The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts-Chapter 147: He was going to her again

"Your Majesty," he said, voice steady but laced with something unspoken. Pride? Awe? "Isabella asked that I inform you... the well has been completed."

Silence.

Not the kind that settled. The kind that hit like a dropped stone.

Every man in that room went still.

Even the bored Zara blinked and turned her head, finally paying attention.

Kian sat straighter, but only slightly. Just enough to be noticed by those who were looking for it.

He hadn’t expected her to defy reason so boldly.

Even in that fragile state—body weakened, breath still uneven—she had walked away.

No permission. No explanation.

Just like that.

Kian’s jaw ticked, but his expression remained unreadable.

Foolish woman.

He didn’t understand her. Not even a little.

The Peacock tribe noble’s brows lifted in faint surprise, his chin tilting in amusement. "Already?" he murmured, almost to himself.

He remembered when he and his people arrived from the city.

They had noticed the strange energy rippling through the village—whispers, hushed awe, a kind of fervor that was almost laughable.

Naturally, they asked around.

The answer had been absurd.

A goddess, they were told. A woman not of this world, who had descended to bless their small village. She had promised to draw water from the earth itself—pure, magical water, cleaner than rain from the sky.

He hadn’t believed a word of it. Not really.

But the tale... it amused him. It intrigued him.

And then came the part that truly caught his attention.

They said she was beautiful—beyond compare, beyond reason. The kind of beauty that made men forget to breathe.

Now that, he had to see for himself.

The man from the Bamboo tribe crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, clearly less impressed. He didn’t speak.

Unlike the Peacock, he wasn’t impressed by fantastical village gossip. He didn’t believe in miracles, especially not ones conjured by unknown women with big promises and no real power to back them.

He had passed by the site when the so-called well was under construction—logs being lifted, villagers toiling under the scorching sun, and men running around like what they were doing would bring a great change.

Frankly, he hadn’t cared.

Let them dig their holes. Let them believe whatever they needed to survive.

He had more pressing matters—diplomatic tensions, tribal unrest, and a growing unease in the northern routes. The last thing he needed was to waste his attention on some desperate peasants clinging to the fantasy that a strange woman could save them.

So no, he didn’t care about their well.

And even if it truly worked, it would change nothing in his world.

Zara looked between the faces in the room and then back to the messenger. Her expression twisted from boredom to something sharper.

She thought Isabella was dead already. Yes dead already. She thought that Kian had simply decided to keep her death a secret the same way he had kept Shelia’s sudden ruined face accident a secret.

She thought—No wait Isabella couldn’t be alive, she was supposed to be dead. She saw Opehlia take the soup to Isabella that night.

What exactly is going on? She could believe it at all.

At first she had thought that since the palace was unusually quiet and Isabella wasn’t around Kian like a fly.

She must have suddenly been dead that was why Kian kept quiet and did not talk about her right?

That was why the men who had been building the well suddenly stopped. Because their master was gone.

The foolish woman had decided not to check around the Palace because she thought Isabella would have been melted from the inside out by her poison.

But this news? This news was scary for her. All her hard work, gone to waste.

Her fists clenched at her sides, will that woman ever die? She was tired of her she was tired of HER!!!

She wanted her give she thought that everything was finally solved but now she was still alive.

She turned to Kian, did he save her? No no that wouldn’t be possible. That would only mean that he knew she was behind everything.

And that happening she could not afford.

As for Kian, his heartbeat slowed. His thoughts did not.

She had done it.

Not just talked about it.

Not just drawn strange symbols in the dirt or barked orders at the men.

She had actually done it.

He should have felt relief.

He didn’t.

Instead, he felt... unsettled.

This was no longer just a strange woman who had visited his village with strange ideas. This was a force he was now accountable for. And the other tribes—especially these two—would not ignore it.

Kian stood up slowly, his bare feet hitting the stone with a quiet finality. The thick air shifted again.

He looked the messenger in the eye.

"I’m coming to check it out," Kian said, his voice a low echo across the throne room. Expressionless. Controlled. The final word of a man who did not entertain debates.

He waved a hand dismissively, and the messenger bowed again before backing out of the room.

Zara’s body stiffened beside him.

Her lips parted slightly, her breath catching in her throat as realization set in.

Again.

He was going to her again.

Kian didn’t look at her, didn’t even glance in her direction—but she stared at him as if trying to burn through his skin with sheer will. Her nails dug into her palm, and for a brief moment, she forgot to breathe.

Isabella.

She hated that name.

Hated the way it clung to Kian’s silence, hated the shadow it cast over everything. She could see it—feel it—how his stillness changed when that girl’s name was mentioned. His eyes got quieter, his thoughts louder. It was unbearable.

He always leaves for her.

The air around Zara bristled with restrained fury. No. She wouldn’t let this keep happening. That girl needed to be dealt with. Permanently.

Before Zara could spit out the venom rising in her throat, Garan rose with a smooth clap of his hands.

"Well, if that is the case," he said, voice like music dipped in sarcasm, "Euphim and I would also love to take a look at this magical creation... and its goddess."

He smiled wide—too wide. Bright teeth, gleaming eyes. A performance. Every word rolled off his tongue with practiced delight, but his gaze flicked with sharpness beneath the charm.

Kian’s eyes locked onto him. The temperature dropped.

The smile did nothing to soften the storm building behind the king’s gaze. If anything, it made it worse.

His stare was ice.

Flat.

Dead calm.

Dangerous.