Prompt: Caius makes a comment that sets Alara off, and the Volturi gardens will never be the same.

Strong language.

It began with a snide comment.

Caius, arms crossed, expression curled in aristocratic disdain, stood at the door of their shared quarters watching Alara gather up a broom and dustpan. "Tesoro," he drawled, voice steeped in superiority, "must you insist on doing things so... beneath you?"

She blinked. "I dropped a glass. I'm cleaning it up."

"You're mated to royalty, not meant to be scrubbing floors like some servant girl. There are staff for that."

Alara stilled, something volcanic and ancient brewing behind her eyes. Slowly, methodically, she straightened up. "You saying I'm lesser for wanting to clean my own mess?"

"I'm saying you are lesser while doing it. It's beneath you."

She dropped the dustpan with a deliberate clack and turned on her heel. "Beneath me? Beneath me?" she hissed, barely audible. "I'll show you 'beneath me,' you condescending, ivory-haired sociopath."

She stormed out of the castle, muttering a symphony of venom-laced curses. "I'll fucking show him beneath me—'Oh don't sweep the floor, Alara, it's too mundane for your delicate royal fucking hands.' Well how about this, motherfucker."

She reached the garden terrace, spotted a group of human groundskeepers tending to the castle's sprawling lawns and flowerbeds, and stomped toward them with all the wrath of a vengeful goddess in Louboutin boots.

The workers scrambled to attention, unsure if they were about to be fired or executed.

"I require access to that." She pointed at the manual push mower with imperial authority.

One brave soul blinked. "...The mower?"

"Yes," she snapped. "For... inspection. I must assess the quality of the cut. Standard royal protocol."

They nodded. Hesitantly. One of them wheeled the mower forward. "Of course, my lady."

With a theatrical flick of her coat, Alara seized the handle and began pushing furiously across the lawn.

"Beneath me, huh? Is this fucking beneath me, Caius?" she hissed, muscles straining. "Oh no, not the horror of touching grass. The audacity of self-reliance, you smug, marble-faced prick."

Volturi guards began to trickle in, drawn by the bizarre sight of their queen methodically mowing the palace lawn while swearing like a sailor under her breath.

Felix leaned against a tree, chewing on a toothpick. "Is... is she okay?"

Alec shrugged. "I think Caius said something dumb again."

One of the last people Alara expected to speak was Heidi, who'd just wandered into the garden in heels far too expensive for lawn terrain. The scent of perfume hit before the voice did.

"My lady," Heidi called, hesitating at the edge of the grass with a concerned tilt of her head, "forgive me, but… are you alright? Shouldn't someone else be doing that?"

Alara stopped dead in her tracks, hands gripping the mower like she was about to run it through a hedge and then into the sun. She turned with the slow, deadly precision of a storm changing course.

"Am I alright?" she echoed, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair stuck to her forehead like a warrior who had just returned from battle. "You see me out here manhandling this medieval lawn torture device, sweat pouring down my spine, because an ancient, undead aristocrat told me I was too royal to clean up my own mess—and you think the problem is that I'm not letting someone else do it?"

Heidi blinked. "I—I didn't mean it like—"

"Oh, sweetie," Alara cut in with a smile that had too many teeth, "if I wanted to be patronised, I'd go back upstairs and talk to my mate."

Heidi wisely chose silence.

The mower clattered forward again. "Go back to your perfume parade, Heidi," Alara muttered. "Unless you've got a spare rake and a suppressed urge to dismantle the class system."

The mower clattered over a rock and rattled violently. She wrestled it into submission, still muttering under her breath. "Beneath me, motherfucker... I'll pave a goddamn highway across this entire estate out of pure spite."

By midday, she had finished mowing the entire south lawn, cursing with every turn, her long hair tied up in a makeshift bun with a twine of rose stems she yanked from the hedges. Caius watched from a distant balcony with the blank expression of someone deeply regretting their life choices.

Marcus wandered up beside him, blinking slowly. "You insulted her again, didn't you?"

Caius didn't answer.

A few minutes later, Demetri leaned against the railing next to them, arms crossed. "You know she's out there digging a vegetable garden now?"

Caius exhaled through his nose. "Of course she is."

Alara's voice rang out across the field, loud and unmistakable. "BEHOLD! LET THE RECORD STATE I PLANTED FUCKING BEETS."

No one said a word. Not even Caius.

By the time Aro strolled out into the gardens, Alara had already abandoned the push mower and transitioned into ripping weeds from a flowerbed with all the calm of a volcanic eruption mid-flow.

The sky above the Volturi estate was a clear, pristine blue—mocking, really, given the inner cataclysm unfolding in its perfectly manicured gardens.

Alara's hair clung to her temple in damp strands. Her robe—once regal and dramatic—now lay in a heap beneath the nearby hedge, flung off in a fit of heat-induced rage. Her tank top was damp, dirt streaked across her arms, chest heaving.

"Beneath me," she muttered like a curse, yanking a dandelion from its roots with unnecessary violence. "Fuckin' beneath me, is it? Gonna shove a whole hedgerow up his ancient arse."

Aro approached slowly, silently. He walked like mist on marble—soft and graceful. His eyes trailed over the chaos: the mower tipped on its side, the neat rows of flowers now a battlefield, the startled humans pretending not to exist.

"Tesoro," he began, soft as always.

"Don't."

He paused. Alara didn't even look up. "Don't you dare use that fucking voice right now."

He tilted his head. "I merely came to—"

"To what?" she snapped, hurling a clump of weeds into the grass. "Offer me a cool cloth? Whisper something poetic while I'm knee-deep in bloody topsoil?" She whirled on him, eyes blazing. "Unless you're here to help me dig a trench to metaphorically bury Caius's ego, I'd suggest backing the fuck off."

Aro blinked, hands folding calmly before him. "You appear distressed."

"I'm livid, Aro," she hissed, flinging a trowel into the soil with a satisfying thunk. "Your bastard brother told me I'm too royal to clean a fucking glass. So now I'm gardening like a psychopath while sweating through my bra because he thinks I should float around like some glass figurine!"

She gestured wildly. "Does this look like a queen to you?! I am blistering, filthy, and seconds from throwing this goddamn spade through the next person's ribcage!"

Aro's lips twitched. "You're radiant as ever."

"Fuck you," Alara snapped, pointing the spade at him. "Seriously. If one more of you says something vaguely patronising or floaty or immortal-poetic while I'm standing here smelling like an earthy rage demon, I swear to god—"

Behind them, several guards silently turned on their heels and retreated.

Aro sighed. "He didn't mean to hurt you, tesoro."

Alara scoffed. "Oh, he meant it. Every word. That smug bastard probably thinks I should be hand-fed grapes while servants wipe my arse."

There was a long pause. Aro considered the mental image. "Would you like me to arrange—"

"Aro."

"Yes?"

"Get. Out. Of. My. Face."

He inclined his head slightly, retreating one graceful step like a man unbothered by threats of bodily harm.

But he didn't leave. No, of course he didn't. Instead, he settled into a stone bench beside the vegetable patch as though he were watching a play.

Alara glared at him. "Seriously?"

"I'm simply spectating," he said mildly. "This is the most riveting act of vengeance I've seen in centuries."

"Oh I'm not done," she muttered darkly, snatching up a watering can like it was a weapon. "Wait till I start pruning things. We'll see how beneath me that is."

"Do carry on, amore. I'll alert the court if you happen to unearth a corpse."

"Tell them it's fucking Caius."

Aro remained still, the very image of timeless elegance as he sat on the stone bench, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap like a statue carved from shadow and silk.

"You know," he murmured, "Caius truly does believe it's beneath you."

Alara froze mid-pour, the watering can sloshing a wave over the marigolds.

She didn't speak. Not immediately. The silence stretched, thickening like summer air before a storm. Then—very slowly—she stood upright, set the watering can down with the precision of someone trying not to yeet it into the nearest wall, and stalked over to Aro.

He didn't flinch. Didn't move. Alara came to a stop in front of him, arms crossed, dirt-smeared and sweat-slicked, eyes burning.

"So that's it, huh?" she snapped. "You just accept that kind of thinking? That picking up a shovel or washing a goddamn dish makes someone less?"

Aro tilted his head slightly, brows lifting like he was curious where this would go—but he didn't answer.

Alara leaned in, her shadow cutting across him like a blade. "Do you hear yourselves when you talk like that?" she demanded. "As if worth is tied to who has the cleanest hands or the fanciest title? As if the world isn't literally held together by people doing the very jobs you all sneer at?"

Aro's gaze didn't waver. He said nothing.

She stepped closer, crowding his space now, too furious to care. "You think mowing a lawn is beneath me? Cleaning a mess? Growing food? Do you know how much people get paid to do that work? It's real work. Essential. You can't eat without someone planting and harvesting. You don't live in a clean castle without someone scrubbing the floors and fixing the pipes."

She threw her arms out to the estate surrounding them. "This whole place? Would fall apart in weeks without those so-called 'low class' workers you all pretend not to see. You wanna act like it's shameful to pick up a fucking broom? Go ahead. But don't expect me to sit pretty and be complicit in that bullshit."

Aro was quiet for a long moment. Thoughtful. Maybe even thoughtful in a way that made her more angry—because he didn't look offended. He looked amused.

Which was somehow worse.

"You're absolutely right," he said eventually, softly. "And yet…"

Alara narrowed her eyes. "And yet what?"

"…Caius is not a creature of humility, tesoro," he said, a small, regretful smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "He was born into power and conditioned to see value through dominance. It's not disdain for the work itself—it's a reflection of what he fears becoming."

"Well, he can fear me shoving a rake up his arse next time he calls someone lesser for doing it."

"I suspect he already does," Aro murmured.

Alara straightened, the tension rolling off her like steam. "I'm going back to planting onions. And if one more of you so much as breathes the word beneath, I will personally reorganise your throne room into a community composting facility."

She turned on her heel and stomped away, dirt flying with every step.

Just beyond the archway, behind a rose-covered trellis, Aro stood quietly with Caius.

The older king looked tense, his arms folded, jaw tight. He'd clearly been summoned there—likely under some false pretense that didn't include "watch your mate become one with horticulture."

Aro observed the scene in the garden with faint amusement. "She's quite spirited today."

Caius scoffed. "She's unhinged. She's dirt-covered, swearing at my guards, and threatening the lawn with agricultural warfare."

"She's also passionate," Aro offered delicately. "Articulate. Morally sound."

"She's planting radishes in retaliation."

"Yes, well." Aro gave a slow shrug. "You did provoke her."

Caius's glare could have scorched marble. "I didn't provoke her. I made an observation."

"You told her cleaning up after herself was beneath her," Aro said evenly.

"It is! She's a queen!"

"She's a human," Aro reminded him softly. "A human who still sees dignity in effort. You may wish to consider the consequences of scorning that. She's not angry over spilled glassware. She's angry that you dismissed half the world as disposable."

Caius was silent, though his jaw clenched tighter.

"I don't suggest you apologise," Aro continued, glancing back toward the beds where Alara was now yelling something about needing "four hundred metric tonnes of mulch." "I suggest you understand her. She doesn't want a throne. She wants to matter, not just sit in some gilded corner like a prized possession."

"She's mad," Caius muttered.

"She's right," Aro corrected.

In the distance, a spade clanged off a watering trough, followed by more creative swearing.

Caius sighed. "Do I have to help her garden now?"

Aro gave a small, wicked smile. "Only if you value your limbs."

By the time Caius finally, begrudgingly, made his way across the manicured lawn toward the scene of rural vengeance, Alara was knee-deep in what could only be described as a suspiciously grave-shaped hole.

One of the guards—Felix, poor bastard—was inside the pit with a shovel, dutifully digging while casting occasional side-eyes at Alara like he wasn't sure if he was helping her plant potatoes or preparing a Volturi-backed homicide.

Alara stood nearby, arms folded, smeared with dirt from forehead to shins, nodding critically as she surveyed the progress. "Good depth. That's proper 'fuck around and find out' energy. We might get away with two bodies if we position them just right."

Felix blinked slowly, clearly rethinking every life decision that led to this moment.

Caius stopped at the edge of the garden, staring at the scene in abject horror.

"Alara," he said, carefully, like someone speaking to a person holding a live grenade, "what. Exactly. Are you doing."

She turned, hands on hips, eyes blazing with the fury of a thousand suppressed feminist essays. "Oh look," she snapped. "Royalty has deigned to descend from his ivory tower. Come to critique my form? Or are you here to bless the commoners with your presence?"

"I was told you were planting vegetables, not unearthing a burial site."

"Well, you told me physical labour was beneath me," she shot back. "So I'm embracing my new peasant status with vigour."

"You're covered in dirt."

"You're covered in condescension."

They stared each other down while Felix slowly climbed out of the hole, brushing off his once-pristine attire and deciding he no longer wished to be involved in this relationship drama-slash-landscaping project.

Caius stepped closer, tone clipped. "Do you even know what you're digging?"

"A metaphor," Alara snapped. "For your respect. And also maybe a compost pit. I haven't decided yet."

"I could have you dragged back inside."

"I could drag you into this hole."

Caius's eye twitched. "You're being unreasonable."

"I'm being the result of years of elitist bullshit finally meeting a heatwave, a push mower, and too many podcasts about class warfare." She jabbed a finger toward the pit. "You see this? This is where I bury the assumption that dignity is only afforded to those who've never touched a rake!"

There was a long, loaded silence.

Caius looked at her—sweaty, feral, planting rebellion one seed at a time—and for the first time in centuries, the King of Rage felt… outmatched.

"I... brought you gloves," he said stiffly, holding out a pristine pair of gardening gloves he'd very clearly forced Demetri to fetch at the last minute.

Alara narrowed her eyes, took the gloves, and wiped her sweaty brow with them.

"Thanks," she said sweetly. "Now go fetch me the peas. We're expanding the rebellion to legumes."

Caius opened his mouth. Closed it. Turned slowly and walked back toward the castle, muttering under his breath.

Felix looked at Alara. "So uh… you want the hole deeper or…?"

"Six feet, Felix. You know the standard."

Alara didn't even look up as she tossed a clump of dirt out of the growing pit. Her voice was casual—too casual.

"Make sure it's long enough to fit Caius."

Felix paused mid-shovel, glancing over at her with a look that screamed please clarify whether this is metaphorical or if I should start prepping a cover story.

"Sorry… what now?"

She looked over her shoulder, smiling sweetly through the dirt-streaked chaos of her face. "I said, make sure it's long enough to fit Caius. You never know when you'll need an emergency grave for a snob with a god complex."

Felix stared at her. She stared back.

"Right," he said finally, resuming his digging with twice the enthusiasm and none of the confidence. "Long enough for Caius. Got it. Not asking questions."

From the castle steps, Demetri leaned against a column, watching the scene unfold with the distinct look of someone who really didn't want to be called next.

"I swear," he muttered to Santiago beside him, "one of these days she's actually going to bury one of us."

Santiago shrugged. "She can try. But I'm not going down over carrots."

Jane and Alec had arrived silently, like a matching pair of vengeful shadows, drawn by the escalating chaos like vultures circling a particularly entertaining battlefield.

They stood a few paces back from the grave-pit-turned-political-statement, arms folded in perfect mirror, watching with the detached curiosity of immortal teenagers who'd seen too much to be fazed… and yet somehow this was still deeply fascinating.

Jane's eyes narrowed at the sight of Alara dragging a bag of compost toward the trench with violent purpose. "Is she actually going to bury him?" she asked flatly.

Alec tilted his head. "Statistically, it seems plausible. Emotionally? I think she's already halfway through the eulogy."

Alara looked up, mid-haul, spotted them, and pointed a gloved finger. "You two! Don't just stand there like gothic bookends. Make yourselves useful—go find some bloody kale."

Jane raised a brow. "You're planting kale now?"

"I'm burying imperialism," Alara barked. "And if it grows into leafy greens, so be it!"

Alec offered mildly, "You know, we could just force a gardener to help you."

"I am the gardener now!" she snapped, stabbing the compost bag with a trowel like it owed her money. "Until every last pretentious remark Caius has ever made is fertiliser for my beetroot, I dig."

Jane glanced at Alec. "She's gone feral."

"She's reclaiming the means of production," he corrected.

Alara straightened up, wiping her brow, looking unhinged and radiant all at once. "And don't worry," she added loudly to no one in particular, "when I'm done, I'll carve his fucking name into a zucchini."

Jane blinked. "…Are you alright?"

Alara fixed her with a manic grin. "Never better. Hand me the pitchfork."

Jane didn't move. "Do you even know what a pitchfork is?"

"No, but I'm sure it's beneath me," Alara spat, "which means I'm obviously using one today."

Alec slowly backed away. "I'm going to go get the kale now."

"GOOD." Alara went back to digging, muttering under her breath about compost, monarchy, and 'long live the proletariat, bitches.'

Jane leaned over to Alec as they walked off. "If she actually tries to bury Caius—"

"We let her," Alec said. "It's the only natural consequence at this point."

Alara was halfway through dramatically flinging soil over her shoulder—muttering a creative string of curses about topsoil, egos, and the oppressive weight of patriarchal horticulture—when a quiet presence stepped up beside her.

Not a flurry of robes, not the chill of disdain. Just calm. Soft and steady. Marcus.

He crouched beside the pit without a word, knees creaking slightly like ancient stone shifting into place. His robe sleeves rolled themselves back as if by magic—or habit—and with the slow, unhurried grace of someone who hadn't rushed in over a millennium, he picked up a spare trowel.

Alara paused, blinking at him. "Oh. It's you."

"Yes," he said simply, voice low and weightless, like wind through old ruins. "I heard... you were planting a revolution."

Alara sighed, dropping onto her heels, the fire still simmering in her chest but flickering at the edges. "I'm planting the consequences of an outdated monarchy's bullshit," she muttered.

"Ah." Marcus scooped a handful of soil and gently loosened it between his fingers. "The most nourishing kind."

For a few moments, neither of them said anything. They just worked. Together. Quiet and methodical. The sound of distant laughter from the guards and the scraping of the trowel grounded her more than she cared to admit.

Marcus finally spoke again, softly, still not looking directly at her. "You know, when Didyme was alive, she would prune the entire southern orchard by hand every spring."

Alara blinked. "Really?"

He nodded. "She said it reminded her that life was always growing, even when the roots weren't visible." His hands moved carefully, placing a seedling into the soil like it was a fragile thought. "I never stopped her. I offered to help, once. She smiled and said, 'You can help by not telling me it's beneath me.'"

Alara looked at him, heat rising again—but this time from behind her eyes, not her rage. She blinked quickly, jaw tight. "He doesn't understand. He thinks loving someone is putting them on a pedestal. But I don't want to be worshipped. I want to be seen."

Marcus gently packed soil around the base of a plant. "And now you're growing kale as a sermon."

She huffed a laugh. "Radishes too. I might get ambitious."

"I will help you bury whatever part of him you feel necessary," Marcus offered, deadpan.

Alara snorted, wiping her cheek with her dirt-streaked wrist. "You're my favourite."

"I know."

They worked in silence again. Her breath started to steady. The anger still hummed in her chest, but it was quieter now. Transformed.

From a distance, Jane and Alec watched as the chaos queen and the mourning king planted root vegetables in total, reverent calm.

Jane leaned toward her brother. "You think this counts as emotional regulation?"

Alec shrugged. "If it keeps her from burying Caius? Absolutely."

The sun had shifted by the time Alara sat back on her heels, the light casting long gold streaks across the churned-up garden. Her hands were filthy, her knees a mess of grass stains, her hair sticking up in every possible direction—but her breathing had finally evened out.

Beside her, Marcus continued to work at his own pace, gently pressing seeds into the soil like he was tucking secrets into a safe place.

Alara watched him for a long moment. "You know," she said, voice softer now, "for someone who spends most of his time looking like he's mourning the death of joy itself… you're weirdly good at this."

Marcus gave the faintest shrug, a ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Plants are patient. Quiet. They ask nothing, yet still offer everything."

Alara leaned back, glancing up at the sky. "That sounds like a poetic way of saying they don't piss you off."

"Precisely." He glanced over at her, expression somehow… warm. "You should keep planting, if it steadies you. Not out of spite. Out of grounding."

She scoffed lightly. "What, no lecture on dignity or image? No warning that the guards think I've lost it?"

"The guards are lucky to witness someone choosing to build, when she could destroy." He paused, then added, "Besides, it's far more alarming when you're quiet."

Alara laughed—genuinely this time. "Fair point."

A short distance away, a few of the human staff had started cautiously edging back into their tasks, comforted, perhaps, by the image of Marcus kneeling in the dirt like a ghostly scarecrow with the queen of chaos herself beside him.

From the hedgerow, Jane whispered theatrically to Alec, "They look like a cursed Hallmark card."

Alec was squinting. "Is she crying or is that just sweat in her eye?"

"Knowing her? Probably both."

Alara, still seated in the dirt, picked up a clump of compost and lazily lobbed it over her shoulder—smacking Jane squarely on the arm.

Jane froze.

Alara didn't even look back. "Tell anyone I got sentimental and I will personally plant you."

Jane scowled, brushing herself off. "You're feral."

"I prefer the term revolutionary."

Marcus simply kept planting. "You could start a commune."

Alara grinned. "Don't tempt me."

He glanced at her sidelong. "Too late."

The wind shifted, cool and kind, rustling through the trees and newly tilled rows. For the first time all day, Alara didn't feel like she was burning. Not in rage. Not in helplessness. Just warm. Steady. Rooted. Maybe not calm—but held.

And for a little while longer, she let herself plant rebellion in the dirt, beside the only one in the castle who understood what it meant to be angry and still believe in growth.

Night had fallen gently over Volterra, cloaking the once-chaotic gardens in a hush of silver light and drifting shadows. The heat had bled from the stones, the air now cool and calm. Most of the staff had retired, the guards keeping a respectful distance—no one particularly eager to prod the queen after a full day of agricultural vengeance.

Caius found her like that.

Starfished on the ground. Limbs splayed unceremoniously across the churned-up soil. Her tank top was stained, knees scuffed, and her braid had mostly unravelled, wild strands splayed across the grass. Dirt was streaked across her cheek. She looked absolutely ruined.

And yet she was smiling faintly, eyes open to the glittering stars overhead, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths.

Caius approached silently, long coat brushing against his legs. For once, he didn't sneer, didn't huff with impatience or demand an explanation. He just stood there, staring down at her.

"You look like something the wolves dragged in," he finally murmured.

Alara didn't flinch. Didn't even turn her head. "And you look like someone who should've been dragged into that hole."

Caius exhaled through his nose. That was fair.

After a pause, she added, "I'm too tired to yell at you right now. So if you're here to be smug, fuck off and save it for tomorrow."

He stood in silence a beat longer, then slowly lowered himself to sit beside her—gracelessly, with a faint grunt of effort and eternal reluctance. His pale hand rested near hers in the grass but didn't quite touch it.

They sat there for a long while, saying nothing. Just the hum of crickets, the soft breeze through olive trees, and the ever-present pulse of tension that bound them together.

Caius eventually broke the silence. "You've ruined the lawn."

"Good," she muttered. "Maybe I'll tear up the whole estate and replace it with sweet potato vines."

Another pause.

"I brought you water," he said, almost gruffly, pulling a bottle from his coat and setting it beside her like it might detonate.

Alara eyed it, then gave him the most exhausted, sideways glance she could muster. "Oh wow. Caius Volturi brought me hydration. Tell the press. A new era has dawned."

He frowned. "You're insufferable."

"And you're lucky I'm too sore to throw you into that pit."

The corners of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, but far too prideful to let it live.

More silence.

Finally, Caius looked up at the sky, his voice low. "I still don't understand you."

Alara shifted, stretching her hand toward the stars. "That's because you keep trying to understand me like I'm a statue in your fucking throne room. Something cold and carved and still. I'm not." She dropped her arm with a soft thud. "I'm dirt and bruised knees. I'll always be crawling through the mess and the roots, and that's not going to change."

Caius watched her, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

"I don't want you to worship me, Caius," she added softly. "I want you to stand beside me. Even when I'm covered in compost."

He said nothing. But he didn't leave either. Instead, he leaned back into the grass, lying down beside her, stiff at first, as though the earth might stain him.

The silence between them stretched on, suspended beneath a sky littered with stars. Somewhere in the trees, an owl called once and then fell quiet again, like even the night was holding its breath.

Caius turned his head just slightly, eyes catching the faint silver glint of dirt smeared along her cheekbone. He stared for a long moment, watching her chest rise and fall in slow, tired rhythm. The calluses on her fingers. The smudged lines around her eyes. The fire in her even when she had nothing left to burn.

And then he reached out and took her hand properly. Not a brush, not a graze. A real hold. Alara blinked her eyes open, surprised by the sudden warmth. She looked down at their hands, then at him.

His expression was tight, jaw clenched like the words hurt to form. "I was wrong."

Her brow lifted slightly.

He swallowed. "You were right. About the work. About the people who do it. About you." A pause, quiet and heavy. "It isn't beneath you. Nothing is. I see that now."

She stared at him, suspicious at first—but he didn't look smug. He looked like a man admitting something painful. Like he'd torn a piece out of himself and handed it over.

"I shouldn't have belittled what you were doing," he said quietly. "Or the people who do it. I… forget, sometimes. What it means to build instead of rule."

Alara let out a soft, tired breath. She didn't speak. But her fingers shifted in his, wrapping around his hand in return.

"I don't want to be the reason you feel smaller," Caius murmured, voice barely audible over the rustle of grass. "Even when I think I'm protecting you. Especially then."

A long silence passed. Then she whispered, "You're still getting buried if you ever say 'beneath you' again."

He huffed a laugh through his nose. "Fair."

She let her head loll toward him, eyes half-lidded. "That was a proper apology. You okay?"

"No," he muttered. "It was revolting."

But he still didn't let go of her hand. And as they lay there, side by side, dirt on their skin and the scent of crushed basil in the air, something unspoken settled between them. Not forgiveness. Not entirely. But maybe something better:

The stars above shimmered like a thousand tiny witnesses, silent and still as Alara turned onto her side, her hand still holding his. Caius looked over at her, and for a moment—just a moment—the hardness around his features eased, worn down by honesty and dirt and something dangerously close to tenderness.

Then she leaned in and kissed him—deep and slow, like a sigh into still water.

It wasn't the kind of kiss born of lust or power, but one that stripped away both. It was grounding. Intimate. Real. Her fingers curled behind his neck, pulling him into it, holding him there. And Caius—eternal, proud, venomous Caius—let himself be pulled. Let himself stay.

When she pulled back, her breath was warm against his lips, her forehead resting against his.

"I do love you, Caius," she whispered, eyes searching his. "Even when you make me mad. Especially when you make me mad. But you're going to have to get used to me doing things my way. Dirt and all."

He closed his eyes briefly, brow resting against hers. "Then I suppose I'll need to purchase more gloves."

She smiled. "And maybe help dig next time."

He groaned. "Let's not get carried away."

Alara laughed, soft and tired, curling against his side as the stars burned on—distant, eternal, and, for once, irrelevant.

Tonight, the world had narrowed to this:

Hands clasped. Hearts steadied. And roots planted in freshly turned soil.