Ethan had expected the Volturi to be cold, detached—even cruel—but he hadn't braced himself for the moment he would cross a line he might never return from.
The morning began in Volterra's cavernous halls, where shadows stretched like long, skeletal fingers. Aro summoned him to the chamber, his pale hand extended with dizzying enthusiasm. "My dear Ethan," he began, voice smooth as silk, every word deliberately weighted. "It is time for you to embrace your purpose, to wield the gift I saw glimmering within you."
Aro's gift—unveiling every thought and memory through touch—had intrigued Ethan when he first arrived. But he quickly learned it was not admiration that earned Aro's interest in others; it was utility. Ethan could see fragments of the future with a single touch, albeit in broken, watery images that felt more like dreams than certainties. For Aro, Ethan was a prize—a key to fortify the Volturi's throne.
And today, that key would be tested.
Aro gestured toward a captured vampire kneeling on the stone floor. The vampire's wrists were shackled, his crimson eyes burning with desperation. The guards flanked him, Felix and Alec both as still as statues. "This one believed he could evade our laws," Aro explained, his tone almost pitying. "Such insolence cannot go unanswered. But you, Ethan—what does the future hold for this pitiful creature?"
Ethan's stomach churned. His body went rigid as he stepped forward, his footsteps echoing like distant thunder. His veins screamed with resistance, but Aro's gaze was expectant, heavy with unspoken command. There was no room for refusal. Slowly, gingerly, Ethan placed his hand on the prisoner's arm.
The vision came in a jarring wave.
Chains. Searing flames. A figure cloaked in black delivering the final strike. The vampire's end played out like a horrible pre-written script, carved in stone. There was no escape—no chance for survival. Death was absolute, his execution inevitable.
Ethan stumbled back, his breath shallow. "He..." Words caught in his throat. "He's going to die. There's no other outcome."
"Of course," Aro murmured, clapping with disturbingly genuine delight. "Justice will always prevail, dear boy. You must understand this is our sacred duty."
Sacred. Ethan rolled the word around his mind, but it sat heavy there, like a stone in still water. He felt the prisoner's gaze burn into him—a mix of hatred and despair—and he couldn't shake the thought that
he
had somehow sealed this man's fate.
But then again... hadn't he just seen that it was already sealed? Would his refusal to cooperate have changed the end? Doubt crawled into his chest like a spider.
His first official mission did little to ease his unrest.
A week later, Ethan found himself walking alongside Felix and Demetri, their towering frames making him feel like a wisp of fog in comparison. The rogue they pursued had broken the Volturi's cardinal law: exposure. Slips of recklessness had left a trail of nearly exposed secrets, forcing the Volturi's hand.
Demetri, their tracker, led the way with precision. Felix, hungry for violence, followed with an eager smile fixed on his face. Ethan, however, trudged behind, silent and contemplative.
When they caught up to the rogue—a young, wild-eyed vampire whose ferocity was unmatched—they fought with a surgical efficiency. Felix overpowered the rogue easily, slamming her to the ground. While Felix flexed his iron grip, Aro's words echoed in Ethan's memory:
What does the future hold for this pitiful creature?
Something inside him compelled Ethan forward. He knelt, hesitating before his fingers brushed her icy skin. The vision struck violently, more vivid than the last time. The rogue's end unfolded exactly as this moment—her choking screams, Felix's final blow, and silence.
He jerked his hand away. The fight ended moments later, the vision confirmed down to every last detail. Ethan couldn't move, rooted in place by the realization gnawing at his mind—this vampire was doomed the second they left Volterra. Every step, every act, had been leading to this moment.
The future was inevitable. It always had been.
But then... what was the point? Did the Volturi truly
control
fate, or was their power merely the illusion of control, their role a grim confirmation of what no one could escape?
He kept these thoughts buried deep as Felix mocked the lifeless body. "Guess she should've thought twice before crossing
us,
huh?" Ethan's lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded stiffly. His turmoil wasn't something he could share with Felix or Demetri. They relished the act—found purpose in the chaos. Ethan, however, felt like a bystander trapped in the eye of a storm.
Back in Volterra, Ethan began to notice the cracks in the Volturi's pristine image. During a rare moment of reprieve, Aro granted him entry into the lesser-seen corners of his empire. It was there Ethan encountered them—Sulpicia and Athenodora, the wives of Aro and Caius.
They were beautiful, yes, but beauty in Volterra had a hollow quality to it, like marble carved to perfection but devoid of warmth. They moved like ghosts, their steps graceful as they hovered in silence behind their husbands. Greetings were whispered, smiles weak, their presence a mere formality in the constant pageantry of power.
But when Chelsea entered the room, Ethan saw everything.
Chelsea's power hummed in the air—a force of manipulation so subtle it was almost undetectable. She tethered bonds where reality might unravel, gluing alliances within the Volturi through invisible strings. Ethan felt its effects dampen the faint unease in his mind, like fingers brushing away cobwebs.
And yet, there was no doubt… Sulpicia and Athenodora were not here willingly, not in the truest sense. Their smiles were painted, their loyalty patched together by strings that Chelsea tightened like a puppeteer. Ethan's chest tightened at the thought:
If the Volturi are so powerful,
why force loyalty?
The realization scratched at him like nails on glass. For all the Volturi's discipline, their power wasn't indestructible. It was manufactured, upheld by fear, manipulation, and half-truths. Beneath Aro's grand speeches and Caius's rage, there was something desperate about their rule—a desire to cling to the fragile illusion of control.
That night, as Ethan stood at the edge of Volterra's towering balcony, the city below suffocated in darkness, the weight of power settled fully on his shoulders. The Volturi wielded justice swiftly, but not fairly; decisively, but not compassionately. And perhaps worst of all, Ethan realized his role wasn't to prevent bloodshed—it was to witness its inevitability.
For now, he had no choice but to fall in line, no plan to resist the tide. But the doubt was growing, creeping into the corners of his mind. It was as inevitable as the fates he saw. And one day, it would demand answers.
The question was… what would he do when that moment came?