The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

Isabella had been lounging on the wooden log like it was a throne built especially for her—a smirk teasing the corner of her mouth as if she ruled this entire land with nothing but a sharp tongue and sharper instincts.

But the moment Valen said the words, "I came back to the village yesterday and I heard you were hurt," her spine straightened like someone had just declared war on her favorite shoes.

She didn’t even look at Opehlia first—her eyes locked on Valen, and something in them sparked.

"Ah-ha!" Isabella said, the sound practically bouncing off the stone walls like the trumpet of justice. "Yes, I’ll give you the full story."

Her fingers cracked one by one as she prepared herself, clearly revving up for a performance that belonged on a grand stage somewhere, under torchlight and thunder.

But just as she turned, shoulders back, lips parting for the first epic syllable—

Opehlia stepped forward, soft as a breeze but with eyes that begged, and gently took Isabella’s hand. Her soft fingers closed around it with the delicacy of someone trying to hold together a storming dam.

Isabella blinked, irritated. "Why?" she demanded, her tone sharp enough to slice through boiled meat.

Valen frowned beside them, his arms slowly crossing over his chest as he tried to read the scene. He looked from Isabella to Opehlia, confusion growing on his face like moss on a stone.

Opehlia’s eyes dropped, then lifted again with that usual soft, glowy wisdom of hers. "It’s beautiful if we let it go," she said softly. "If we talk too much, things might get out of hand."

Isabella’s expression twisted. "Oh, get out of hand? We’re already out of hand," she snapped, yanking her hand back. "You’re out here looking like tragedy’s favorite painting, and I’m supposed to stay silent like some rock?"

Valen took a sharp step forward, voice firm now. "Isabella, don’t listen to her. Tell me what happened."