Hours pass, and the events of earlier becomes nothing more than a tense memory that refuses to fully leave the air.
The world around Isabella glows with the soft, ethereal shimmer of the Lunareen lagoon. Mist curls at the edges of her magical tent—an elegant structure tall enough for her to stand in but cozy enough to feel safe, secure, and blessedly separate from dumb phoenix men.
Inside, her thick bedding is arranged neatly, warm and soft, layered with furs and silken moss. Lantern-shrooms glow from the corners like sleepy stars. The water outside hums with the low, distant song of peaceful serpent-women who definitely still want to kill Osiris if he breathes the wrong way.
But Isabella is outside, crouched by the little firepit she had set up, stirring a pot with the saddest cooking posture known to mankind.
She's cooking rice.
And beans.
And the pot looks guilty for being involved.
