The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Ilyana immediately stiffened at the sound of that voice.

The sharp, familiar blade of fury in it sank straight into her bones—so unmistakably Isolde. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned, already knowing what she'd see. And there she was.

Her twin. Her mirror. Her lifelong shadow.

Isolde stood just beyond the clearing, dark hair braided tightly like a no-nonsense crown, (her hair did not seem so bad after the early morning fire), her lips curled into a sneer, her eyes—those same storm-grey eyes they shared—burning with outrage.

But her anger wasn't just directed at Ilyana.

It was aimed, like a spear, straight at Cyrus.

"I said it," Isolde hissed, her voice rising with each syllable. "I knew it. I can't believe you're actually trying to pursue a monster like him."

She stormed forward with the unrelenting confidence of someone who always got her way, grabbed Ilyana by the wrist, and yanked her away from Cyrus without hesitation—as if Cyrus's very presence was some infection she needed to rip her sister free from.

The air between them crackled with tension, the trees around them rustling like they too had turned to watch. Ilyana stumbled slightly, caught off-guard, but quickly regained her balance. Her skin burned where Isolde had touched her—more from the shame and frustration than the grip.

"I wouldn't have even known you were here if your mate hadn't told me," Isolde continued with a pointed glance over her shoulder, lips tightening with disapproval. "You lied, Ilyana. Again."

There was no room for diplomacy in her voice. Just bitter, disappointed rage.

Ilyana's stomach twisted, but she forced herself to stay composed. "He is not a monster, Isolde," she said quickly, voice tight and shaky. "He is kind. And lovely. He really listens to me and takes his time teaching me things. He's nothing like what they say."

She couldn't stop the words from tumbling out, even as her gaze flicked nervously to Cyrus—still standing quietly a few feet away, expression unreadable. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. But that only made her heart ache more.

Isolde scoffed as if the very idea was laughable. "Kind and lovely?" she repeated, wrinkling her nose like Ilyana had just praised a venomous weed. "He's from the Serpent tribe, Ilyana. Have you lost your mind?"

She spat the word like it was something foul in her mouth.

"The snakes are mindless beasts—creatures of instinct and bloodlust. You think because he speaks gently and looks tame, that means anything? That it's real? That it lasts?"

Isolde didn't even look at Cyrus when she said it. She didn't need to. The insult was designed to cut through the air and land directly between his ribs. But Cyrus didn't even blink. His arms remained crossed, his face as calm as a winter pond. Only his eyes—those strange, haunted eyes—flickered.

But Ilyana saw it.

She knew Cyrus didn't flinch because he'd been through worse. Far worse. Being called a monster didn't hurt him anymore—not when he had spent years alone, carrying the scars of a past none of them knew.

But she cared. And that hurt her more than anything.

She turned back to face her sister with new steel in her spine. "Don't say that, Isolde," Ilyana said, voice low, trembling—but determined. "That's not how a princess should speak."

Isolde rolled her eyes with such dramatic force it could've knocked a tree over. "Oh, spare me—"

"Suddenly you care about what a princess should do and what she shouldn't?" Isolde laughed bitterly, taking a step forward. Her voice was sharp—too sharp—and her smile was cold. She threw a sarcastic glance toward Ilyana, her fingers slicing through the air as she gestured mockingly between her and Cyrus.

"Okay. How about I tell Mother and Father about this?" she said, eyes gleaming, lips curling with satisfaction.

Ilyana's heart skipped.

Her body went rigid.

"You wouldn't," she said, but her voice faltered. She took a step back, instinctively putting herself between Isolde and Cyrus. "Why would you do that, huh?"

Her voice cracked under the weight of fear. Real, unfiltered fear.

The thought of her parents finding out—of the elders finding out—what she felt, what she wanted… it made her skin crawl with dread. She wasn't ready. She wasn't strong enough to fight that battle yet.

But her sister?

Her sister had always known how to hit where it hurt. And she wasn't above using it.

"If he was really a monster," Ilyana snapped, trying to push her voice louder than the thudding of her pulse, "then your head would've been rolling on the ground by now. Isn't that enough proof?"

She turned slightly, looking at Cyrus for a split second—hoping, praying, that he wouldn't flinch at the image. He didn't. His eyes were unreadable. But he was listening.

Isolde raised a brow, unimpressed. "My head rolling on the ground?" she echoed, then scoffed, tossing her hair back like she'd just been asked to take tea with a traitor.

"Please. If a hair goes missing from my body, Father will hunt him down until there's nothing left but bones and blood."

Her voice held the same cruel confidence she'd been raised with—the same entitlement bred into them from the cradle.

Ilyana's fists clenched.

"Really?" she said bitterly. "You still think we have that kind of power?"

She stepped forward now, finally pushing back.

"We had to flee, Isolde. Flee our own city. We don't rule anything anymore. If you died, no one would come. No one would care. Not even him." Her chin tilted in Cyrus's direction, but her gaze remained locked on her sister. "Not anymore."

For a second, Isolde faltered. Just a flash of something uncertain passed through her eyes, like a shadow darting behind a curtain. But she recovered too fast—always too fast.

"We still have our men," she said, jaw tight. Her teeth clenched like she was holding onto something that was already slipping through her fingers. "Nothing will change the power we still have. And will always have. Just like Father told us."

Ilyana looked at her for a long moment. And then she smiled—small, sad, and sharp.

"Then why," she asked softly, "did Father not punish Isabella after your hair caught on fire earlier?"

Isolde blinked.

And in that tiny silence, her mask cracked.