The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 547: It is ugly

The dagger skidded across the snow for the second time.

It cut a long line in the frost, twirling uselessly until it stopped several feet away, buried headfirst like it was trying to flee the scene itself.

Isabella’s eye twitched.

Every vein in her forehead threatened rebellion.

For a full second, she sat still in the snow, breathing in the frozen air as if she were summoning ancient patience from the heavens. Her fingers trembled from cold, pain, and sheer annoyance.

Then, with the slow misery of a dying Victorian heroine, she began to crawl across the snow.

Not walk.

Not stand.

Not stomp.

Crawl.

Like life had beaten her down and she was accepting her new fate as a frostbitten worm.

Osiris watched the entire thing, sitting beside her with his legs awkwardly folded, trying not to freeze to death. His breath fogged in the air. His hair had tiny flakes of snow resting on it. Even his eyebrows looked cold.

Meanwhile Glimora was on Isabella’s back like a tiny furry scarf, shivering violently and giving Osiris a death glare as if all of this was somehow his fault.

Isabella grabbed the dagger.

Her hand was shaking.

Her lips were trembling.

Her soul was halfway out of her body.

But she got up.

And she went back.

She sat before the half-formed, lopsided, uneven block of ice that she insisted was going to become a bowl. Her eyes narrowed like she was preparing to battle the Ice God himself.

Then she lifted the dagger again.

Chip.

Chip.

Chip.

Chip chip chip.

The progress was...

Slow.

Agonizingly slow.

Osiris sat beside her in silence because he already knew better than to speak. He had tried earlier. She had threatened to stab him. He believed her.

Every minute that passed, her shivering worsened.

Her fingers turned pink, then red, then pink again.

Her breaths grew uneven.

Her lips pressed tightly together as if she could hold back all her complaints through brute force.

She could not.

Because ten minutes later...

The dagger slipped again.

It flew.

It spun.

It skidded.

And Isabella’s entire soul cracked in half.

She stared at her hand like it had personally betrayed her. Then she stared at the ice block like she was considering smiting it with divine powers.

Osiris leaned in gently. "Do you want—"

"If you speak to me," Isabella said, voice trembling with rage and tears, "I will chase you with that dagger and stab you. And Glimora will help me."

Glimora squeaked in agreement, even though she was too cold to actually move.

Osiris stared at Isabella.

Then at Glimora.

Then back at Isabella.

Yep.

They were both insane.

And yes, she would stab him.

So he shut up.

Isabella stomped over to the dagger, snatched it up, and stomped back to the ice block. Tears were already gathering in her eyes, blurring her vision, slipping down her cheeks only to freeze halfway.

But she didn’t stop.

She carved.

Slowly.

Badly.

Pathetically.

Emotionally.

"Oh my god," she sniffed loudly, stabbing the ice. "Why am I doing this. I am just a girl. Girls are meant to be pampered. I should be in a warm blanket drinking soup. I should not be fighting ice. Why is my life like this."

Chip.

Chip.

"I deserve princess treatment. Not mountain survival. Not dagger carving. Not frostbite."

Chip.

Chip.

"My hands hurt. My soul hurts. My unborn children are probably judging me."

Chip.

"I should be somewhere soft. Somewhere beautiful. Not here suffering for a stupid bowl."

Chip.

Chip.

"And for what. Huh. For what. To save someone. I am a good person. I deserve flowers. I deserve offerings. I deserve magic. But no. I get ice."

Chip.

Osiris blinked slowly.

She wasn’t even talking to him anymore.

She wasn’t talking to the system.

She wasn’t talking to Glimora.

She was talking to the universe.

Glimora sat beside her mother, occasionally nodding or crying in solidarity.

Isabella continued, voice cracking.

"I cannot do this. I am a princess. I am soft. I am delicate. I am tired. My life is hard. My system hates me. My feet are cold. My hands are cold. My ears are cold. My heart is cold. Everything is cold."

Osiris opened his mouth gently. "Isabella—"

"Do not," she said without looking up, "test me. I will carve you next."

Osiris quietly shut his mouth.

He watched her more closely now.

Her big emotions.

Her dramatic complaints.

Her stubbornness that made the mountain tremble.

Her tears that froze on her cheeks.

Her hands shaking and red from cold.

Her determination, even while she was absolutely breaking down.

He felt... bad.

For once.

Not annoyed.

Not amused.

Just quietly... worried.

But Isabella did not notice.

Because fifteen minutes later, her dagger slipped again.

It didn’t go far this time.

It fell directly onto her foot.

She stared.

Very slowly.

And then...

She broke.

Fully.

Completely.

She sat down in the snow and began crying like a woman whose husband had left her for a younger girl and also taken her slippers.

Her crying echoed dramatically across the summit.

"I cannot," she sobbed. "I cannot do this. My hands. My fingers. My toes. My everything. Why am I here. Why am I alive. Why am I carving bowls like a peasant."

Osiris whispered, "Let me—"

"Try me," Isabella snapped through tears, grabbing the dagger. "Say one more word. I dare you."

Osiris shut up again.

He looked at Glimora helplessly.

Glimora stared back like, welcome to motherhood.

Then Isabella continued chipping ice through tears.

"It is ugly," she whined. "It is horrible. It looks like a frog. Not a bowl. A frog. A frozen frog."

Chip.

Chip.

"I was not built for this. I was built for luxury. I want a fireplace. I want warm food. I want velvet. Why am I carving bowls on a mountain."

Chip.

"This is abuse."

Chip.

"This is oppression."

Chip.

"This is illegal."

Chip.

Osiris covered his mouth because he was very close to laughing, even though he also felt incredibly bad for her.

An hour passed.

Maybe more.

She worked like a crying gremlin.

Finally...finally...the last piece of ice chipped away.

Isabella staggered backward, red-eyed, breathless, dramatic, and absolutely done with her existence.

Before her sat the bowl.

A wonky, slightly uneven, wobbly, lopsided bowl that looked like a drunk ice sculptor had made it.

But it was a bowl.

A real bowl.

A bowl that would work.

A bowl that cost her dignity, sanity, hydration, and internal peace.

She sat down on the ice.

Collapsed, really.

Face tilted up.

Cold wind hitting her cheeks.

Hair disheveled.

Tears drying into frost.

She let out a shaky exhale.

"Finally," she whispered. "One task done. Two more days and I am off this torturous mountain. Then I am never climbing anything again. Ever."

Osiris stared at her quietly.

Her shoulders rising and falling.

Her breath fogging.

Her small body trembling lightly.

Her stubbornness finally resting.

He swallowed hard.

Something in his chest tightened.

The kind of tightness that came with worry.

And admiration.

And something else he didn’t want to name.

He took a breath.

Opened his mouth.