She took another breath. Let it sit. Let the weight of his words roll off her shoulders like water off armor.
When she finally looked at him again, her expression had shifted. Her eyes had steadied. The softness was still there, but it was tucked carefully behind the glass.
"You can’t do that, Cyrus."
He blinked, head tilting slightly.
"Wait for me like that," she added, tone firmer now. "That’s not... it’s not good for you."
Her hands moved as she spoke, waving vaguely between them like she was trying to untangle invisible string.
"I mean—look at you. Standing out here all night just to make sure I’m okay? That’s not normal, Cyrus. That’s next-level kindness. People don’t do stuff like that. Not unless they’re getting something out of it."
He opened his mouth, probably to say something equally poetic and deeply unhealthy, but she held up a finger.
"I mean it," she said, leveling her gaze at him. "You don’t get to wait for me in your next life, okay? You’re not a dog outside a bakery. You’re not a statue. You’re a whole person, Cyrus. Don’t shrink yourself like that. Not for me."
Her voice caught slightly on the last word, but she steamrolled over it like a pro. Lips tight. Shoulders squared.
She was aware of the fact that her heart was doing parkour in her chest. She was aware of how warm her ears felt. She was aware of how Cyrus was still looking at her with that gentle devotion that made her want to scream and melt into a puddle at the same time.
So she turned.
Classic move. Turn away, regroup, keep your crown on.
She folded her arms, facing the palace. Her stance said composed, but her toes curled slightly into the stone floor like they were holding onto something invisible.
This was fine. She was fine. Everything was fine.
"I’m just saying," she mumbled, mostly to herself now. "Don’t make a habit out of that."
And there they were—standing under the bright moonlight near the palace entrance like it was their personal stage. Two guards. Those two guards.
She recognized them immediately.
They were part of the first wave of chaos she’d encountered the day she woke up in this oversized loincloth fantasy of a world. She remembered the way they’d stared at her back then—like she was a curious, wingless bird that had flown into their campfire.
One had a head of golden hair so wild and tangled it looked like a nest had exploded on it. Not a regular nest—no, this one had clearly lost a fight with a mammoth, and maybe a lightning strike for good measure.
The other had sleek, meticulously cut black hair—too neat for a world where scissors weren’t even a thing.
The kind of neat that screamed he trimmed it himself using something sharp and maybe a still water every three days just so he could silently judge other people’s poor choices. His expression hadn’t changed since that first day either: permanently unimpressed.
They weren’t new. They were just background characters she’d refused to give a role. Until now.
Now they were watching her and Cyrus like they were the most riveting thing to happen since fire.
They stood a few paces apart, stone-tipped spears leaning against their shoulders, clearly off-duty but emotionally invested. Very emotionally invested.
"See that?" said Bird-Nest Hair, gesturing with a half-roasted berry skewer like he was making a point in a war council. "That’s where we’re going wrong."
The Judgy One didn’t even blink. "We should learn to be like this for our women. They’ll cherish us over other men."
He said it so matter-of-factly, like he was reading sacred text carved into a rock wall.
Isabella blinked once. Twice.
Oh. My. Universe.
They were fanboying.
Over her. And Cyrus.
Her.
And Cyrus—dear sweet Cyrus—was standing there behind her like a scene out of a tragic ballad. Red hair catching the wind. Soft smile still hovering. Like her calling him crazy was the highlight of his week.
They clearly didn’t remember.
But she did.
Oh, she remembered everything.
The first night she’d stumbled into this wild, sky-colored beast world—tired, starving, and barely holding herself together—they’d treated her like she was diseased. No, worse. Like she was some unwashed madwoman that had crawled out of a garbage pit. (Well she was... but still!)
They’d laughed when she’d asked for water.
They’d let that little girl throw rocks at her and mock her.
Oh, and when she almost passed out from exhaustion? Then they decided she was worth a glance.
She’d nearly died.
So as she walked forward now—slow, poised, her chin lifted just enough to radiate danger—Cyrus followed gently behind her. His footsteps made no sound, but his gaze never left her.
He felt the shift the moment it happened. Like wind before a storm. Something in her posture had turned sharp. Her arms, once loose at her sides, had folded. Her jaw, usually soft and expressive, had gone rigid. And those eyes? Her eyes had narrowed into slits that could probably start a forest fire if she stared long enough.
Still, he didn’t interfere. Whatever it was, she needed to face it.
And he would be there—quietly, as always—if she needed him.
They reached the two guards, who loomed like carved stone pillars in front of the palace entrance, the firelight behind them flickering against their fur-lined vests.
The guards, for their part, stared at her with the slack-jawed awe of men seeing a sun goddess descend from the clouds. It was obvious they recognized her now—as that woman. The one the kitchens whispered about. The one who built something called... what was it... a well?
The one even the lion king had reportedly looked at twice.
Still, they didn’t place her. Not yet.
Isabella stopped, arms crossed, weight cocked slightly to one hip. "What? Don’t tell me you two can’t remember me all of a sudden."
That voice—calm, mocking, with just the right amount of venom—hit them like a spear to the face.
Golden Bird-Nest Hair blinked once, and his mouth dropped open. "Oh! It’s that crazy dirty woman from that night!"
His tone was weirdly excited, like he’d just uncovered a long-lost relic.