CHAPTER 339: CHAPTER 339: DON’T BE MAD, BABY

There, perched high with all the majesty of a queen rudely disturbed at dawn, was Glimora.

Her fur bristled outward as if she’d just been kissed by lightning itself, every tiny hair sparking with indignation. Her little lips peeled back, flashing miniature teeth sharp enough to chew through pride. And those eyes—those bright, crystalline blues—narrowed to slits that burned like fire and steel all at once.

She wasn’t just awake. She was alive with fury.

And her entire focus? Pinned on Zyran.

The message was crystal clear: she hated him.

Zyran stiffened, that eternal arrogance cracking just slightly around the edges. For a man who had walked through wars and faced beasts the size of mountains, he looked hilariously out of his element in front of one small, furred creature. "You’ve got to be kidding me," he muttered, his usual smooth confidence sounding... a little shaky. His eyes stayed locked on the little menace. "Is... is your tiny demon gremlin seriously growling at me right now?"

"Demon gremlin?" Isabella’s voice cracked, caught between outrage and amusement. She clutched her blanket around her chest like a protective cape, cheeks warming as she glared. "That’s my baby you’re talking about."

Cyrus didn’t laugh—of course he didn’t, that wasn’t his style—but the corner of his lips twitched, just barely. A ghost of a smirk. That wasn’t amusement; that was a victory flag. His whole aura radiated serves you right.

Isabella noticed it immediately and bit her lip, her shoulders bouncing as she tried—really tried—not to giggle. The image was just too much. Zyran, tall, sculpted like some golden god, with hair that shimmered in the morning light, standing there frozen like a child caught red-handed stealing honey bread.

And all because of a furball half the size of his boot.

Glancing back at Glimora, Isabella’s chest swelled with pride. Her heart softened at the sight of her little guardian, puffed up and ready to throw hands—or claws. "Oh, it’s obvious," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "She’s mad at you. She doesn’t like you being here."

Her words floated in the air, almost musical.

And Cyrus? Oh, he drank it in. He stood silently, watching her as she fussed over Glimora, but the faint glimmer in his eyes betrayed him. Satisfaction. Like he’d just won some invisible battle no one else could see.

Zyran, on the other hand, dared a step back, shoulders stiffening as the growl deepened. His jaw tightened, but his expression didn’t falter long. No—he was Zyran, after all. His pride wouldn’t allow him to look weak. His lips curved upward, that dazzling, infuriatingly perfect smile returning as if he hadn’t just flinched. "So this is how it is, hm? Even your pet thinks she can glare me into submission." His voice dropped low, velvet and edged with challenge.

Isabella, however, was too busy choking on laughter at how he was pretending not to care. She had to clutch her stomach, her body curling slightly as she smothered a giggle behind her hand. He was hot—sure—but watching him fight for dominance with Glimora? It was ridiculous.

The air in the room felt seconds from combusting.

On one side, Zyran: black-haired, smirking, but clearly rattled beneath the act.

On the other, Cyrus: still, quiet, radiating perfect patience.

In between them, Isabella: cheeks flushed, torn between embarrassment and absolute glee.

And at their feet, Glimora, her little growl steady as a drumbeat of war.

The funniest part? No one needed to spell it out. Everyone knew exactly why Glimora was mad.

Glancing between the three of them—the smug god, the broody serpent, and the furball ready to go feral—Isabella knew someone had to take control before Glimora declared open war. She pressed her palms together, leaning slightly forward like she was about to negotiate a peace treaty with a very unstable queen.

"Don’t be mad, baby," Isabella cooed, voice sugary and soft. "Cyrus is going to cook for us. You like Cyrus’ cooking, right? He makes the best food. Remember the roasted meat? And that soup you practically drooled into?"

Her tone dripped with honey, but Glimora didn’t budge. The tiny creature stood stiff, her fur still bristling like a broom dipped in static, her eyes locked on Zyran like he’d stolen her favorite toy.

"Come on," Isabella tried again, stretching her arms toward her in mock desperation. "Look at him! He’s not worth your anger. He’s... he’s just Zyran."

That earned her a sharp side-eye from said god, who arched a brow at her words. His lips quirked into the kind of smile that made women fall over themselves in temples across the continent, but Isabella was too busy trying to wrangle her fur baby to even glance his way.

Glimora’s growl softened to a low hum, but her glare? Oh, it was unwavering. She stepped forward, slow, deliberate, like a queen retreating from her battlefield while never letting her enemy out of sight.

Zyran, to his credit, didn’t move an inch. He just stood there, back straight, head slightly tilted down, his eyes sharp as if acknowledging her as an opponent he couldn’t underestimate.

For once, he didn’t say a word. Something about the tension told him if he so much as breathed the wrong way, Glimora would launch straight for his perfect jawline.

"Good girl," Isabella whispered, relief dripping from her tone as she chuckled, reaching down to pat her thigh as if coaxing a wild animal. "Come on, mama’s here. Don’t let him ruin your morning."

Her laughter was light, genuine, bubbling out of her chest. And it was contagious—Cyrus’ gaze softened from the corner of the room, his expression almost unreadable save for that faint gleam in his eyes. Just watching her smile made heat curl in him, spreading fast, unstoppable.

Step by step, Glimora inched closer, but not once did she break her death stare from Zyran. The tension in the room simmered, ready to spill over, but Isabella’s small giggles sprinkled a fragile sweetness over it all.

Cyrus let out the faintest breath of relief, his shoulders lowering, though his eyes stayed trained on Zyran as if daring him to ruin the fragile peace.

And then—

Zyran’s lips moved.

Barely a whisper, barely audible, but it was enough.

A single mutter slipped past his mouth, low and smug, too quick for Isabella to catch—but Glimora? Oh, Glimora heard it loud and clear.

She froze mid-step.

Her ears twitched, her body stiffening as though lightning had struck again.

Her growl deepened, sharp, guttural, filled with a rage that made the air thrum.

Isabella’s laughter caught in her throat. Her eyes widened, darting from Glimora to Zyran, then back again.

Cyrus tensed instantly, his posture shifting, his jaw locking tight. Even he knew that sound meant trouble.

And Zyran? For the first time since entering the room, his grin faltered just a little. He could see it—the fire blazing in her eyes. The kind of anger that didn’t end with just a growl.

He’d poked the beast.

And now, no one could stop her.

They could all see it.

The storm in her tiny, glowing eyes.

The moment before the explosion.