Chapter 372: Chapter 372: Okay, now you’re really starting to sound like Zyran
Cyrus looked at Kian, and Kian looked back at Cyrus, the quiet between them heavy as a drawn bow. They stood amid the cleared dishes and the tail end of steam, two men carved from different storms staring over the same problem.
"Why did you even accept him in the first place," Cyrus asked, voice calm but edged, "knowing how much she hated him?"
Kian’s gaze slid toward the doorway Zyran had stormed through. The blue of his eyes cooled, thoughtful. "Would you rather keep your opponent far and grope in fog for his next move," he said, "or keep him close and watch every breath he takes?"
Cyrus held that for a beat. The answer was obvious when stated like that. Kian hadn’t accepted Zyran for convenience or friendship; he’d accepted him for Isabella. For her safety. For their sanity. A menace under the roof is still a menace—but at least you hear his footsteps at night.
Cyrus let out a long sigh. The breath carried more than air; it carried worry. "Okay then," he said, glancing at the small covered bowl on the side board, cradled in its little nest of cool air. "I’ll go give her this coconut buttermilk before I meet the men."
"Don’t bother," Kian replied, already reaching for the bowl. His big hand was careful, fingers steady around the rim. "Stay here. I’ll talk to her. I’ll take it."
Cyrus lifted his brows. Kian added, "It’s for the best."
That decided it. Cyrus nodded once and began clearing the table, movements neat, the way he cleaned up his thoughts: one dish, one worry, one breath at a time.
...
Isabella sat outside near the field, the tall grass shivering in a bright breeze. Glimora was a warm weight against her thigh, and Isabella’s fingers moved idly through the beast’s soft fur, smoothing what didn’t need smoothing. Anger drained fast in open air; the wind stole it and left her with the quiet hum of the day.
Farther off, a small knot of young women laughed and fussed with bundles of dyed vines and feather strings, excited hands weaving something she didn’t yet know. The village always had a plan; it just liked to let her find out last. She didn’t mind. Her world, right now, was the patch of shade, the rhythm of her breathing, the soft purr in Glimora’s chest.
Footsteps scraped gently over the packed earth behind her, measured and unhurried. She didn’t need to turn. Kian had a way of arriving that made the ground feel steadier, like the earth approved of his weight.
"So," he said, close enough that his shadow eased over her shoulder, "you won’t even look at me?"
"Go away," she said, keeping her gaze on the grass. "I don’t want to speak to you."
He didn’t take offense; he smiled, and she could hear it in his voice. He’d learned her tempers like winds—hard at the start, quick to pass. "I brought dessert," he said.
Her posture betrayed her. The tiniest lift of her shoulders. The brief tilt of her head. Glimora noticed too, ears pricking like arrows.
Kian lowered himself onto the grass beside her, the movement quiet for a man his size. He sat a breath away, enough distance to be polite, close enough that his warmth touched her arm. When she still didn’t look, he set the bowl between them and slid it closer. The lid was warm against each finger he used to guide it.
Glimora stretched her neck so far her legs left Isabella’s lap, bright eyes drowning in curiosity. She looked from the bowl to Isabella, then back to the bowl, sending a very clear message: Mama, collect the treasure.
Isabella gave the beast a narrow-eyed look. "Traitor," she muttered, but her hand was already moving. She took the bowl from Kian without meeting his gaze. "What is this?"
"The sweet smell you’ve been talking about all morning," he said.
She lifted the lid. The scent rose like a promise—coconut, honey, a whisper of salt. Her stomach, which had sworn it was done, made a small, treacherous sound. Would she be bought by dessert? God forbid she was that type of woman.
(She was definitely that type of woman. She knew it. The wind knew it. Glimora knew it best.)
"Why are you bringing it?" she asked, pulling her dignity together. "Cyrus is the one who always brings my food. Why is a king, who should be ruling on his throne, here serving me?"
Kian’s mouth curved. The breeze combed his hair back from his brow, and the strong line of his throat moved when he swallowed his laugh. "So you don’t want me here, then? You’d prefer Cyrus?" He tipped his head, lashes lowering. "Maybe Zyran is right. Perhaps you only want him."
Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide, outrage blooming. "When did you turn into a second Zyran?"
Kian’s shoulders shook once; he let the laugh go this time, low and brief. "I’m teasing," he said. "I’m sorry."
Isabella rolled her eyes like it was her job. "Why do you all always go after Cyrus? He’s done nothing to any of you. Yes, I brought him to the village. That means he’s under my protection. Stop talking bad about him."
"I didn’t," Kian replied, voice even. "I tried a joke. I failed." His eyes softened as they held hers. "You’re right—he’s a good man."
She studied him, suspicion and relief trading places in her face. "But to be honest, neither you nor Zyran like him. He’s kind. Why wouldn’t you like him?"
"You’re right," Kian said again. "He is kind. I don’t hate him." He shifted, resting one forearm over a bent knee, the other hand planted in the grass behind her. It made him look larger, anchored. His body said shelter without words. "I only hate that you keep him so close. That you treat him like blood when he’s not."
"Okay, now you’re really starting to sound like Zyran," Isabella groaned, tipping the bowl to test its warmth.