The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

They had tried to blend into the crowd. One had even begun to edge backward as if to slip away. But the guards had already moved. With silent precision, they descended like shadows, grabbing the men by the arms before they could flee.

The sound of buckets falling and bodies being dragged across the dirt cracked through the air.

The men struggled. One shouted. Another tried to swing at a guard and received a swift punch to the gut for his trouble. But none of them escaped. They were weaker, slower, and not nearly as smart as they thought.

Gasps echoed from the crowd. Some women flinched. A few men—those who hadn’t noticed what was happening—stood in shock.

Isabella didn’t flinch.

She stepped forward, stopping just a meter from where the men were now on their knees, their faces pressed into the cold, dusty earth.

She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she looked down at Gerwin’s nearly motionless body. He looked like he was about to pass out.

"I never knew he was considered a warrior," she said dryly, clearly judging the half-dead man. Sarcasm dripped from her voice like honey over poison.

Then she turned her attention back to the crowd.

She took her time.

Let them look at the scene. Let them absorb the consequences.