Chapter 783: Chapter 784: They are small and stupid right now.

She did not look pleased.

The first boy moved in his wrap and made a small sound. Glimora stared at him with deep suspicion, as if she remembered clearly that these tiny creatures were the reason Isabella had screamed for so long.

Isabella saw that and almost smiled. "Those are my babies."

Glimora looked back at her.

"Yes, I know they caused trouble," Isabella whispered. "But they did not mean to put me through so much pain. They are small and stupid right now."

Ophelia made a soft shocked sound. "Isabella."

"What? They are. Look at them. They cannot even open their eyes properly."

Shelia finally laughed quietly.

Glimora lowered her head toward the babies and sniffed.

The tiny girl moved first.

Her little body shifted in the cloth, and she made a small sound that was not quite a cry. Glimora froze. Then she leaned closer, sniffed again, and very carefully touched the edge of the girl’s cloth with her nose.

The baby quieted.

Isabella’s heart softened so much it almost hurt.

"See?" she whispered. "They are family too."

Glimora did not look fully convinced, but she did not move away. After a while, she settled beside Isabella and kept watching the babies with the serious face of a little beast who had decided to judge them for a long time before accepting them.

"That’s fine," Isabella murmured, stroking her head. "You can take your time."

Glimora leaned into her touch.

The room became soft again for a short while.

Outside, the attack still burned through the village, but inside the birth room, Isabella held her little beast, watched her three babies breathe, and let herself rest in the small piece of warmth she had fought so hard to reach.

In the kitchen, Cyrus moved like a man who should have been lying down but refused to admit it.

The fire was already burning high. A pot sat over it, steam rising from broth mixed with soft meat, strength root, winter greens, and the bitter herbs Isabella hated but needed. Cyrus stood over it with his sleeves pushed up and his bitten arm wrapped loosely in a cloth that had already darkened in several places. His face was pale. His lips had almost no color. Yet he still held the spoon steadily and kept stirring.

Zyran stood near the side and watched him.

At first, he said nothing.

That alone showed that he was not there only to torment Cyrus.

He had followed because he had seen how pale Cyrus looked. He had seen the way his knees almost gave out. Zyran liked to compete, liked to tease, liked to act as if he cared only when it amused him. But even he could see what Cyrus had done for Isabella. He could see that the snake had nearly drained himself dry to keep her alive.

And although Zyran would never say it in a soft way, he respected him for it.

Cyrus added a crushed red herb into the soup.

Zyran’s eyes narrowed. "You are using more power."

Cyrus did not look at him. "The food needs to nourish her."

"You may drop dead soon. Then your children will become fatherless before they even learn how to bite people properly."

Cyrus finally glanced at him.

It was a glare, but it was a weak one.

Zyran stepped closer and reached for the pot. "Stop."

Cyrus’s hand tightened around the spoon. "Do not touch her food."

"I am not ruining it."

"I did not say you were."

"You looked like you wanted to."

Cyrus said nothing.

Zyran placed one hand near the steam rising from the pot. Black power moved from his fingers, but this time it did not feel cold or cruel. It sank into the broth slowly, not to darken it, but to strengthen it. Underworld power was not always destruction. It could carry rest. It could carry deep sleep. It could carry the quiet pull of life being held between worlds and gently placed back where it belonged.

The broth thickened slightly.

The smell became richer.

Cyrus watched in silence.

Then Zyran turned toward him and placed two fingers against Cyrus’s shoulder before Cyrus could move away.

A small stream of power entered him.

Cyrus stiffened.

The next breath came easier.

Some color returned to his face, not much, but enough. The deep ache in his chest eased. His hand, which had been trembling slightly around the spoon, steadied again.

No words passed between them for a moment.

Then Cyrus looked at him and said quietly, "Thank you."

Zyran pulled his hand back. "Do not thank me. I am in a good mood."

Cyrus already regretted asking, but he still asked with his eyes.

Zyran smiled. "She survived. The babies survived. Very soon, after she recovers properly, I will be the one mating with Isabella."

Cyrus’s face went flat.

Even exhausted, he still managed to look deeply tired of him.

Zyran’s smile grew wider.

Cyrus turned back to the pot. "Aren’t you going to help them with the attack?"

Zyran paused.

Outside, the sounds of fighting were still thick in the air. Running feet. Distant roars. The clash of weapons. People shouting orders. The palace had not fully quieted. The attack was still alive.

Zyran stared at Cyrus for a long moment.

Then he said, "Fine."

Cyrus looked at him.

Zyran looked strangely cheerful as he turned toward the door. "Keep the soup from burning."

Then he left.

Cyrus closed his eyes for one breath.

He did not have the strength to understand that man right now.

Zyran walked toward the battlefield with blood still drying on the stone floors and smoke in the air.

The farther he went from the birth room, the uglier everything became. The palace halls smelled of metal, wet fur, snow, fear, and dying fire. Bodies lay near the lower entrance. Some belonged to attackers. Some belonged to defenders. Blood had spread across the stone and frozen in dark patches near the broken outer doorway.