The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 162: Drama queen

"I had to be perfect," Isabella said one last time, her voice softer now as her fingers busied themselves, adjusting the balance stone—a wide, flat slab of sun-smoothed stone with a shallow bowl carved into the center, perfect for measuring by weight and feel.

Ophelia said nothing.

The clearing fell quiet, the air thick with unsaid things. In the distance, a windbeast howled low through the trees, and the rustle of leaves became the only sound that dared remain.

Isabella moved like clockwork, untouched by the silence. She reached for a dew-horn flask—carved from the horn of a mist antelope, its sides smooth and warm from the sun—and tilted it, narrowing her eyes at the liquid sloshing within. Her lips pressed into a firm line. Not a single strand of her hair was out of place. Her back remained straight, jaw tight. Every motion careful, rehearsed.

Ophelia shifted, toes curling against the packed earth. Dry leaves rustled beneath her feet as she hesitated, hands clasped at her belly, unsure whether to speak—or just slip away into the brush.

Then she did something Isabella didn’t expect.

She toddled forward and wrapped her arms around her.

Isabella froze.

"What—what are you doing?" she stammered. Her hands were still holding the flask of moonflower oil and a stone-leaf stirrer. She didn’t even know where to place them. Or her hands. Or her mind. Her body was stiff as bark.

"You sounded like you needed one," Ophelia murmured into her shoulder, her voice soft as moss. She was warm—too warm. Her cheek pressed gently against Isabella’s neck, and her breath smelled faintly of honeyfruit. "You say it like it’s normal. But it’s not."

Isabella’s eyes flicked around the clearing, as if the thick trunks and tangled underbrush might part and swallow her whole. She could be heating up the cauldra-root for the base oils. She could be carving the wax mold charms. She had things to do.

Instead, she was being clung to by a squat little sunbeam with arms too soft and a heart too open.

And... just for a breath, her shoulders lowered. The tightness in her jaw eased. A faint, almost real smile ghosted across her lips. Almost.

She cleared her throat, sharp like snapping twigs.

"Alright, alright, that’s enough." She gently peeled Ophelia off, like someone removing a slightly overcooked dumpling from their arm. "We’re not infusing soap with tears today."

Ophelia backed away reluctantly, her round face scrunched as she rubbed at one eye. "Sorry. You looked so... smiley. I thought it was a nice memory."

"It was," Isabella said, turning back to the rune-etched mixing slab, dropping a sun-drop vine pipette into the firebark bowl. "Just not mine."

A quiet beat passed.

Then Ophelia smiled again—soft, a little sad, but warm like the early morning sun. "Maybe we can make new ones here."

Isabella didn’t answer. But she didn’t scoff, either.

She reached into the bundle of tools beside her and held out a pair of hide gloves without turning.

"Put these on," she said. "You’re helping with the pour."

"Okay, first things first... we’ll be making the liquid soap," Isabella declared, stepping toward the fire-warmed slab as she rolled up the sleeves of her woven reed tunic. The air already smelled faintly of herb ash and sun-dried petals.

Ophelia nodded so hard her hair bounced.

But Isabella paused, her gaze twitching sideways.

Behind her, Luca sat on a flat stone, aggressively carving out the insides of a hollow sunfruit gourd like it had insulted his ancestors. Pulp flew. Shavings scattered. His jaw was clenched like he was chewing on an invisible grudge.

"Luca," Isabella said through her teeth, "can you calm down? Whatever happened, it wasn’t the poor fruit’s fault."

Luca didn’t even pause. "Tell that to the fruit that looked like that smug elder from the eastern village," he muttered, flinging a piece of rind like it had insulted his ancestors.

Isabella blinked. "What—who?!"

"The one with the lazy eye and the judging nostrils," he growled, jabbing the gourd like it had personally offended him. "I should’ve traded with a tree stump instead."

(A little backstory:

A few days before, Kian had sent Luca and Cyrus to the neighboring Eastern Forest village to negotiate a trade—smoked meat and river-dried herbs in exchange for some rare crafting stones and sacred fruits, the kind ideal for hollowing into sturdy, long-lasting gourds.

Kian had noticed how often Isabella used the things. She loved them—whether to store her concoctions or whack someone upside the head—so naturally, Kian wanted to stockpile a mountain of them for her.

But what none of them had prepared for was how impossibly annoying the Eastern Forest villagers could be.

Their people were prideful, high-nosed, and absurdly ceremonial. Even the way you greeted their elders had rules—knees had to be slightly bent, hands folded over your chest, back straight but not too straight or it’d seem arrogant.

Luca had lasted through one of their hour-long "respectful silence rituals," forced to sit like a stiff tree root while an old man with a lazy eye and disturbingly active nostrils stared him down from a carved moss throne. No words. Just... sniffing. And silent judgment.

And when it was finally time to trade?

The elder handed over half-rotted fruits with a crooked smile and called them sacred cleansing offerings—"blessed by moon-fall and fermented in tradition."

Luca had nearly flipped a boulder.

Only Cyrus’s death grip on his arm, and a quiet "Don’t start a war," kept him from snapping.)

Now, staring down at that same type of fruit, the rage came bubbling back.

He jabbed the gourd like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

Isabella flinched. "Can you calm down, Luca?! Whatever happened, it wasn’t the poor fruit’s fault!"

Luca didn’t even look up. "Tell that to the one that looked like him," he muttered darkly, stabbing again with slightly more flair.

"Who?" she blinked.

"The elder. With the flaring nostrils and the mossy chin," he growled. "Gave me a moldy peace offering and called it divine."

Isabella raised a brow.

"I should’ve traded with a tree stump," he added bitterly, flicking a chunk of rind like it carried insult. "At least a stump doesn’t snort at you in sacred silence."

Isabella scoffed. "Drama queen."

And promptly flung her slipper at his head.

He ducked. The slipper smacked against a stone pillar and flopped to the ground in defeat.

Ophelia giggled behind her hands, eyes sparkling.

"You’re all insane," Luca muttered—but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Now focus," Isabella said, trying not to smile as she reached for the smoke-tinted cauldra pot. "Soap first. Insults and slipper wars later."