"I'll fill the rest of the clay bottles and gourds," Isabella announced, dusting her hands dramatically like she was about to conquer the world instead of... bottling shampoo. She even struck a pose, chin high, like some majestic potion witch about to bless the village with hair so shiny it could blind the sun.
Kian, who was calmly gathering the last of the leaves from the drying rack, paused. "You should go inside and rest."
Isabella rolled her eyes. "Just because I love getting princess treatment doesn't mean I'll let you turn me into some fragile decoration."
Kian didn't reply. He simply looked at her.
One of those Kian looks.
Long. Blank. Deadpan.
And yet somehow, it said:
"You're ridiculous."
"But fine."
"Don't cry to me later."
So Isabella, being Isabella, gave him a smug little smirk that practically screamed watch and learn, and marched toward the cauldron like she was walking the royal carpet. "See? I'm perfectly capable of—OH HOT HOT HOT GODS—"
