The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 102: How do you know all these things?

There were only a few hours left before nightfall, so she gave them a quick rundown of a few more recipes and tips. The beastmen looked utterly confused. They didn’t understand why she was teaching them so much, but Isabella didn’t mind. They’d figure it out in time. She wasn’t doing it for them, though. She was doing it because she could feel it—the gnawing sickness growing inside her. Not the kind where she’d be throwing up all night, but the kind that made her stomach churn and her thoughts a little hazy. The kind that made her feel... off.

After finishing up the lessons for the day, Isabella accepted the inevitable: the sickness wasn’t going to go away by pretending it wasn’t there.

But first, there was one more thing to handle. She turned to Cyrus as he prepared to leave for his hut. He insisted, once again, that he didn’t need a hide or anything. He mostly slept in his snake form, anyway.

"Are you serious?" Isabella shot back, crossing her arms. "Your snake form is way too huge for that hut. You’ll knock everything over and crush yourself, you idiot."

He blinked at her, clearly confused by her insistence. But in the end, he relented. He didn’t need much, but he took a hide to use as bedding. It was better than nothing.

Satisfied, Isabella made sure he was settled in, then turned toward her own hut.

Inside, Ophelia was already waiting for her. Isabella sank into the corner, trying to push through the sick feeling building inside her. She wasn’t sure if it was just exhaustion, or something else entirely. Either way, she wasn’t in the mood for small talk tonight.

"Isabella, are you doing okay?" Ophelia’s soft voice cracked the silence like a pebble skipping across still water.

Isabella opened one eye. Just one. The other was too tired to bother. Her skin was pale—elegantly pale, like an overworked queen who refused to stop looking good even while dying.

She turned her head slowly, dramatically, like a lady in an epic tragedy. Her lips curled into a weak, but flawless smile. "You’ll take care of me," she whispered, voice barely above a breath, "so I’ll be okay."

Ophelia blinked rapidly, visibly more worried now. "But what’s wrong with you?" Her round little face scrunched up like a bun being kneaded.

Isabella let her eyes flutter closed again, exhaling deeply like she was bearing the weight of the world on a silver platter. "Just feeling a little sick."

Ophelia gasped like she’d been stabbed. "Oh no! That means we have to go to one of our neighboring villages. Our village is too small to afford a witch doctor." She panicked immediately, eyes darting, already half-rising to her feet. "Maybe Kian can help—!"

"Sit down, Ophelia." Isabella’s voice was sharp and smooth, like silk with a knife hidden inside. Her hand flopped weakly in the air. "If Kian could help, I’d have gone to him days ago. Do you think I enjoy being dramatic like this? I thrive when I’m standing upright and being fabulous."

Ophelia sat, wide-eyed. "But... what do we do?"

"Simple." Isabella let her head fall back against the wall with a theatrical thud. "You feed me. Religiously. Generously. Like I’m a goddess who’s decided to descend into your peasant life for a bit of spice."

Ophelia frowned. "You’re scaring me."

"I should. Have you seen my face? I look like I’ve seen a ghost and then judged its outfit."

"...What?"

"Never mind." Isabella sighed, adjusting her position, wrapping her arms around herself. "Ophelia, you’re not allowed to cry unless I’m already dead. Those are the rules."

Ophelia tried to pout. It didn’t work. She looked more like a puffed-up dumpling.

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Then Ophelia’s gaze wandered to the corner of the hut.

"Isabella," she said suddenly, "what are those?" Her little finger pointed like she’d spotted treasure in the dirt.

Isabella followed her gaze. "Those?" Her tone was regal again. "Those are slippers."

"Slippers?" Ophelia repeated like she was trying the word out for the first time.

"Yes. You wear them to protect your feet. Revolutionary, I know. I should charge you just for hearing about them."

Ophelia’s eyes sparkled like she’d just discovered fire. "Can you make some for us too?!"

Isabella chuckled weakly. "The moment this is over, mark my words, it will be the start of a new era. A slippered civilization. No more dirty feet. No more stubbed toes. We rise."

Ophelia didn’t understand half of that, but she nodded with such fierce determination, you’d think Isabella had just announced a war.

"Isabella..." she said softly, after a pause. "How do you know all these things?"

Isabella’s lips pressed into a faint smile. "I’m from a very different place."

Ophelia tilted her head. "Like a different village?"

"Something like that," Isabella replied, voice quiet now. Heavier. "Let’s just say... I’ve walked roads you haven’t even dreamed of."

Ophelia opened her mouth again, but stopped. She could tell Isabella didn’t want to explain. Not yet. Maybe never. So she let it go.

The hut was warm, the crackle of night insects outside humming like a lullaby. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

Soon enough, Ophelia curled up and drifted off to sleep beside her, her breath evening out, her chubby cheeks soft in the firelight.

Isabella lay there, staring at the thatched ceiling, her body aching in strange places. Her head felt foggy. The air felt heavy. Her limbs? Like someone had replaced them with logs. She didn’t know what kind of sickness this was, but it didn’t feel normal. It felt... important. Dangerous, maybe. But she was too tired to overthink.

She turned her head and saw Glimora, her tiny white body coiled up like a perfect cinnamon roll beside her, sleeping soundly. The sight made something inside Isabella ease.

She reached out slowly, gently, and pressed a kiss to the top of Glimora’s fluffy little head.

"Good night, you weird adorable thing," she whispered.

Then, finally, she let sleep take her too.