from you," she said, the words crisp and firm. A perfect lie, delivered straight through her teeth.
Because truthfully? She didn’t trust him. Not even for a second. Zyran had the kind of charm that ca with fine print, and she wasn’t about to skim the contract. No—she’d read every single clause, check the footnotes, and then burn the entire thing just to be safe.
What if there was magic baked into the bread? Not the nice kind, either. What if she took one bite and suddenly found herself daydreaming about him at random monts? Not the romantic, sweeping kind of daydreams—worse. The humiliating kind. The ones where she’d be mid-sentence with soone else and suddenly rember the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, or wonder, completely against her will, what he slled like in the morning.
And not in a "sunlit adow" way. Oh no. She’d imagine sothing irritatingly attractive—like warm cinnamon, or fresh rain, or that annoyingly perfect mix of laundry detergent and danger. Then she’d hate herself for noticing.
Absolutely not. She wouldn’t risk it. She’d rather eat soup for the rest of her life, and she hated soup. (Well not really, she’s just sick of it)
"Do you think I had sothing placed inside?" Zyran asked, his tone so casual it was practically dripping with arrogance. Like they weren’t discussing the possibility of him planting magical mind-control spells in her food, but instead the weather or which shade of black looked better on him.
Her brows drew together instantly, the way they always did when she slled trouble—or in this case, smug sorcery. She shot him a sharp look, the kind ant to slice through bravado, but it bounced right off him like he was made of pure ego. He was far too good at reading her. Suspiciously good.
...Maybe he had put sothing inside after all.
Her fingers twitched near the plate, a subtle instinct to shove it far, far away. She tilted her head just slightly, the way a cat sizes up a stranger. "I don’t know," she said slowly, drawing out each word until they felt like a verbal interrogation. The weight of both accusation and caution hung in the air. Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Did you?"
And that’s when he chuckled.
That infuriating, low, rich sound that rippled through the air like it knew exactly what it was doing to her. It was a laugh that didn’t just live in the mont—it lingered, like perfu you couldn’t wash off. The kind of sound that crawled under your skin and made you want to throw sothing just to make it stop. Or maybe... just to hear it again, which was sohow even worse.
"If I did, do you think they’d let live?" Zyran said, his voice calm, almost playful, as if they were talking about so harmless prank and not... whatever sinister breadcrumb (literally) she was imagining.
Her brows pulled together instantly, not in suspicion this ti, but genuine confusion. They?
Her eyes flicked to Cyrus, standing there like a silent sentinel, and for a split second she actually wondered if he had a ghost hovering loyally at his shoulder—maybe so spectral food inspector, ready to smite anyone lacing bread with dark magic.
Before she could ask, another voice cut in from the far corner of the room.
"Of course, I wouldn’t let you live."
The deep, steady tone made her freeze mid-thought, her stomach doing that little drop it always did when soone she hadn’t noticed suddenly decided to make themselves known.
Her head whipped toward the source, and there he was—Kian. Leaning casually against the wall like he’d been there the whole ti, arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes quietly scanning the scene as if it was all a mildly amusing play he’d been watching.
"Kian?" she blurted, her voice climbing in surprise. It wasn’t just that he was here—it was the fact that she hadn’t noticed. She’d been so wrapped up in Zyran’s bread drama that Kian might as well have materialized out of thin air.
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