The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 621: I hate it here

Winter pressed harder against the village.

Snow piled higher along the outer fences, and the wind that swept over the hills grew sharper. In response, Isabella’s orders became even more firm.

"If you want to see spring," she told the village, "you will build like you are expecting fifty hungry beasts to attack tomorrow."

The men listened.

Under her direction, additional fences rose in layers around the village, not just one circle but several, so that if an enemy broke through one, they would be slowed by another.

Watchtowers grew taller and more numerous. At first, the beastmen had grumbled.

"Why climb when we can just smell the enemy from the ground?" someone had said.

Then Isabella had pointed out that seeing further meant knowing earlier, especially when the wind carried scents away. They had tried it once, and when they realized they could spot moving shapes in the distance before any smell reached them, they stopped complaining.

Storage pits for grains and roots were dug deeper and lined with stone to keep moisture out. Smoke houses for meat were built in an organized row, with vents carved carefully so the smoke could drift out without choking everyone.

The new male refugees that Isabella had taken in earlier became the main labor force for these tasks.

At first, they had worked with a desperate energy, the kind of strength born from fear of starving in winter. They followed orders because they had nowhere else to go.

Day by day, that changed.

They started to learn the names of the lion tribe children who brought them water. They began to argue with the older villagers about the best way to stack wood without it toppling over.

They discovered that if they worked hard, Isabella would appear at random times to hand them hot soup, or to clap her hands and praise a completed wall.

"You did well," she would say. "If enemies come, they will break their heads on this first."

Hearing that, something in their chests warmed.

Slowly, they stopped calling themselves refugees in their own minds.

They began to call this place "our village" when they talked among themselves.

Isabella saw it, and felt satisfied.

The distribution system she set up for winter was simple but strict.

Food and furs were counted, recorded on the rough paper sheets. Families received fixed shares. Hunters and guards who went on dangerous duty received extra portions. The new laborers who worked well also received small rewards.

The elders who could not work, and pregnant women, were protected at the top of the list.

No one was allowed to hoard. If someone tried, they were called out in public. It only took two such examples before the rest learned.

Through all this, Cyrus stayed close to Isabella like a patient shadow.

Whenever she went to inspect the outer fences, he walked at her side, one hand hovering near her back in case she slipped. If she sat to check records, he placed warm stones near her feet and brought her a drink without being asked.

When she frowned at a problem, he would quietly suggest solutions.

"We can move this pit further from the river," he might say. "If it floods, the food will spoil. We can dig here instead."

Sometimes she listened, sometimes she argued, but in the end they always discussed until both were satisfied.

At night, inside their shared room, he unwound even more.

He massaged her aching ankles, kissed the stretch marks growing along her sides as if they were sacred marks, and listened to her complain about her back hurting or her craving something specific.

Their bond had settled into a deep warmth.

He was still shy, still the soft husband whose first instinct was always to give, never to take, but he had become bolder in small ways. He would hold her longer, rest his chin on her shoulder, and let his tail curl loosely around her leg as they lay together.

Kian watched many of these moments from a distance.

Sometimes he stood on a watchtower, looking down at the inner courtyard where Isabella and Cyrus walked slowly, her arm linked with the snake man’s.

Sometimes he passed by the smoke houses and caught sight of Isabella leaning into Cyrus’s side as she tasted a piece of meat he had cooked.

He did not speak, and his expression did not change much.

Inside, his chest felt heavy.

The curse that hung over him, the one that told him he would never truly be able to love or be loved without bringing disaster, pulsed like a bruise. It whispered that any step he took toward her would only drag her into a future full of pain.

So he held back.

He focused on his duties as king. He checked every watchtower. He drilled the guards. He listened to reports from the hills. He made sure no one froze or starved.

He told himself that keeping her village safe was his way of loving her.

Still, there were nights when he stood alone on the wall, snow settling on his hair, eyes fixed on the warm light shining from Isabella’s room.

"How long can I watch like this," he wondered, "while she grows closer to others under my own roof."

Shelia noticed the way his gaze drifted, but he never spoke, and she did not know the truth behind his restraint. She only knew that her brother seemed to tie himself tighter with every passing day.

Osiris, meanwhile, continued to be noisy.

He complained almost every morning.

"I hate it here," he would say, lying near the fire with his arms under his head. "It is cold. The food is weird. The people are too earnest. The king stares too much. It is boring."

Then, as soon as Isabella called out, he would get up.

He helped carry heavy rocks even though he claimed his delicate phoenix bones were not meant for such work. He followed men to the watchtowers and pretended he was there only to enjoy the view, not to check the structure.

He brought Isabella news from the yard.

"The new men have stopped flinching every time someone shouts," he reported one day. "They even joked with me. I do not know why. I did not say anything funny."

Isabella looked at him.

"Maybe they are relieved that there is someone dumber than them in the village now," she suggested.

He clutched his chest.

"Isabella, you wound me," he said. "My heart is fragile."

"You have no brain," she replied calmly. "How can your heart be fragile."

He scowled, but his eyes were bright.

The truth was, he did feel restless.

His wings itched at night, memories of burning skies and a proud tribe flashing through his mind. But when he walked through the snow packed paths of the lion village and heard the laughter from the sewing rooms, when he saw Isabella shouting orders with her heavy stomach, some part of him did not want to leave.

He carried logs to the fire stores, muttering the whole time.

"This is not for you," he told Isabella’s back as she checked storage. "I am only doing this because I like being warm."

Isabella did not even turn around.

"Yes, yes," she said. "You hate us. That is why you keep helping."

He clenched his jaw.

When spring came, he told himself, he would leave.

Probably.

Maybe.