CHAPTER 496: CHAPTER 496: I KNOW, BABY. MAMA LOOKS GOOD

"He remains close to her," one said coldly.

"He is a man," another whispered sharply, as though the word tasted bitter.

"He carries the scent of the old fires," the tallest murmured, her eyes flickering. "Unsettling."

"He is tolerated," another said.

"Only tolerated."

The youngest’s voice softened with reverent melancholy. "Because the unborn relies on him."

A moment of solemnity rippled through them — ancient, instinctive, sacred.

Lunareens adored mortal infants.

They always had.

Small.

Soft.

Warm.

Fragile.

Brimming with unformed futures.

It was one of the few things that pulled empathy from their flame-born hearts.

Their expressions softened.

A warm sigh rippled across the water.

"Yes. The baby."

"We must protect the baby."

"The baby is innocent."

"The baby is adorable."

"The baby has not even been born yet but I love it."

"Yes. Mortal babies are soft. Round. Squishy. They giggle. They sneeze like tiny kittens."

Another Lunareen clasped her hands together. "One time I met a mortal baby. It drooled on me. It was magical."

The others nodded in reverent silence.

One whispered dreamily, "I want to hold the baby when it comes out..."

The tallest Lunareen slapped her tail in warning.

"Don’t say it like that. It sounds threatening."

"I want to hold the baby gently... lovingly... softly..."

"...That is better."

The lagoon rippled gently.

They all looked again at Osiris, who was gazing at Isabella’s tent like it contained the entire encyclopedia of his trauma.

The youngest Lunareen whispered:

"I still do not like him."

"None of us do."

"I tolerate him because the baby needs him."

"If the baby didn’t need him, I would drown him."

"Yes. Drownings are traditional here."

"Very traditional."

They nodded solemnly.

Then another wave of Isabella’s shrieking echoed across the water:

"YOU KNOW WHAT?! I’M DONE— I’M DONE— I’M SO DONE—"

Silence.

Then:

"DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO—"

The Lunareens all flinched in unison.

One whispered:

"She is possessed."

Another whispered back:

"She is powerful."

A third murmured:

"She somehow unsettles me more than the predators."

"Yes. She unsettles me more than fire."

"She unsettles me more than that giant thing that eats crocodiles."

"Me too."

They floated closer to one another for emotional support, tails curling nervously.

⸻

Back on land, Osiris covered his ears.

Not because he wanted to block out the noise—

but because the pitch of Isabella’s voice could probably shatter mountain stone if she tried hard enough.

I should... say something. Maybe ask if she needs help? No. No. She will stab me with a spoon. I know she will. She has threatened me with worse. I should stay far away. This is for safety. My safety. Our safety. The mountain’s safety.

He stared into the fire.

He frowned deeper.

...why can’t I remember anything? Why do I only know fragments? Why does my past feel like mist? Moonlight. Pain. Fire. A cave. A scream. Then—nothing.

He pressed a hand to his temple.

Another scream echoed from Isabella’s tent, but this one sounded less angry and more...

Defeated.

Exhausted.

"OH MY GOOOOOODDDDD—"

Osiris let out a slow exhale.

Finally, finally, the tent went quiet.

Completely quiet.

No yelling.

No ranting.

No Glimora squeaks.

No explosive lights.

Just silence.

The fire crackled softly.

The night breeze rustled through the leaves.

Osiris frowned suspiciously.

That is too quiet. She passed out... or she is plotting. I do not know which is worse.

He waited.

Nothing.

He sighed.

Slowly—carefully—he stood and limped toward one of the nearby trees.

He sat under it, back pressed against the trunk.

He let his eyes close halfway—not sleeping, not resting, but simply existing in that half-alert state beasts used to scan their surroundings.

His breathing slowed.

His body relaxed.

But his mind...

...what was my past life? Why can’t I remember? Why does this mountain feel familiar? Why do I feel like someone is waiting for me somewhere? Why... can I only remember pain?

His eyes narrowed.

His claws flexed slightly against the ground.

And as the lagoon shimmered under the night sky, Osiris remained there... awake, half-broken, half-curious, unable to sleep, unable to rest, unable to remember—

But still listening to Isabella breathing faintly inside her tent.

...

Isabella woke up the next morning with one thought in her head:

"I don’t care."

She absolutely did not care.

Not even a little.

Not even a microscopic, atomic, scientifically undetectable bit.

Osiris saying she "wasn’t his type"?

Ha. HA. HA.

She was everyone’s type.

If someone didn’t think she was their type, that just meant they were wrong.

Incorrect.

Broken.

God had abandoned their taste buds.

So obviously she didn’t care.

(...she cared enough to wake up angry, but she would die before admitting that.)

With a dramatic inhale, Isabella shot up, grabbed her bag, and pulled out one of her best dresses — the kind she never wore because she believed peasants didn’t deserve to witness her peak beauty on a normal day.

But today wasn’t normal.

Today she needed Osiris to look at her and spontaneously choke on his own breath.

She slipped into the dress, tied it perfectly, fixed her hair with the precision of a goddess sculpting herself in marble, and added a subtle touch of makeup — just enough to glow but not enough to look like she was trying.

Her reflection?

Stunning.

Unholy.

Dangerous.

Glimora floated up beside her, blinked once, twice, then gasped dramatically.

"PIP???"

(Translation: DAMN MAMA, WHO YOU TRYIN’ TO KILL WITH THIS OUTFIT—?!)

Isabella smirked and placed a hand on her hip.

"I know, baby. Mama looks GOOD."

Glimora nodded aggressively like a tiny hype-gremlin.

Isabella scooped her up, stepped outside her tent, and with a casual snap of her fingers, she stored the entire tent away into her personal space like the queen she was.

She turned around, ready to take on the world—

And froze.

There he was.

Osiris.

Sleeping against a tree like some tragic, handsome, annoyingly peaceful forest statue.

His hair was messy.

His long lashes rested against his cheeks.

His stupidly attractive face was relaxed in sleep.

Gross.

But worse—

He had left all the plates and pots from last night’s meal unwashed, scattered around like decorative trash.

Isabella stared at the mess.

Then stared at him.

Then stared at the mess again.

Then back at him.

Her eyebrow twitched.