Cyrus had been quiet for days.
Not silent in the way Zyran claid he was "brooding like a dramatic widow," but quiet in the way trees fell without anyone hearing. Quiet in the way winter settled—slow, heavy, unnoticed until everything felt cold.
Ever since Isabella left, sothing in him had gone dim.
He kept feeling for her through his mind linked to the necklace he had given her every morning.
He checked its faint spiritual thread every night.
Just to be sure she still breathed.
Just to be sure she still lived.
Just to be sure she still existed sowhere in the world.
It glowed with life.
Steady.
Bright.
Sotis flickering with mood swings he didn’t understand.
Fear one day.
Annoyance the next.
Frustration.
Hunger.
Sadness.
Small bursts of happiness.
But never anything that made him panic.
She wasn’t dying.
She wasn’t in imdiate danger.
She was... surviving.
She was growing stronger, actually.
He could feel it.
And every ti he confird that she was safe, Cyrus whispered the sa thing to himself:
"Good... as long as you are safe... I will keep my promise."
Because she told him to stay away.
And Cyrus—loyal, gentle, painfully soft Cyrus—was the kind of man who kept every promise, even the ones that shattered him.
He busied himself with work.
He carved wooden tools Isabella once described.
He shaped clay pots based on her rambles about "modern convenience."
He strung woven baskets in patterns she showed him with sticks.
He even made tiny carved figurines because she once joked she wanted little decorations for her future ho.
He worked until his hands hurt, until his tail was tired, until his heart stopped aching for a few minutes at a ti.
He wanted everything to be ready.
So when she finally ca back...
She wouldn’t lift a finger.
No stress.
No chores.
No burden.
He wanted to give her peace.
Safety.
Comfort.
The very things he never had.
But every ti he finished another object, he felt the weight of ti sinking deeper into him.
She wasn’t back yet.
And he couldn’t stay.
Not forever.
Because once she returned, he would have to leave.
He promised her.
He would walk away from the one village that ever gave him warmth.
Leave the only place that didn’t scream the mont they saw his tail.
But for now... he stayed close.
Close enough to protect her from the distance.
Far enough not to break the promise.
That afternoon, he slithered through a tiny Stone Age market—mostly wooden tables, clay pots, furs, and herbs drying on ropes. People murmured as he passed, stepping aside or pulling their children close.
Even when he hid his snake features, they could sense what he was.
A monster.
A serpent.
A danger.
But Cyrus refused to curl his tail away out of sha.
He refused to pretend to be sothing he wasn’t.
If they would fear him eventually, better to let them fear him now.
At least then...
They wouldn’t feel betrayed later.
He browsed a table of woven beads, wondering if Isabella would like a necklace like this. Maybe the small blue ones. They reminded him of her eyes when she laughed.
If she still laughed.
If she still laughed because of him.
His throat tightened painfully at that thought.
He placed the beads down carefully and turned to leave the market, telling himself it didn’t matter. He would give her anything she wanted. Even if she never looked at him again like she used to.
Just as he reached the dusty path out of the village, he froze.
Male voices.
Deep.
Heavy.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
"...snake beastman... still missing... master wants him alive..."
Cyrus’ blood ran cold.
He knew those voices.
He knew the tone, the cadence, the accent, the authority.
They were from his master’s city.
His forr master.
The one who owned him.
Controlled him.
Used him.
Hunted him.
Months had passed.
He thought he’d escaped.
But they were still searching.
Still hunting.
Still determined to drag him back.
He ducked behind a row of stacked clay pots, heart racing, every muscle tight like stretched rope. His tail curled instinctively around his body, a protective reflex he hadn’t done since childhood.
The group of n walked by—three of them, heavily scarred, carrying spears engraved with the royal mark of the serpent city.
Cyrus held his breath.
He prayed they wouldn’t sense him.
"Have you seen a snake beastman?" one guard asked the villagers.
People recoiled.
No one answered.
Not because they didn’t know Cyrus.
But because they were terrified.
Terrified of the n.
Terrified of their weapons.
Terrified of the city they ca from.
"Answer," the guard growled.
But the villagers all shook their heads imdiately.
"No."
"No one like that here."
"We do not accept serpent kin."
"Never seen one."
Cyrus felt sothing crack inside as Cyrus imdiately thought of the village.
Not because he wanted their approval.
But because in the village—the one Isabella had brought him to—no one had ever spoken that way to him.
They never chased him with spears.
Never spat when he passed.
Never scread at the sight of his tail.
He... belonged there.
Or at least, he felt like he did.
The guards grunted, frustrated.
"Keep searching," the leader barked. "He couldn’t have gone far."
Their footsteps faded.
Only then did Cyrus unclench his jaw, exhaling shakily.
He pressed his back against a tree, closing his eyes.
His heart twisted in fear... and sothing heavier.
Guilt.
If his master’s n arrived at Isabella’s village—
If they tracked him through the forest—
If they found the place he now considered ho—
They would hurt people.
They would hurt villagers.
They would hurt Isabella.
She would fight.
Of course she would fight.
But she shouldn’t have to.
She shouldn’t have to lift a single finger because of him.
He swallowed hard.
No.
He couldn’t stay.
Not anymore.
His presence put them all in danger.
They sheltered him.
Fed him.
Accepted him.
He would not repay that kindness with destruction.
He looked at his hands—calloused from carving, from shaping wood, from creating gifts she might never accept.
Soon... he would leave.
For her safety.
For their peace.
For the life she wanted.
He would finish the last things he was making.
He would pack what little he owned.
He would disappear before anyone realized he was gone.
He lowered his head.
There was only one thing he wanted before he left.
Just one.
To see her again.
One more ti.
Even if she hated him.
Even if she never let him speak.
Even if she didn’t look at him with softness ever again.
Just seeing her...
Just confirming she was alive with his own eyes...
It would be enough.
He lifted his gaze to the sky, voice barely above a whisper.
"Isabella... co back soon."
His tail curled weakly.
His chest ached.
Because he knew the truth.
Once she returned...
He would have to walk away.
And she would never know how much he loved her.
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