The air in the council chamber was suffocating, thick with an anger he couldn't displace no matter how tightly he clenched his fists. The box-a vulgar affront to everything the Volturi represented-sat open on the polished marble table, its gruesome contents mocking him with their presence. He could still smell it: the faint metallic tang of dried blood, the damp fur of the decapitated cat's head. For centuries, Caius had cultivated a demeanor of calculated malice, and yet, this violation stirred something deeper. A spark of unease he would never admit, even to himself.
It had been days since Isabella received the "gift." Days since her fragile innocence was shattered with the discovery of that wretched thing.
Aro and Sulpicia had coddled her, soothing her cries, murmuring reassurances that Luna, her pet, was safe. But the damage was done. Whoever sent that box-those cowards-knew exactly where to strike.
Not against Aro, Marcus, or himself, but against the one thing Aro cherished above all else: his precious hybrid daughter.
For the first time in centuries, Caius felt a creeping vulnerability-an itch beneath his perfect exterior.
He despised it.
The small girl sat in her chamber now, hunched on a gilded chair by the window, her knees pulled to her chest. Her large, tear-stained eyes were fixed on the sun setting over Volterra, streaking the horizon with molten gold. She'd grown quieter since that evening, retreating inward where no soothing words could follow.
Caius lingered in the shadows for a moment, his keen gaze sweeping over her tiny form. This fragile, half-human child held more power than anyone here dared admit. That she existed at all was unprecedented; that she would grow to hold sway over their enemies was undeniable. That kind of vulnerability could not be allowed to fester.
Straightening his shoulders, Caius stepped into the room with the crisp precision of a predator entering its domain. His presence was immediate, the echo of his footfalls silencing the muffled murmur of the guards outside. Isabella turned to look at him, her face softening slightly, though her expression was tinged with wariness.
"Uncle Caius," she said softly.
Caius hated when she called him that. It was sentimental nonsense, a term she had insisted upon since learning what "uncle" meant. Yet here and now, he let it slide.
"I wish to speak with you," he said briskly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "This can't r- ignored any longer."
Her brow furrowed, and she shrank back slightly into her chair. "I didn't do anything wrong..."
"You didn't," Caius replied, with unusual patience. His gaze softened, but only slightly. "However, your cooperation is required if we're to determine who gave you that... thing."
He nearly spat the word.
"I already told Daddy. I didn't recognize the man," Isabella said, her voice trembling.
"Your words, however truthful, are insufficient. We require more," Caius said.
His tone was firm, unyielding. "You must show us."
Isabella blinked. "Show you...?"
"Yes. Your memories," he clarified. "Aro may have spared you the indignity of doing so earlier, but that luxury can no longer be afforded."
Her eyes widened. "You want to touch my hand? To see what I saw?"
"Yes."
There was no softness to his response now, no room for compromise. He couldn't afford to coddle her as Aro and Sulpicia did. Not when their enemies lurked so close. The memory of her trembling figure after opening that box flashed in his mind.
She was shaken, and for good reason.
Whoever sent that box knew exactly how to inflict fear and chaos.
"We must identify the threat and neutralize it," Caius continued. "Do you understand me, child? If they are bold enough to target you once, they will do so again. And if they succeed, you will not simply inconvenience us-you will destroy everything your father has built. Is that what you want?"
Isabella shook her head quickly, her small fists gripping the folds of her jumper.
"I... I'll do it," she said at last.
"Good."
Caius extended a hand to her, and for a moment, Isabella hesitated. He did not rush her. Though his patience wore thin, he recognized that forcing her would yield little. When her small, trembling hand finally touched his, a flood of emotions surged forth.
Her fear struck him first, stark and raw. The details of her memory unraveled with startling clarity: the kind smile of the man who approached her at the park, the gift box he offered, his soft, convincing voice.
"Open it when you're home," he had said, his words saturated with feigned warmth.
The scene shifted to the moment she'd unwrapped the box in the courtyard, the horrifying sight within searing itself into her young mind.
Caius tensed as the memory ended, his fingers twitching with restrained fury. He released her hand and stepped back, his gaze distant, his jaw tight.
"I'll kill him," he said, his voice low and venomous.
"Do you know who he is?" Isabella asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"No," Caius admitted coldly. "But he has made a grave mistake. This is no random insult-it is calculated, precise. Your safety has become the center of this conflict.
That man is a pawn, nothing more. There are larger forces at work here, and I assure you, they will be crushed."
Returning to the council chamber, Caius wasted no time recounting the memory to Aro and Marcus, his words quick and clipped. He expected to feel satisfaction in delivering his report, but instead, an uncharacteristic weight settled over him.
For the first time in centuries, Caius realized he wasn't just enraged at the insult or the threat to Aro's power. He was angry because they had terrified her.
And for that, Caius would show no mercy.
*
Caius was many things—volatile, rigid, and cold—but he was not a fool. When he proposed summoning Edward Cullen to their aid, he did so knowing the particular strain that lay between them. Edward might find Aro's ambition distasteful and Caius's violence deplorable, but Caius knew that Edward was not so stubborn as to ignore logic when presented with hard truths. The threats looming over them all—attacks against the Volturi, whispers of immortal children, and hints of organized treachery—were too great to be ignored.
"Edward does not shy from blood when it is required, nor does he ignore reason when the stakes demand action," Caius had told Aro earlier that evening, his voice cold but certain. "We do not need his loyalty—we need his mind. And, Aro, he needs to understand that his principles align with us now, whether he cares to admit it or not."
"Principles?" Aro's melodic voice held faint amusement as his fingers tapped the armrest of his throne. "Edward's principles are exactly what divide him from us. You would appeal to that, Caius?"
Caius narrowed his crimson eyes. "Edward is many things—a child, insufferably self-righteous—but he is not stupid. He has fought before when it served what he believed to be right. The greater good is all Edward Cullen requires to step into a battlefield. We will simply ensure he sees the truth of the matter."
Therein lay Caius's gambit—Edward would reject appeals to loyalty, reject pleas wrapped in Aro's silvered words, and reject Caius's blunt pragmatism. But Edward was logical and unforgivingly perceptive. Once he saw the scale of the threat against their kind, once he recognized that standing with the Volturi was not about serving them but about preserving their world, Edward would act. Caius had no doubt of it.
Should reason fail, there was Marcus—a gentler alternative, the last card Caius would play.
"Edward will resist us at first," Caius admitted to Aro in the darkened chamber. "It is his nature. But he will not ignore the truth forever. If this threat festers, it will come for him, too—him, his coven, and every vampire who cherishes peace."
"And if he opposes us?" Aro asked smoothly, though his tone suggested the question was a formality more than a genuine concern.
Caius's expression hardened. "He won't. Edward Cullen knows when to fight."
The bitterness in his voice was hard to hide, but beneath it lay something even colder: a grudging certainty in Edward's capacity for violence. Edward was no stranger to blood when purpose justified it. For a creature who clung so tightly to morality, he was no less dangerous for it—Caius knew that better than most.
If it came to it, Caius would ensure Edward understood. Whether Edward saw himself as an ally or simply a necessary force was irrelevant. As far as Caius was concerned, Edward Cullen would fight on their side—because the alternative was something the vampire world could not afford.
Dropping another one because you guys are awesome. We'll see Edward soon.