Chapter 378: Chapter 378: You aren’t here as a king
Y’all, before we continue, I just want to say this real quick. Yes, yes, I see all of your comments about Isabella. Yelling at her to "go save Shelia already!" the very second she found out about her friend’s situation. I see you. 👀
But listen... I know to you as the reader, it feels like ages have passed. Whole months. Seasons even. But in the story? It’s literally been, like, two days. Two. As in 48 hours. Not even enough time for Zyran to annoy Isabella ten times yet. (And y’all know that man works on a strict "annoy Isabella every hour" schedule).
So please relax. Breathe. Put your pitchforks down. Isabella’s not heartless. She’s not ignoring her friend. She will be making that trip to the mountain VERYYYYYYY soon. And when I say "very," I mean... so soon it’s basically knocking on the door already. So let’s all sit back, sip some palm wine, and let the drama unfold in order. 😌
...
Cyrus had been working all morning, and if anyone looked at him, they’d probably think he was the happiest man alive. The villagers were lively too, buzzing like bees after hearing they’d get to see and use new, interesting things crafted for them.
The men, the women, even the children—everyone was running around with excitement, eager to help or just stand nearby and watch. For once, the village didn’t feel weighed down by survival, but lifted by anticipation.
Normally, during the Full Moon Festival, the men didn’t get to enjoy much play. They spent their time hunting down meats or competing in tests of strength. The women, on the other hand, relaxed, danced, and just let themselves glow under the moonlight.
But this time, things were different. Orders from Kian meant everyone had to pitch in. The festival wasn’t just about looking good—it was about building.
So, the work split up nicely. Some beastmen went hunting to bring back fresh meat for the feast. Others stayed behind, crafting cups, bowls, and decorations out of wood. Clay would’ve taken far too long, but with the claws and brute strength of beastmen, plus Cyrus’s skill as a teacher, wooden crafts came together surprisingly fast.
Cyrus wasn’t just "teaching"—he was showing, guiding hands, correcting mistakes gently, making even the clumsiest man feel like an artisan. His patience paid off, and soon everyone was working like a well-oiled machine.
Meanwhile, Ophelia—sweet Ophelia—was guiding some men to the flower fields, pointing out the same blossoms she’d once used to make the crack for Isabella. Only this time, they were gathering them to turn into jewelry for the women. A clever twist: petals turned into necklaces, blossoms into crowns. Cyrus had quietly told her to set aside the best flowers—the ones that glowed faintly in moonlight—for Isabella.
While the village buzzed with productivity, children darted in between, chasing each other, laughing so loud it made the entire place feel alive. The air smelled of fresh wood shavings, wildflowers, and faint smoke from fires used to heat tools.
Cyrus sat down at last, his hands filled with flowers he had saved specifically for Isabella’s jewelry. His touch was careful, reverent almost, as if he already imagined how they would look resting against her skin.
And that’s when Kian approached.
Cyrus noticed the tall shadow fall across him before he even looked up. The king walked with his usual confidence, every step heavy with authority. Yet he didn’t stop to loom or command. He simply lowered himself, sitting right beside Cyrus, close enough their shoulders almost touched.
Cyrus raised a brow, confusion flickering briefly before realization set in. A small smile tugged at his lips as he studied Kian. "A king like you shouldn’t bother yourself with such trivial matters," he said lightly. His tone was calm, respectful, but the hidden meaning was sharp enough that Kian couldn’t possibly miss it.
Cyrus wasn’t like Zyran. Zyran would’ve shamelessly shoved him aside, laughing in his face while stealing Isabella’s attention for himself. Cyrus’s weapon was subtler. He used words that sounded polite, but under them was a quiet warning: This is my space. My time. My gift for her.
"You are right," Kian said evenly, his gaze dropping to the flowers. He picked one up, deliberately choosing the thorn-covered stem. His fingers brushed against the sharp points, but he didn’t even flinch. His lips curled in the faintest smirk. "But I am not seated here as a king, am I?"
The mockery in his voice was clear.
Cyrus’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. The meaning was not lost on him. Kian wasn’t here as the ruler of their people. He was here as Isabella’s lover. Which meant it was only natural that he, too, should have a hand in something meant for her.
The unspoken message hung between them: This is not just your right, Cyrus. It’s mine as well.
And yet... Kian hadn’t actually stopped Cyrus from crafting the jewelry. His hands weren’t moving to take over. His presence was more of a statement than an action.
Which could mean two things.
The first possibility was simple enough. Maybe Kian really didn’t care. Maybe he just didn’t think much of it and didn’t mind Cyrus sitting there, quietly making something for "his woman."
But Cyrus wasn’t a fool. He knew better than to take things at face value when it came to Kian.
Because Kian was not just a man. He was also a lion.
And lions were prideful. Everyone knew this. It was written in their blood, etched into their stripes, stamped into their very nature.
So, the second possibility was far more likely.
Kian wasn’t letting Cyrus carry on out of kindness. No. He was allowing it so that his own pride would be satisfied later—when Isabella rejected Cyrus’s gift and chose his instead.
Cyrus’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He hid it well, kept his calm smile plastered across his face, but inside? Inside, he had already decided. If he had to pick between the two options, then yes, he’d go with the second.
Because this was no longer a friendly pastime.
This was a silent competition.
And it was one Cyrus had no intention of losing.
"You are right," Cyrus finally answered, his smile curling back into place as if it had never slipped at all. "You aren’t here as a king."
The words carried more weight than they appeared to. And judging by the faint shift in Kian’s expression, he’d heard the hidden meaning just fine.
Neither man spoke again after that.
They simply began.
Kian reached for the thorn-covered stems without hesitation. His movements were precise, efficient, every motion radiating a calm confidence that was somehow even more intimidating than if he had scowled. He was a man used to battle, used to building and breaking with his own hands. The thorns cut into his skin immediately, leaving thin trails of red across his knuckles, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
Cyrus, meanwhile, worked with quieter grace. Where Kian’s style was forceful and direct, Cyrus’s was patient and fluid. He didn’t fight the material in front of him; he coaxed it, bent it, wove it carefully. His hands were steadier, his expression softer, but the determination in his eyes was just as sharp.
The difference between them became obvious very quickly.
Kian’s creation was firm, structured, almost unyielding. Every line was strong, every curve sharp, every knot deliberate. It had weight, power. You could feel the strength just by looking at it, even unfinished.
Cyrus’s, on the other hand, flowed like water. Flexible, intricate, every piece connected in a way that seemed effortless, though in truth it required immense care and patience. His was something that would move, bend, adjust—and yet never lose its shape.
Both were beautiful. Both carried skill. But they were distinct in every possible way—just like the men themselves.
Time slipped by as they worked. The sounds of the busy village dimmed around them. Children’s laughter, men’s voices, the rustle of flowers—it all faded into background noise. To anyone else, the two men probably looked like they were working side by side peacefully, even harmoniously.
But anyone who dared look closer would see the truth.
Kian’s sharp glances that flickered to Cyrus’s hands every now and then. Cyrus’s subtle smirk whenever his own progress seemed smoother. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.
Neither of them reached for magic. Neither summoned any equipment to ease the process. That would have been too easy. Too dishonorable. Too weak.
No. They would do this with nothing but their own hands.
And if that meant their skin tore against the thorns, then so be it.
It wasn’t long before blood speckled their fingers. Thin cuts, shallow but stinging, welled red across their hands. Kian’s knuckles were scraped raw from his harsh grip. Cyrus’s palms were lined with tiny slashes from weaving too delicately against the thorns. Both bore the marks of stubbornness.
But neither stopped. Neither even looked down at the injuries.
Kian pressed on with unshakable resolve, his expression unreadable except for the faint narrowing of his eyes. He was building something strong, something that would stand the test of time, something that would leave no room for rejection.
Cyrus pressed on with quiet intensity, his lips curved in that infuriatingly calm smile. He was building something elegant, something that would sit gently, comfortably, yet remain unforgettable once touched.
If anyone else had been watching closely, they might have laughed. Because in truth, the two of them weren’t just crafting accessories anymore.
They were making promises.
Promises laced in blood and pride. Promises Isabella herself would one day have to unravel.
Minutes stretched into an hour, an hour into two. Sweat dampened their brows, though neither acknowledged it. The village around them carried on in lively cheer, oblivious to the silent war being fought in plain sight.
By the time both men finally set their finished work down, their hands were aching, their fingers raw, their nails stained faintly with red.
Two creations lay before them. One harder, heavier, unyielding. The other softer, flexible, intricate.
Neither spoke.
But the air between them crackled with unspoken words.
And deep down, both already knew—this wasn’t about the flowers, or the festival, or even the gifts themselves.
This was about Isabella.
And neither of them would ever yield when it came to her.