The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"Do you really think one snake beastman can take us all down?" the leader of the Fangridge warriors asked, still wearing a smug grin—but now, his tone had lost that lazy confidence. His eyes narrowed at Kian, clearly assessing him as a threat for the first time.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the thick scent of smoke, sweat, and something metallic—blood, perhaps? Isabella's fingers twitched at her sides. She took a half-step back, just enough to avoid blocking the view of the confrontation, but not enough to look like she was hiding. Not that it would help.

From where she stood behind a crumbling stone pillar, Isabella's gaze darted around. Five men stood in clear sight, each marked with four bold stripes across their chests—Fangridge's way of showing ranking, she recalled. They were all seasoned fighters. Thickly built, battle-hardened, and still scanning the surroundings like wolves waiting for the order to pounce.

But on their side...

Kian stood at the front, his eyes glinting like ice, unreadable and expressionless as ever. His towering frame blocked her from view, which both reassured and annoyed her. She wanted to see, but she also didn't want to be seen.

Next to him stood Luca, his weight cocked to one leg like this was all just some casual evening show. His arms were folded across his bare chest, but there was a flicker of tension in his stance, a pulse visible on his jaw from clenched teeth. His gaze was sharp, tracking every movement.

Asael was at the side, crouched low like a predator about to lunge. There was no humor in his face for once.

Even Cyrus had drawn closer in his full beast form, his massive serpent body coiled protectively near Isabella, moonlight shimmering off his iridescent scales. His soft pink eyes—usually warm—were now focused and alert, a guarded tension in them. He didn't look like he wanted to strike, but if needed, he would.

Yes, they weren't many. But they weren't weak.

Still, Isabella couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't all. The five Fangridge men were the distraction. It was the silence behind them—the trees, the shadows, the unnatural stillness—that worried her most. She could almost feel more eyes watching them, waiting.

Her fingers curled tighter.

"Bubu, is there no way we can make killing these men faster and easier?" she asked silently, mentally pressing her lips together as if that would somehow muffle her desperation.

Bubu's round floating form popped into her vision, unimpressed as ever. "Oh yes, there is a way."

Her eyes widened, relief surging in her chest. "Really?! What is it?"

"Keeping your mouth shut and not intervening."

Isabella blinked. Then scowled. The audacity.

But she said nothing. Not to her, not to anyone. Because as much as she hated to admit it... She had a point.

She lowered her gaze. Her fists loosened slightly, shame curling like vines around her ribs.

For the first time, it wasn't just fear she felt.

It was helplessness.

She hated it.

Why couldn't she fight? Why couldn't she just walk out there, stomp her foot like a boss, and decapitate them like she did on that stupid mountain? That moment had been pure adrenaline. Maybe even a miracle. Because standing here now, she knew—if she tried that again, she'd probably die before she could raise her voice.

And then there was Kian.

Kian, who hadn't moved a muscle.

Kian, who was about to fight for her again.

The thought made her jaw tighten.

This can't go on forever. If she truly planned to survive in this world... if she planned to stay by his side, she couldn't always be the weak one behind the boulder.

Her gaze slid toward Kian again. He hadn't so much as flinched.

And then—

A voice.

"Yes, do you think you can take them all down?"

The words drifted from above, cold and mocking. It sliced clean through the thick air like a dagger, silencing everything.

Isabella froze.

No.

Her blood chilled as her head tilted up slowly—mechanically—as if her body didn't really want to obey.

She knew that voice.

Isabella prayed it was just her imagination playing silly tricks on her.

Please don't let it be him.

But when she slowly peeled her eyes open—just a crack at first—there he was. Perched high up on the thick branch of a colossal tree, the moonlight outlining his absurdly relaxed figure. One leg dangled lazily while the other rested against the bark.

He didn't wear his usual adornments this time—no gleaming gold bands, no ornate jewelry to draw the eye. His hair fell freely, shadowing the sharp lines of his face, and the absence of embellishment only made him look more ancient, more divine… like a god of death stepping out of legend.

Instead, he wore a long dark cloak draped loosely over his shoulders, and a hide skirt that swayed slightly with the breeze.

Just as her stomach dropped, her lips moved before her brain could stop them.

"Zyran?" she said, half disbelief, half why now, and—if anyone had sharp hearing—a whisper of frustration laced behind the word.

Of all the times.

"Hello, love," Zyran said without missing a beat, his voice rich, smooth, and loud enough to echo into every ear nearby. "I've missed you."

He smiled as if he meant it. Shameless. Effortless. Like a man who had just walked into a garden party and announced he was here to claim the bride.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

All heads—previously pointed at him in awe of his sudden, mystical entrance—swiveled toward Isabella. Even the birds above seemed to pause. The guards stiffened, brows lifting. A girl in the back gasped softly. And Kian—

Kian didn't move, didn't speak. But the air thickened. A breeze that had been warm just seconds ago now felt like it carried a warning. His arms hung casually at his sides, yet his knuckles had whitened slightly, betraying a tension.

His eyes—sharp and fixed—didn't leave Isabella, or more specifically, the one she was smiling at. He tilted his head just enough to look relaxed, but his silence held weight. The kind that made Luca glance his way, then quickly look away.