Edward Cullen's relationship with the Volturi was one of complex boundaries. He neither truly loathed them, nor did he embrace them. It was a precarious truce built upon mutual respect, tactical understanding, and subtle distrust. Unlike his family, Edward did not shy away from recognizing the dark pragmatism the Volturi exercised to maintain order in the vampire world. He had never deluded himself about the nature of their power—the Volturi thrived in ruthlessness because that ruthlessness was often necessary. Their violence, though excessive at times, was purposeful in its design. Edward disagreed with their methods, but not always their intent.
To Edward, violence was a grim reality—one he would accept, even employ, so long as it was in pursuit of what was just or, perhaps, necessary for the greater good. The difference between Edward and Caius—or even Aro—was their thresholds of restraint. Edward would not resort to brutality casually or callously. He refused to revel in it, unlike those who wielded it for the Volturi with cold detachment. For Edward, violence was not a tool to wield recklessly; it was a burden, accepted only when no other option remained.
That was what made the silent respect between Edward and the Volturi all the more curious. Caius, ever the relentless blade of their triumvirate, understood this about Edward—hated it, even, but still begrudgingly respected it. Edward's refusal to fall in line did not stem from cowardice or weakness, but a deeper moral code. Where Caius demanded order at any cost, Edward fought only for truth, for justice. He questioned the Volturi, he challenged them, and at times, when it was warranted, he opposed them. Yet for all their differences, Caius could not deny the strategic value Edward presented.
The Volturi respected power—Aro adored gifted minds, Caius admired unwavering resolve, and Marcus recognized integrity where it endured through hardship. Edward possessed all three, making him a rare being they could neither ignore nor dismiss. He had lived within their walls, walked among their guards, and held their attention not as a follower, but as an equal whose refusal to submit had earned their fascination.
Edward had come to understand, reluctantly, that the Volturi's violence was not without merit. They were predators leading predators; without them, chaos would run rampant, leaving carnage that would ultimately doom them all. He couldn't argue the necessity of their existence, only the excessiveness of their enforcement. In Edward's eyes, their ends might justify certain actions, but their unrelenting pursuit of dominance—of tightening their grip upon the world with manipulative schemes—often twisted their authority beyond its just limits. Aro's ambition concerned him deeply, while Caius's quickness to shed blood set his teeth on edge.
Edward would never allow himself to become a tool of their ambition, as so many before him had. Yet, he would not oppose them for the sake of opposition. He was not blind to reality. When a greater danger threatened their delicate world, Edward could recognize that sometimes order required violent correction—a correction he would shoulder, if only because he would see it done with purpose. Not cruelty, not ego. Edward's violence would always serve a cause, not himself.
The rain drummed steadily against the tall windows of Edward's study, streaking the glass like pale veins in the evening gloom. He sat motionless in his chair, staring into the fireplace, though the crackling flames went largely unnoticed. His mind swam in memories—clear, crystal shards of his time in Volterra.
Those were the days he had tolerated more than embraced, walking the halls of the ancient city alongside the Volturi. A time when he had worn their colors, not as a servant or subordinate, but as a curiosity—a gifted mind they sought to shape into something permanent. He had never belonged to them, but he hadn't shunned them entirely. Edward Cullen had his own code, his own morality, and surprisingly, the Volturi had never overstepped enough to make him a true enemy.
And now, decades later, the silent memories of dark chambers and distant faces came swirling back unbidden as he brooded in the quiet hours.
The shrill ring of the telephone shattered his reverie. The sound echoed far too loud in the still room. Edward blinked, his focus snapping into the present, and he reached for the phone on instinct. There were very few people who would call directly to his line—none who could surprise him anymore. But when the caller ID stared back—Volterra—Edward stilled, thumb hovering just above the button.
A pause. The ringing continued, harsh and deliberate. He inhaled slowly and pressed the line open.
"Caius," Edward said coolly, a hint of disbelief flickering in his voice. He couldn't remember the last time Caius had called him personally.
"Edward," came the clipped response. The voice was unmistakable—icy and severe, like steel drawn across stone. A growling edge in Caius's tone betrayed more tension than Edward would have anticipated.
Edward leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing slightly. "To what do I owe this very unexpected call?" His voice was smooth, though curiosity danced behind his calm facade.
There was a beat of silence, brief but weighted, before Caius finally spoke. "We've received letters. For weeks now—dozens, perhaps hundreds. Veiled threats and cryptic nonsense. But yesterday, the last letter delivered… it contained something far worse."
The tension in Caius's voice tightened Edward's focus like a coiling wire. "What was it?"
"A direct threat—against Isabella."
The name stirred something in him, faint yet electric, deep beneath his skin—like the prickle of a phantom itch, impossible to reach. He frowned faintly, brow furrowing. Isabella. The name meant nothing to him, and yet…
"Who's Isabella?" Edward asked evenly, though there was a tightness to his tone now, a hesitation he himself didn't understand.
"Aro's hybrid," Caius clarified coldly, though even saying it made his disdain evident. "The girl he's kept hidden so tightly—his daughter, as some would call her." Caius's voice curled with displeasure at the final words.
A child. A hybrid. Edward considered this with a subtle spark of fascination. It was no secret Aro coveted hybrids—he collected them like treasures, sources of both power and curiosity. But for Aro to have a "daughter"? Something about it felt significant, though Edward couldn't pinpoint why.
"And now she's been threatened," Edward mused aloud, focusing on the statement as the implications churned in his head. "That's… interesting. And a last resort for you, Caius? I wouldn't have imagined this would move you to reach out."
Caius's sharp growl came through the line, irritated but not without logic. "I don't make desperate choices, Edward. You know me well enough for that. Whoever is doing this—whoever is targeting us and Isabella—they are not careless. They know our limits. They know that this will rattle even Aro."
Edward's eyes narrowed further, the pieces slowly fitting together. If this involved Aro's child, Caius must have found himself in dire straits indeed to make this call—especially to him. Caius was the last creature in the world who would rely on someone like Edward unless circumstances demanded it.
"You surprise me, Caius," Edward said finally, his voice edging toward something closer to intrigue. "Calling me directly? Not Aro? It seems unlike you to forgo the chains of his order."
"Do not mistake my intentions," Caius snapped. "I didn't come here to grovel or request favors. I came because I have exhausted the other options. We've tightened our hold on Volterra—nothing slips past us, or so we believed. And yet, the threats keep coming. Every day. And now Isabella—" He stopped himself short. For a moment, his voice held something almost unguarded, like reluctant concern. He hated Aro's attachments, but even Caius had lines that could not be crossed.
"I'll admit, Edward," he continued quietly now, "I don't know what Aro holds over you, or why you tread the line you do with him, but I don't have his cunning. I won't dress this up in pleasantries. I trust you. If nothing else, you will know when something's rotten."
Edward raised a brow, his eyes glittering faintly at Caius's blunt words. Trust. That was not a word he would have ever expected from Caius, not to him. It wasn't friendship, it wasn't admiration—Caius had no interest in either of those things—but it was acknowledgment, which in itself spoke volumes.
"And what exactly is it you want?" Edward's tone was deliberate, sharp now.
"To root out the mole," Caius stated firmly, all pretense of emotion vanishing as cold calculation took its place. "There must be one. How else do these threats continue? Aro can't simply put his hand on everyone who walks through Volterra, as much as I'm sure he wishes he could."
"Interesting," Edward replied quietly. Caius's appeal was as direct as ever—no manipulation, no hidden motives other than the obvious one. It almost felt… refreshing. Strange that Caius, of all people, would be the blunt instrument while Aro was undoubtedly somewhere watching the game unfold with a thousand invisible threads in his hands.
"So? Will you consider it?" Caius asked, breaking Edward from his thoughts.
Edward leaned forward in his chair now, his hands folded before him, elbows resting on his knees. "You're right, Caius," he said softly. "I don't trust you. But neither do I dismiss what you've said. If this has rattled you enough to set aside your disdain and reach out, then I will think about it. I assure you."
Caius exhaled sharply—satisfaction bleeding through his icy restraint. "That is all I ask."
The line clicked dead soon after, leaving Edward alone once more with the fading hiss of the flames. Yet he sat still as the name stirred in him once more: Isabella.
A hybrid child he'd never heard of. Threatened, endangered. Aro's child. And still, her name hummed faintly beneath his skin. Edward frowned, the faintest disturbance curling his otherwise impassive expression.
Something was at work here. Something Caius himself didn't see.
Edward turned his gaze to the window, the rain beating harder now. "Who are you, Isabella?" he whispered into the quiet.
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