That night, the village celebrated her return.
Fire torches glowed. People whispered Isabella is back. Children ran around excitedly. Women cooked late into the night. Men sharpened their spears for no reason except to impress her. Even the air felt different, warmer, brighter, more alive.
But none of it reached Isabella.
She sat alone on the edge of her stone palace bed, her hands trembling gently over her rounded stomach. Glimora curled beside her silently, sensing her mood.
The small beast would usually chirp, tug at her dress, or climb into her hair, but now she only lay still, watching Isabella's face with wide, worried eyes.
Isabella's tears had long dried, yet her chest still felt heavy, like a stone pressed against her ribs.
She wished she could sleep.
She wished she could forget.
She wished her heart did not ache so painfully.
But she could not.
Every time she blinked, Cyrus appeared in her mind.
His smile.
His gentle voice.
