CHAPTER 497: CHAPTER 497: NOW. GET UP. AND WASH THE POTS AND PLATES. IF NOT—NO FOOD FOR YOU TONIGHT

Morning broke over the lagoon in soft layers of gold and silver, the sky still pale with leftover moonlight. Everything looked peaceful, gentle, serene.

Which was insane, considering Isabella herself was stomping across the clearing with murderous purpose.

Glimora waddled behind her, tiny paws patting the earth nervously. She kept glancing back like, oh gods... ’papa’ bird is going to die.

Isabella ignored her.

She had one mission.

One goal.

One objective.

Destroy Osiris emotionally.

Not physically — no, no.

She would never waste that kind of energy on a man.

But emotionally?

Absolutely.

Especially after last night’s offense.

"Not my type."

Ha.

HA.

She didn’t care.

She totally didn’t care.

She had never cared less in her life.

(...she cared so much she woke up glamorously angry.)

Isabella had dressed up like she was going to the Met Gala of the Stone Age.

Hair perfect, dress perfect, makeup subtle but gorgeously cut-throat.

The kind of look meant to end dynasties and ruin men’s self-esteem.

She didn’t dress up for him.

She absolutely did NOT.

She dressed up for HERSELF.

(...and to remind that phoenix idiot that she was universally desired, worshipped, and blessed by the gods.)

Glimora stared up at her glowing mama again and whispered, "Pip??"

(Translation: mama, please calm down before you combust.)

Isabella gently lowered Glimora to the ground. "Stay here, baby. Mama needs to handle something."

Glimora hugged her tiny paws to her chest in fear.

She had seen this expression before.

It was the "someone’s life is about to collapse" face.

Isabella nodded once, straightened her shoulders, then marched toward Osiris like a villain entering a boss battle cutscene.

And there he was.

The idiot.

Sleeping under the tree with his head tilted to the side, soft hair falling into his eyes, lips slightly parted, expression peaceful.

Peaceful.

Isabella clicked her tongue loudly. "How dare he sleep peacefully while I am carrying the emotional weight of this entire valley."

She stepped closer.

Closer.

Bent down slightly.

Her shadow fell across his sleeping face.

Osiris didn’t wake immediately — his beast blood made him a deep, heavy sleeper unless danger brushed his skin. And Isabella, despite the rage, wasn’t hurting him.

Not yet.

So he stayed asleep.

She leaned closer, face inches from his.

"Wake up," she hissed sweetly. "Wake up, you prehistoric disappointment."

Osiris didn’t stir.

Glimora peeked from behind a rock, covering her tiny eyes with her paws.

Isabella placed a fingertip on his cheek and tapped lightly.

"Osiris..."

Nothing.

She tapped again.

Still nothing.

She inhaled sharply, leaned in until her breath ghosted over his ear, and cooed in a deceptively soft whisper:

"Rise and shine, fire hazard."

His eyelids fluttered.

Slow.

Heavy.

Then they opened halfway.

He saw... beauty.

Soft glow.

Shining hair.

A silhouette backlit by morning light.

Warm gold everywhere.

His sleepy brain, still caught between dream and real world, whispered the only thought he had:

"...wow... a goddess..."

Isabella froze.

Her pride EXPLODED.

Her soul skyrocketed into the heavens.

Her pregnant ego inflated like a balloon filled with divine validation.

Glimora’s mouth dropped open like, oh no... he shouldn’t have said that... she’s going to ascend.

Isabella blinked, smile beginning to curl—

Then she remembered:

Oh wait.

She was MAD.

FURIOUS.

OFFENDED.

How dare she melt because of him?

How dare he be hot accidentally?

How dare he redeem himself for a fraction of a second?

Rage surged back like a tidal wave.

And she acted instantly.

She grabbed a fistful of his hair—

YANK.

"OW—OW—OW—WAIT—OW—ISABELLA—OUT—OW OW OW—STOP—OW—"

Osiris flailed, suddenly very awake.

He blinked rapidly, confusion slapping him from all directions as he tried to escape her grip but failed because—

Small woman.

Smaller hands.

Absolutely terrifying strength.

Where was the strength coming from??

He didn’t know.

He would NEVER know.

But the gods clearly blessed her with the ability to pull his scalp straight out of his body.

He gritted his teeth, tears forming in his eyes.

"What—did—I—do—?!" he gasped between yelps.

Isabella didn’t let go.

No, she pulled harder.

"You stupid—STUPID—bird man! Clean your junk!"

Osiris blinked. "My WHAT—OW—what junk?!"

She yanked again. "THE POTS!"

"THE WHAT?!"

"The pots!"

He stared at her through tears of scalp agony. "What are... pots?"

Isabella froze.

Blink.

Blink.

Oh. Oh she was going to commit a felony.

She was going to commit multiple felonies.

She inhaled sharply, eyes wide with disbelief.

"...you don’t know what pots are."

Osiris whimpered. "I DON’T! WHAT ARE POTS? I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT PLEASE LET MY HAIR LIVE—"

Isabella finally let go.

Osiris immediately slapped both hands onto his head protectively like she had tried to scalp him (she had).

She crossed her arms and glared. "Pots. You know — the things I used to cook your food with? The things I washed? The things YOU were supposed to clean?"

Osiris blinked at her, face blank.

"...no?"

She pointed at the ground behind him.

There, in a pitiful pile, were yesterday’s dishes — bowls, plates, pots, everything — sitting untouched like a shrine to laziness.

Osiris followed the direction of her finger.

Turned.

Saw the pile.

Turned back.

Looked at her.

His face held the expression of a man staring at a mythical creature.

"What... are those?" he asked, genuinely confused.

Isabella’s brain short-circuited.

Glimora dramatically slapped her forehead.

"You—" Isabella pointed, trembling. "YOU ATE FROM THEM LAST NIGHT."

Osiris looked down at his hand.

He was still holding the spoon from yesterday.

The SAME spoon.

The SAME one he had eaten with.

The SAME one he forgot to drop before sleeping.

Isabella’s eye twitched violently.

"Why," she asked, voice trembling with equal parts fury and disbelief, "are you dumb?"

Osiris stared at the spoon like he had never seen it before. "I thought... this was a weapon."

Isabella stared.

Glimora stared.

Even the trees stared.

"...a WHAT?" Isabella whispered.

"A weapon," Osiris repeated seriously. "You gave it to me. I thought it was... symbolic. Like an initiation. A ritual item."

Isabella pressed both hands to her face and screamed into them.

The scream echoed across the lagoon like a mating call for chaos.

Osiris flinched.

He still had no idea why she was this angry.

He knew she was pregnant — obviously, he wasn’t that clueless — but he didn’t understand the details. He didn’t know pregnancy came with temper swings sharp enough to slice mountains in half. He didn’t know exhaustion clung to her bones every time she took a step. He didn’t know her body ached from more than travel. He didn’t know she didn’t WANT to take care of him — that she was only doing it because she was naturally generous, and because she didn’t trust the wilderness enough to leave him helpless.

He didn’t know she hated dealing with people.

Or beast-men.

Or phoenixes.

Or Snakes.

Especially Snakes.

He didn’t know she was irritated by the simple fact of existing while pregnant and annoyed and breathing the same air as someone who didn’t understand dishes.

All he knew was:

She yelled.

A lot.

But he didn’t get why.

Not truly.

He didn’t know the pressure Brooding In Silence™ men caused pregnant women.

He didn’t know that being fed up with life itself could manifest as wanting to strangle someone with their own hair.

He didn’t know that she was juggling fear, frustration, mood swings, hunger, nausea, and the constant effort of keeping both herself and a strange amnesiac phoenix alive.

He didn’t know she wasn’t actually mad about the pots.

She was mad about everything.

And unfortunately for him—

Osiris was the closest, loudest, dumbest thing available to aim it at.

⸻

Far out on the lagoon, the Lunareens lifted their heads again.

One pointed at the chaotic scene on shore.

"That mortal female is attacking her mate."

Another replied coolly, "She appears to hate him."

"Yes. Strongly."

A third narrowed her eyes.

"Should we remove him? She would not care."

The smallest Lunareen hummed thoughtfully. "Probably. But the unborn needs him."

"Ah. Yes."

"Unfortunate."

They hummed again, tails flicking.

"Should we intervene?"

"No."

"Should we watch?"

"Yes."

They drifted closer, silently judging with glowing eyes.

⸻

Back on shore—

Isabella was still lecturing.

Still pointing aggressively.

Still stomping her feet at him.

"You don’t know what pots are?! How do you not know?! They’re the things that hold food! How did you survive before me?! Actually — don’t answer that. I don’t want to know."

Osiris blinked, holding his head protectively, hair sticking up at odd angles from the violence. "You are very... strong."

"Yes, I KNOW."

"How?"

She counted on her fingers.

"Rage. Hunger. Your face. The weather. My hair. Life. YOU. Did I mention you?"

Osiris whispered, "Why am I on that list twice?"

"BECAUSE YOU’RE EXTRA."

Glimora crossed her tiny arms and gave him the most mocking little stare. The kind that said:

Yeah dumbass, mama is right, you’re stupid.

Osiris looked devastated.

Isabella pointed to the dishes again.

"You see that? That is your job today. You will wash those pots. You will wash those plates. YOU WILL WASH THAT SPOON YOU’RE HOLDING LIKE A MORON."

He looked at the spoon again, betrayed.

Isabella stepped closer, voice sharp:

"Now. Get up. And wash the pots and plates. If not—no food for you tonight."