The cold marble floor of the Volturi’s chamber bit into your knees, unforgiving and slick beneath trembling hands. You had been dragged through the winding corridors of Volturi’s ancient stronghold, your body thrown against stone, your skin marred with bruises that would never have had the chance to heal. Every step closer to the throne room had felt like a countdown.

Now you knelt before them.

The chamber loomed vast and cavernous, shadows clinging to the high walls like silent witnesses. Cloaks pooled around pale feet. Red eyes watched you without mercy. The air itself felt heavy — ancient, oppressive — steeped in centuries of executions disguised as justice.

Upon his throne sat Aro, hands folded with theatrical calm, lips curved into something almost sympathetic. Almost.

“We can’t afford to let you live, child.” He said smoothly, his voice echoing off stone, silk wrapped around steel.

The words didn’t need to be shouted. They carried finality. Law. Death.

Your breath hitched. There would be no trial. No mercy. The Volturi had spoken.

A guard stepped forward — the executioner. The scrape of his boot against marble sounded deafening. Your pulse thundered in your ears.

And then—

A shift.

Subtle at first. A tension pulling tight, like a bowstring drawn too far.

Your gaze flickered toward the edge of the chamber, where a smaller figure stood cloaked in black — still, composed, lethal.

Jane.

Her porcelain face was usually unreadable, a mask of detached cruelty. But now something fractured beneath it. Her crimson eyes burned — not with boredom, not with amusement.

With fury.

Her hand curled at her side, fingers tightening slowly, deliberately.

The guard hesitated.

Before anyone could question it, she moved.

“Enough.”

Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It sliced through the chamber, sharp and absolute. The kind of command that didn’t request obedience — it demanded it.

The executioner froze mid-step.

A ripple of unease passed through the cloaked figures. No one spoke. No one dared.

Even Aro’s expression flickered — curiosity replacing certainty.

Jane stepped closer, each measured movement echoing in the vast silence. The Volturi shifted, uncertain now. They feared many things — but they feared her gift most of all.

She stopped before you.

For a heartbeat, the world held still.

Then she knelt.

Her fingers slipped beneath your chin, cool but impossibly gentle as she tilted your face upward. Her touch contrasted violently with the brutality you’d endured. It was controlled. Careful.

Possessive.

“You’re not going anywhere.” She murmured, her voice low — velvet over sharpened glass. Beneath it was something dangerous. A promise.

Not of mercy.

Of protection.

She rose slowly, placing herself between you and the throne.

When she looked at Aro again, there was no trace of obedience in her expression.

Only warning.

“Keep your hands off her, She said softly, deadly calm settling over every syllable. “And don’t test me.”

Her gaze sharpened, daring anyone to move.

“I know exactly how to sever a head.”