The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Opehlia stared down at Isabella, while she held the worried Glimora in her hands.

The little creature kept making those tiny distressed sounds, wriggling like it wanted to leap onto Isabella and fix everything with its tail or something. Opehlia hugged Glimora tighter, her own round face scrunched with fear as she stared at the woman buried in soaked furs, who hadn’t moved in what felt like forever.

"She’s not moving," Opehlia whispered, panicked. "She’s just sweating and breathing weird and--what if she dies?"

"She’s not dying," Shelia snapped, crouched at Isabella’s feet, arms crossed. Her tone was sharp, but her eyes hadn’t left Isabella’s pale face once. "People don’t die from sweat. Right?"

There was a long pause.

Luca, who had been standing awkwardly by the wall trying not to step on anything or knock over anything (the hut was NOT made for three adult-sized people and a tiny fluffy animal), cleared his throat. "I think... I think maybe she’s cursed."

Opehlia gasped. "Cursed?!"

Shelia gave him a glare so strong it could turn a wild boar to stone. "Luca. If you’re not going to help, shut up."

Luca’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He settled for slowly sinking to his knees, hands on his thighs, looking deeply ashamed for simply existing.

Opehlia sniffled and tried to wipe some sweat off Isabella’s forehead using the edge of her fur sleeve. "She’s burning. Like, really burning. Her skin is hot like fire! Maybe she cooked too much yesterday and her inside fire didn’t go down."

Shelia blinked. "Her... inside fire?"