CHAPTER 498: CHAPTER 498: I WILL BURY YOU ALIVE

Osiris did not stand.

He did not move.

He did not even blink at the pile of dishes doom-glowing behind him.

Instead, he slowly lowered the spoon... set it on the ground like it was some ancient relic... then looked up at Isabella with the most offended noble-prince-who-has-never-done-a-chore-in-his-life expression.

"...No."

Isabella stopped mid–angry breath.

"...no?" she repeated dangerously.

Osiris crossed his arms — this man, THIS MAN — and lifted his chin like a phoenix king refusing tribute from peasants.

"Why should I?" he asked, voice full of arrogance and confusion and that natural Osiris-born audacity. "You already fed me. Why do I also have to clean the—"

He gestured vaguely at the air. "...objects?"

Glimora gasped so hard she choked on her own spit. Her tiny paws slapped over her mouth like, oh sweet moonlight... he wants to die today.

Isabella’s eye twitched so violently her eyebrow did a full backflip.

"Because," she said slowly, "WE DON’T LIVE LIKE BARBARIANS."

Osiris tilted his head, genuinely confused. "But you cooked. I ate. Isn’t that the natural cycle of life? Like sun... moon... food... sleep... harmony?"

Glimora fainted into a pile of moss.

Isabella inhaled the way villains do right before they blow up a kingdom.

But Osiris didn’t notice.

Of course he didn’t.

He rolled his shoulders like a prince refusing taxes. "Besides, I was saving my strength for more important tasks. I can’t waste my divine energy on dirt jars or whatever they are. What if something attacks us? What if you need protection? What if the baby needs protection? Shouldn’t I stay... majestic?"

He even flexed a little.

A FLEX.

At her.

Isabella stared at him like he was a walking head injury.

Osiris kept going.

Kept TALKING.

"You seem very upset today," he added, watching her closely, head tilting slightly. His tone shifted — suspicious. "And... why do you look like that?"

"...like what?" she hissed.

"Like you’re glowing," he said bluntly. "Like you’ve declared war on the sun and decided to outshine it. Why are you dressed like you want all men to kneel?"

Isabella froze.

Her soul panicked.

Abort. Abort. ABORT.

Her mouth opened, but all that came out was:

"Mind your business."

Osiris studied her again, eyes narrowing like he was trying to catch her slipping.

Then he leaned in — too close — voice dropping to a taunting whisper.

"It is my business," he said, smirk deepening. "You’re carrying my child."

Isabella choked on air.

Her entire soul malfunctioned.

She turned red so fast Glimora checked the sky to make sure the sun hadn’t exploded.

"EXCUSE ME?!" Isabella snapped, stepping back like the words physically burned her. "Don’t EVER say that again—!"

Osiris blinked innocently. "Why? You’re the one who told those glowing fish-women that I’m the father."

"I SAID THAT TO PROTECT YOU, YOU OVERSIZED MATCHSTICK!"

"Oh," he said casually. "So we’re co-parenting now?"

"OSIRIS I SWEAR TO THE GODS—"

He only smiled wider, clearly enjoying her meltdown.

Isabella looked like she wanted to push him into a volcano.

"I dressed up for ME," she barked, jabbing a finger at his chest before he could say another word.

Osiris smiled.

A slow, deep, knowing smile that immediately made her want to take a large stick and break it over his head.

"Did you?" he asked softly. "Because you woke me up looking like a festival goddess. Why? Hm?"

Glimora squeaked, oh he’s gonna die.

Isabella lifted a finger. "Stop talking."

But he didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

He leaned closer — too close — letting his hair fall around his face in that annoyingly handsome way, voice dropping into something slow and lazy.

"If I wash your little pots," he murmured, "will you stop being angry?"

"I’m not angry," she lied.

"You’re furious."

"Shut up."

He studied her carefully, golden eyes tracing her face with the unbothered confidence of a man who knew exactly how attractive he was and used it irresponsibly.

Then he smiled again.

"Maybe," he suggested in a teasing whisper, "if I give you a kiss, you’ll be happy again?"

Isabella’s brain exploded.

"KISS WHO??" she barked.

"You," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. "You’re glowing and stomping and shouting and your hair looks like you fought the gods and won. It’s distracting."

Glimora casually face-planted into the sand.

Isabella wheezed. "I will bury you ALIVE."

Osiris raised his hands in mock surrender. "I’m offering peace."

"You’re offering YOUR FACE."

"...is that a problem?"

"YES!"

He smirked. "Are you sure? You’re staring at it very hard."

She immediately stared at the ground like the ground owed her money.

"I wasn’t staring."

"You were."

"No, I wasn’t!"

Osiris stepped closer. "You still are."

"OSIRIS GO WASH THE POTS BEFORE I—"

"No," he cut in, leaning down, lowering his voice in that annoyingly dangerous, annoyingly calm way. "Say please."

She blinked.

He blinked.

Glimora screamed internally.

"...excuse me?" Isabella whispered.

"Say please," Osiris repeated, brushing a loose strand of her hair back before she could slap his hand away. "If you want me to do chores, ask nicely."

"ASK—NICELY?!"

He nodded. "Yes."

Isabella stared at him like he had just claimed the moon belonged to him.

Then she smiled.

Oh no.

Osiris didn’t recognize this smile.

This was the silent murder smile.

"Alright," she said sweetly.

He relaxed.

He really relaxed.

Idiot.

Isabella reached into the basket.

Grabbed the clay soap block.

And THREW IT AT HIS CHEST WITH THE FORCE OF TEN ANGRY GODS.

THUNK.

"OW—ISABELLA??!!"

"THERE’S YOUR NICELY!"

Another chunk of soap.

Slam.

"And HERE—"

Third piece.

Smack.

"IS—"

Fourth soap.

Direct hit to the chest.

"YOUR—"

Fifth one.

Hit him in the shoulder.

"PLEASE!"

Osiris ducked, arms over his head, confused, betrayed, offended, and too stunned to process what was happening.

WHY ARE YOU HITTING ME WITH THE SMELLY ROCK??" he yelped.

"GO! WASH! THE! POTS!"

"I WILL IF YOU STOP THROWING THINGS!"

"WASH THEM FIRST!"

"That’s not how that works—OW—STOP—THAT ONE HIT MY EAR—"

She grabbed the last soap chunk, cocked her arm back, and—

Osiris bolted upright.

"FINE! I’LL WASH THEM!! GODS—WOMAN—CALM DOWN!"

He ran to the pile of dishes like a soldier sprinting toward the enemy trenches.

Isabella stood there, chest rising, hair swaying, fury glowing around her like an aura of divine wrath.

Glimora cautiously waddled up.

"Pip?"

(Translation: mama... you won. As always.)

Isabella exhaled, lifting her chin. "Good. He deserved it."

Behind her, Osiris held up a pot, staring at it like a cursed artifact.

"What... do I do with this?" he muttered.

Isabella turned slowly.

"OSIRIS."

He jumped. "YES??"

"If you ask me ONE more question," she said sweetly, "I will throw the entire river at you."

"...okay."

He scrubbed.

He scrubbed for his life.

Isabella watched him suffer like it was a divine reward.

And Glimora nodded proudly like: Papa is finally learning.