The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Kian walked up to the stone cauldron like it weighed nothing and—without so much as a grunt—lifted the massive thing and carried it toward the stone slab Isabella had struggled with earlier. His arms flexed with the motion, muscles rolling like smooth rope beneath his tanned skin, and the faint sound of water sloshing inside echoed as he moved.

Isabella squinted at him. "Show off," she muttered under her breath.

"I heard that," Kian called out without even turning his head.

Isabella blinked. "Of course you did," she sighed, a little too fondly, watching him set the cauldron down like it was a basket of fruit.

Rolling her eyes, she turned and walked back into the hut, brushing past the hide curtain as Glimora let out a tiny snore from her mossy corner.

With a deep breath, Isabella bent down and gathered everything she'd prepared earlier: a worn wooden stirring stick, a heavy mortar and pestle, a polished shell-turned-strainer, and a few other oddly convenient tools that definitely had no business existing in a primitive village like this.

She stared at them for a second, arms full.

"Thanks for the weird but useful soap kit, Bubu," she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. "You couldn't just give me the points without stressing me, could you? Nooo, let's play 'make-your-own' and call it character development."

The system, of course, remained silent. As always.

She stepped back outside, arms full, just in time to see Kian squatting beside the cauldron, inspecting the slab with narrowed eyes. Of course, he looked perfect even crouched like that, as if posing for some kind of ancient statue dedicated to beastmen hotness.

Isabella caught the faint curl of curiosity on his lips as his gaze flicked to the strange tools she was carrying.

"Don't ask," she said before he could speak. "I cannot explain their origin."

Kian raised an eyebrow, looking at the strainer like it had personally offended him.

"What?" she said, voice dry. "You think I carved this out of dragon bone or something?"

He said nothing, but the way his eyes moved told her everything.

Isabella adjusted the tools in her arms, aware of Kian's curious glance as his eyes trailed over the unusually refined soap-making items—items no ordinary village should have had access to. But before he could voice the question forming in his head, Isabella cut it off with a dry look and a flick of her hand.

She didn't speak, but her expression said everything: Just assume they fell from the sky, like some divine joke.

Because she was definitely not about to explain that they were gifts from a sarcastic, semi-sentient system that only appeared to roast her.

Kian raised an eyebrow, but wisely chose silence.

He took the items from her arms without comment, his hands brushing hers in the process. She pretended not to notice how warm his skin was—or how her heart did a stupid little flutter as he set everything down beside the cauldron.

"So," he said, standing to his full height. "What do we do first?"

His tone was even, but his eyes sparkled slightly, like he was ready for anything—even if it included getting bark in his nails or oil in his hair.

Isabella hummed thoughtfully, one finger tapping her chin.

"You are such a good king, Kian," she said, cocking her head and batting her lashes in mock admiration. "For helping the common folk. Or rather, maybe just a jobless one."

Kian exhaled a slow sigh, staring at her like she'd personally wounded his pride—but also like he was very used to this kind of slander from her.

"Jobless? Should I drop this and let you do it again?"

His voice was calm. Flat. Completely unbothered. The type of voice that carried no volume, but somehow made you shut up.

He wasn't grinning. He wasn't smirking. His hands stayed perfectly steady on the heavy stone cauldron, like he hadn't just issued a silent threat to ruin her life all over again.

Isabella blinked.

Her mouth opened—then closed again. The memory of dragging that cursed cauldron across the dirt flashed in her mind like a battlefield trauma. Her spine twinged in sympathy.

"Ugh. You're no fun," she muttered under her breath, folding her arms.

He turned his attention back to the tools, kneeling as he adjusted the setup beside the stone slab. "What is all this for again?"

"Making shampoo," she replied, brushing a stray curl out of her face as she knelt beside him. "For the villagers. And maybe for myself. Because unlike you, I actually care about my perfect hair."

Kian gave her a look that said you're impossible and reached for the stirring stick. "Do you even know how to use all these?"

"Yes," Isabella said confidently, flipping her hair. "Unlike some people here, I actually have experience."

She raised a brow at Kian, who blinked slowly.

"I made soap with these, remember?" she added, gesturing grandly to the tools. "Same setup. Same genius. Same overworked, underappreciated goddess."

Then she pointed the stirring stick at him. "So don't question my methods unless you want lavender-scented bubbles up your nose."

Kian raised both brows now, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Noted."

"Good," Isabella said, squatting beside the cauldron like a woman on a mission. "Now, pass me the dried leaves, assistant."

Isabella leaned forward near the strainer, eyes narrowing as she scanned the tools she had laid out. The fire crackled beside the cauldron, smoke curling into the breeze, carrying the faint scent of moss and bark.

"We need to grind the roots first," she muttered, mostly to herself, grabbing the mortar and pestle. "No—boil the leaves first. Or was it roots after bark?"

She stared down at the small pile of dried herbs like it had just betrayed her.

"Ugh, why does everything sound clearer in my head before I say it out loud?"

Beside her, Kian knelt down. He didn't say a word—he simply placed the wooden stirring stick beside her hand and waited. His gaze flicked between the items, but his face gave nothing away. No smile. No teasing comment. Just patient presence.

Isabella cleared her throat and glanced sideways at him, trying to ignore how calm he always looked. Always so composed, even when she was one snarl away from setting the whole area on fire.

"Do you ever laugh?" she asked, voice low.

Kian blinked once, slowly. "When I need to."

Isabella scoffed lightly and pushed her messy hair from her face. "Of course. Because you're carved from stone and raised on silence."

He didn't respond. Instead, he dipped his hand into the pot of herbs, lifted one of the roots, and held it up to her.

"What?" she asked, feigning confusion, even though she knew he wanted her to tell him what it was.

He said nothing.

"Oh you're one of those assistants," she muttered. "The silent and mysterious kind."

Still nothing.

"Fine," she huffed, taking the root. "This one gets crushed. I think it releases something good. At least that's what the dream said."

At this, Kian finally tilted his head slightly. Not with judgment—more like interest.

She grinned. "Yes, I dreamt it. And no, I don't expect you to believe me."

"I do," he said softly.

The words hit her like a slap of cold water. Simple. Plain. But firm. Not in jest. Not sarcastic. He meant it.

For a second, she forgot what she was supposed to do with the root.

Her heart twitched. Annoying.

"Kian are you dying?" Isabella suddenly asked.