Osiris blinked at Isabella like she had just grown three heads.
She was smiling.
Not a normal smile.
Not a nice smile.
A very suspicious, very evil, very mother-of-chaos smile.
He took a small step back.
"Why are you smiling like that," he asked, eyes narrowing. "You look crazy."
She ignored the insult and placed sothing in his hand.
It was the pathetic, squeaky, ugly pair of scissors she had begrudgingly bought from the system store.
"Here," she said sweetly. "Use this."
Osiris held the scissors between two fingers, staring at it as if it were a worm. "What am I supposed to do with this."
She twirled her finger dramatically at the sea of glowing fabrics. "Cut each and every material you see. Not a single one must be left out."
He froze.
Completely froze.
"Each," he repeated slowly.
"Yes."
"And every one."
"Yes."
"Every single color."
"Yes."
"Every thread."
"Yes."
He stared at the endless forest of vines, fibers, cloth strands, leather sheets, glowing petal-textiles, and silken ribbons. There were dozens. Hundreds. Thousands. It was an entire magical winter wardrobe of fabrics.
He blinked once.
Then twice.
Then his mouth fell open in slow disgust.
"I do not want to," he announced boldly.
Isabella’s smile disappeared instantly.
"I am not asking if you want to," she said. "I am giving you an order."
He puffed his chest out. "Who are you to give an order. You are short, small, and ugly."
She gasped so loudly the vines shook. "You dare call short, small, and ugly again."
"Do I lie," he replied calmly. "No. I do not. You are also annoying. If you do not know it."
Her jaw dropped. "You ungrateful, useless, lazy, wingless bird."
"You have insulted for years."
"It has not even been three weeks."
"It feels like years."
She stepped forward. "Say you are sorry."
"No."
"Say it."
"Never."
"Oh my goddess, I swear if I was not pregnant I would strangle you right now."
He stepped back. "Violence is not the answer."
"You deserve violence."
"You are unstable."
"You are unstable."
"I am perfect."
"You are stupid."
"You are small."
"You are dead to ."
"You were never alive to ."
She raised her hand, ready to slap him, but sothing tugged in her chest.
Her babies.
Her pregnancy.
Her future motherhood.
She froze.
Oh no.
She could not be fighting idiots all day.
She was a pregnant woman.
A soon-to-be mother.
A whole mature woman now.
What kind of mother wrestled beastn on mountains.
She inhaled deeply and held the bridge of her nose.
"Do not make lose my mind today," she muttered.
Osiris smirked. "It is too late for that."
She gripped her fists. "Shut up."
She looked around.
The forest of fabrics shimred like an endless treasure field. The threads glowed. The vines twisted in beautiful patterns. There were so many materials she needed to collect. So many textures. So many colors. So many magical fibers.
If she did it alone, it would take the whole day.
And they still needed to get back to the lagoon before the dark hour.
She did not want to be outside at night.
Not after last ti.
But she refused to beg Osiris.
She would rather eat rocks.
She exhaled. "Fine. I will do it myself."
Osiris blinked, caught completely off guard. "Wait. You will."
"Yes."
"You will not argue."
"No."
"You will not insult ."
She lifted her eyes slowly and looked at him like she wanted to rip his soul out of his body.
He gulped. "Okay. Maybe a little insult."
"I am ignoring you."
That scared him more.
The mont she turned away from him, the system chid.
A soft, smug bell sound.
Bubu appeared in front of her with sparkling text.
New cultivation task available.
Isabella paused.
Then she groaned. "Oh my goddess. I knew it. I knew it. I knew you would do this."
The cultivation task unfolded.
Collect every material in the textile field by yourself.
Isabella didn’t even react.
She simply stared at the floating text with the defeated expression of a woman whose life choices were catching up to her.
Osiris peeked over her shoulder. "What does it say."
"Go away," she said flatly.
He blinked. "Did sothing happen."
"Go away."
"So you are angry."
"Go away."
She grabbed the ugly scissors in her hand, marched to the nearest vine, and aggressively cut the first piece of fabric.
Snip.
The scissors squeaked like a dying mouse.
Osiris winced. "That sound hurts my soul."
"Idiot."
She walked to another vine and snipped again.
Snip.
Snip.
Snip.
The squeaks echoed around the clearing like a mocking soundtrack.
Osiris tilted his head and watched her cut fabric with aggressive precision. She didn’t yell at him. She didn’t glare. She didn’t insult him again.
She was silent.
Focused.
Cold.
Which ant she was extrely angry.
Beastn had instincts.
He could sll her fury from six steps away.
He blinked in confusion. "Isabella."
No answer.
She cut another piece.
Then another.
Then another.
Her breathing was heavy. Her jaw was tight. She didn’t even glance at him.
He shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable.
"Isabella."
Again, nothing.
She kept cutting.
Fabric piled at her feet.
The glowing vines waved gently in the air.
Glimora watched from the side like a disappointed grandparent.
Osiris frowned. Guilt crept into his chest unexpectedly.
She was pregnant.
She was small.
She was angry.
And she was doing this alone because he refused.
He watched her shoulders strain slightly as she reached for a higher vine. She huffed softly, belly pushing forward a little.
His brows lowered.
Yes, yes, she was annoying.
Yes, she insulted him daily.
Yes, she was small and loud and moody.
But.
She was pregnant.
And he was strong.
And it was wrong to let her do this by herself.
A strange feeling twisted inside him. It wasn’t pity. Beastn didn’t pity. It wasn’t sympathy either. It was more like...
Obligation.
Responsibility.
Sothing deeper he didn’t have a na for.
He watched her for another few seconds.
She didn’t turn around.
Didn’t insult him.
Didn’t whim.
Didn’t complain.
She just kept cutting.
And with every snip of the squeaky scissors, guilt stabbed him harder.
Finally, he swallowed and spoke softly.
"Isabella."
She ignored him completely.
She chopped off another magical thread so violently the vine shuddered.
He tried again, voice lower.
"Isabella."
Still nothing.
Not a glance.
Not a hum.
Not even a breath pause.
He could tell.
She was mad at him.
And she wasn’t going to forgive him easily.
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