Isabella ladled out a modest portion of soup into a small bowl, deliberately tiny, as if she were rationing gold. She didn't place the bowl directly in front of Zyran—oh no, that would be too easy. Instead, she set it slightly to the side, closer to the edge of the table, like it was some delicate artifact he might accidentally spill or break. Kian, who had been hovering nearby like a shadow, followed silently behind her, his expression unreadable but his presence a quiet reminder that he was firmly on her side.
Isabella took her seat with a practiced ease, crossing one leg over the other and settling into the chair like it was her throne. She adjusted the folds of her garment and gave a small, satisfied sigh—the kind that said, I am queen here, and this is my kingdom.
