CHAPTER 470: CHAPTER 470: STUPID BIRD

After dinner, the cave finally went quiet.

The only sounds were the lazy flicker of the fire and the soft little snores coming from Glimora, who had rolled into a ball of fluff on Isabella’s lap and fallen asleep mid-chew. The smell of cooked meat still hung in the air, smoky and sweet, mixing with the cool mineral scent of damp stone and the faint floral trace of the Moonpetal Lily she’d sealed earlier.

Isabella stretched her arms above her head and sighed. "Finally. Peace."

The phoenix man, sitting cross-legged a few paces away, was anything but peaceful. His eyes were still glued to her like she was an unsolved riddle.

She ignored him. She’d had enough male nonsense for one day.

From her spatial storage, she pulled out her magical tent — a soft shimmer of gold runes flashed in the air before fabric unfolded itself like a blooming flower. It was large, neat, and honestly gorgeous: the kind of tent that screamed diva who will not rough it.

The man blinked. "What is that?"

"My house," Isabella said flatly, smoothing the sides of the tent.

"You live in that?"

"No," she said, snapping her fan open dramatically. "I command it."

He tilted his head, completely confused.

She grinned, tucking her hair behind her ear as she sat near the entrance. "You look shocked."

"You don’t seem to have much cultivation," he said slowly, still studying her. "I can’t even feel an aura around you. Yet you do so many things that I can’t. Who are you?"

Isabella flicked her fan, smirking. "I’m a goddess. Can’t you see?"

He blinked again. "Really?"

"Oh, yes," she said, trying very hard not to laugh. "Completely divine. The wind worships me. The stars sing for me. Even your arrogance is a humble offering to my glory."

He looked utterly bewildered—and kind of impressed.

When he didn’t say anything, she shrugged, pretending to look modest. "Well, if you believe it, then yes. I am a goddess."

His lips twitched. "A goddess?"

"Yes."

"Who eats dried meat and argues with rocks?"

Her fan froze mid-air. "Excuse me?"

He didn’t answer. He was too busy staring.

At first, Isabella didn’t notice—she was busy pretending to be unbothered. Then she realized his gaze wasn’t on her face.

It was lower.

She froze.

Then gasped dramatically, arms flying up to cover her chest. "You— you pervert!"

His brows shot up. "What?"

"Don’t ’what’ me!" she yelled, pointing the fan at him. "You were staring! You disgusting man! Staring at a woman like that! You shameless—"

"There’s nothing to stare at," he said calmly. "I was just wondering who he is."

Time stopped.

Isabella’s mouth fell open. Slowly, painfully slowly, she looked down at her chest.

Her brain blanked.

He didn’t— he didn’t just—

He did.

"Oh my gods," she whispered, scandalized. "He did not just call me flat-chested."

Her hands dropped to her sides in horror as if she couldn’t believe it had come from another human mouth.

She looked down again—she checked.

They weren’t flat! Maybe not huge, but definitely respectable! Full enough! Balanced! Elegant!

The betrayal she felt in that moment could move mountains.

Her face twitched. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"Excuse me?" she hissed.

He blinked, clearly confused by the deadly tone. "What?"

"Did you just say—there’s nothing—to stare at?" she repeated slowly, like each word was a separate stab.

He frowned. "You’re making it sound worse than it is."

"Oh, worse than it is?" Her voice pitched higher. "You just insulted my chest!"

He blinked again. "I didn’t insult it. I stated a fact."

That was it.

Her fan snapped open with a sharp fwip. "You—!"

Her voice cracked with outrage. "Do you have no shame?!"

He looked genuinely confused now. "Why are you so angry?"

"Because—!" She gestured helplessly at herself. "Because I have one!"

He looked down again. "Are you sure?"

Her jaw dropped so wide it was a wonder her soul didn’t fall out.

"Oh my gods!" she shouted, standing up. "You—you flaming chicken! You really want me to beat you to ashes!"

He held up both hands, trying not to laugh. "Calm down."

"Don’t tell me to calm down!" she yelled. "You don’t tell a woman to calm down after calling her flat! That’s like—like trying to pet a bear while it’s on fire!"

Her chest was rising and falling rapidly now, her entire body shaking from sheer indignation.

Even Glimora, still half-asleep, cracked one eye open and gave the man a silent you really messed up, didn’t you? look.

Isabella groaned, clutching her hair. "This is exactly why I can’t stand men from this stupid world! No manners, no filters, no sense!"

And then, mid-rant, her eyes flicked downward—past her fan, past the loose strands of her dress—and caught sight of the faint glowing mark near her collarbone.

The mate mark.

Cyrus’s mark.

Her breath caught. The sight made her anger spike even higher.

"Can you mind your own business?" she snapped, voice suddenly sharp and bitter. "It’s not your business who he is!"

The man blinked, caught off-guard. "I was just wondering," he said quietly, "why your mate would let you wander out here alone."

Her head snapped up. "Oh, I swear down, if you don’t stop talking, I will use this fan to slash your face."

His eyes widened a little.

"You speak too much," she said through gritted teeth. "Shut up!"

Then she turned on her heel and stomped into her tent, ducking inside and zipping it shut with one furious motion.

Silence.

He stood there, blinking at the closed flap of fabric.

After a long pause, his voice came softly, muffled through the tent wall. "I’m sorry. I was just wondering... you’re so moody."

Inside, Isabella froze.

She didn’t reply. She didn’t even move.

Because the truth was—she wasn’t angry anymore. Not really. The mention of her "mate" had pierced through her anger like a needle through silk.

She hated thinking about Cyrus. Hated the ache that came with his name. The fact that she’d left him, that she was pregnant with his children, that she didn’t know what kind of future was waiting for her—any of it. It all made her chest tighten, her breath hitch, her mind spiral.

She lay back on the pillow, staring at the tent ceiling, the glow of the fire outside flickering against the fabric. Her throat burned a little.

She refused to admit it.

She missed him.

God, she missed him so much it physically hurt.

Her eyes blurred. She blinked, and tears slipped out anyway, sliding silently down her cheeks.

"Stupid bird," she whispered under her breath, though she wasn’t sure which one she meant anymore.

She pulled the blanket up to her chin and turned away from the tent entrance, closing her eyes tight.

Outside, the phoenix man—oblivious, arrogant, clueless—sat down near the dying fire. The flames reflected faintly in his eyes as he glanced once at her tent, the faintest crease in his brow.

Inside, Isabella sniffled quietly, her fingers brushing over the mark on her chest.

"Stupid," she mumbled again, voice breaking. "All of you stupid birds."

And finally, exhausted, furious, and heartbreakingly human—she let sleep take her.