The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts
Chapter 256 - 257: Goddess Isabella!

Chapter 256: Chapter 257: Goddess Isabella!

Isabella rolled her eyes at the painfully familiar voice. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was—but of course, she did, if only to confirm the nightmare.

Garan.

The moment she turned, there he was, gliding toward her like the sun was hired to light only his path. His bronze skin glistened in the daylight like he bathed in melted gold, and as usual, he wore far too little clothing for a man so loud. Just a hide skirt that barely reached his knees, and two flamboyant bursts of colorful feathers strapped to each shoulder like he was attending a bird-themed royal wedding.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Trailing behind him like the beginning of a parade were a group of women, each dressed in modest wraps, their arms stretched out carefully, balancing the most luxurious fur hides Isabella had ever seen. Glossy, rare, thick with quality. These weren’t your average beast skins. These were the kind you hang on cave walls when you’re trying to flex on the entire tribe.

Isabella scoffed internally.

Of course.

Because if there was one thing Garan loved more than himself, it was making sure everyone else was forced to love him too.

"Goddess Isabella!" Garan announced, voice booming with a smile so self-satisfied it could’ve fed three starving men. He spread his arms out like a priest at the altar.

Behind her, the guards all perked up, some standing straighter, others clearly holding back grins. One even took a dried meat strip from his pouch and started chewing as he settled in for the show.

Isabella didn’t even blink.

"What is it?" she asked with a smile that could curdle goat’s milk. It wasn’t friendly. It wasn’t warm. It was the kind of smile that said, I’ve survived worse than you, and I’m not impressed.

But, as usual, Garan was completely immune to subtext. Or tone. Or facial expression.

Instead, he turned grandly, gesturing to the line of silent, bowing women and their ridiculous armfuls of riches.

"I bear gifts," he declared, as if he were announcing the end of war itself. "The finest hides. Rare. Blessed by hunters from beyond the White Cliffs. Each one, chosen with you in mind."

Behind Isabella, a soft wave of whispers began to spread among the guards like fire catching dry bark.

"Is that thunder pelt?" one whispered, eyes wide.

"The blue tint—by the gods, that’s frost-tail fox. Thought they were extinct!"

"Garan must be from a big city. No way a village hunter could collect this."

"Isabella’s so lucky."

"She’s a goddess. She deserves nothing less."

They were murmuring in awe now. Worshipping her like she was some untouchable deity with her own divine suitor, and he, draped in feathers and ego, was offering riches in return for her smile.

Isabella heard every word.

But her gaze remained fixed on the pelts. Her expression unreadable. Her fingers curled slightly around Glimora, who was watching the scene with the wide-eyed confusion of a child witnessing their mother being offered seventeen goats for marriage.

The hides were... beautiful. And valuable. And if she were anyone else—any other woman from this ridiculous early stone age world—she might’ve swooned. She might’ve gasped, clutched her chest, and whispered something about destiny.

But she wasn’t anyone else.

And her silence wasn’t because she was overwhelmed.

It was because she was calculating.

Measuring.

Studying.

Was this some kind of manipulation? A political move? A bribe? Or was Garan really just this ridiculous?

She glanced at him again. The smug posture. The confident smirk. The sparkle in his eyes that said, You’re welcome.

She nearly laughed.

Glimora stirred slightly in her arms, glancing between Isabella and Garan, her small furry face creasing in the kind of frown that suggested she too wasn’t buying it.

Smart baby.

The hide in front, silver and black and laced with a pattern like stars on a moonless night, fluttered slightly in the wind.

Garan took a step closer.

And Isabella’s fingers tightened gently around Glimora.

Isabella raised a single finger, the movement sharp and commanding—more than enough to halt Garan mid-step.

The air thickened. Even the sun, blazing high above, seemed to lean in.

Garan, halfway through his dramatic approach, paused like someone had pressed an invisible hand to his chest. The feathers on his shoulders shifted slightly with the breeze, the colors glinting in the sunlight like warning signs on a venomous bird. But Isabella wasn’t looking at him.

Her eyes slid past him, sharp as flint, scanning the girls behind him one by one.

Each woman stood perfectly still, the kind of still that could only be taught. Their posture was upright, composed—backs straight, heads dipped just enough to show respect but not groveling submission. Their arms, steady despite the weight of the rich hides they carried, showed no sign of strain. One girl, barely older than a teen, held a snowy white fur draped across both arms, and Isabella could see the steadiness in her hands. No tremble. No shifting feet.

Servants.

Not friends. Not family. Not helpers.

Trained, conditioned, quiet.

So. This was the stone age?

Yes.

But not just any stone age.

Not the kind humans always described in their dull textbooks—clubs, caves, awkward grunting, and the occasional discovery of fire like it was the second coming of enlightenment.

No, this was the Beastworld stone age.

And Isabella was starting to understand the difference.

This world, though primitive in some ways—cooking in animal stomachs, sharpening stones instead of steel—had its own rhythm of evolution. And beastmen, oh, they were fast learners. Taught by instinct. Sharpened by survival. Guided by the strange and powerful pulse of magic that stitched itself into every part of their lives.

That... changed things.

If this had been a human world, even the cities would be fumbling around with sticks and struggling to bathe once a week. But the beastmen cities from what she understood—Stormhaven, for example—had levels. Structure. Even culture. And judging by the posture of the women in front of her, this was something else entirely.

They were trained in etiquette. Not just posture, but timing. One of them, noticing the wind was about to lift a corner of her pelt, shifted her arms ever so slightly to preserve the presentation. Smooth. Polished. Efficient.

These were not girls told to carry things.

They were assigned.

Which meant...

"They probably already have things called servants," Isabella muttered under her breath, gaze still locked. Her mind was spinning—connecting dots she hadn’t seen clearly until now. "Or something even more structured."

What she was witnessing in front of her wasn’t some random gesture of generosity. It was courtship through class systems. A show of wealth, status, and power.

This wasn’t Garan saying, "Look what I brought."

This was him saying, "Look what I command."

The thought made her lips twitch. Not in amusement. In understanding. In irritation.

"Of course you brought an entourage," she whispered, just loud enough for Glimora to hear.

Glimora blinked up at her from the crook of her arm, tail flicking lightly like a question mark. Her tiny eyes flicked between the girls, the hides, and then Garan. She looked... unimpressed.

Smart baby.

{Congratulations on leveling up to level 6 beastman Culture Knowledge}, came Bubu’s bright, chirpy voice in her mind, followed by a flash of soft gold across the corner of her vision.

"Oh, shut up," Isabella muttered internally.