Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega-Chapter 119: Underdog

Charles blinked. "You... what?!"

"I borrowed you," Gregoris repeated, unbothered, like he’d requested a chair from another office. "Temporarily reassigned."

Charles stared at him in genuine disbelief. "That’s not a thing you can just..."

"It is," Gregoris said, and the grin sharpened. "I signed the request."

Charles’s mouth opened, then closed, because he could physically see how that would happen. A form. A stamp. A signature. Damian’s bureaucracy dressed up as law. Gregoris weaponizing paper as efficiently as he weaponized ether.

Charles’s voice went thin with outrage. "Gabriel—"

Gregoris lifted a brow. "Approved."

Charles froze. The line of Shadows collectively held their breath, because hearing the Consort Empress’s name attached to the word approved made the situation feel much worse.

Charles’s eyes flashed. "He approved you borrowing me?"

"He approved you learning," Gregoris corrected, tone almost mild. "And yes. He approved."

Charles stared at the floor for half a second, like he might find sanity hiding in the tiles. Then he looked back up, anger rekindling. "So you dragged me here because you wanted entertainment."

Gregoris’s smile turned almost fond.

"You are indeed entertaining," he agreed.

Charles’s hands clenched. "I hate you."

"I know," Gregoris said easily. "You announce it often. It’s become part of your personality."

Charles took a step forward, furious. "I am not your toy."

Gregoris raised the blade a fraction, balancing it on two fingers with lazy precision. The ether along the edge shimmered once, obedient, quiet. "No," he said. "You’re my problem."

Charles bared his teeth. "What problem?"

Gregoris’s gaze cooled, the grin still there but sharpened now. "We need another field commander," he said, like he was discussing a staffing chart. "I’m... assigned to the office."

A ripple of tension moved through the hall. Not surprise, everyone knew Gregoris had been leashed indoors. But hearing him say it out loud, casually, like a mild inconvenience, made the air feel heavier.

Charles blinked, then let out a laugh that was pure disbelief and zero joy. "No."

Gregoris’s grin widened. "Yes."

Charles’s eyes narrowed. "You’re serious."

"I’m always serious," Gregoris replied, and then he added with infuriating cheerfulness, "So. Congratulations on your promotion!"

For half a second, Charles genuinely didn’t understand.

His brain stalled on the word promotion like it was a foreign language spoken by monsters. A promotion was supposed to come with applause, a shiny new title, maybe a celebratory dinner. Not with Gregoris’s pleased expression and a training hall full of people who suddenly looked at Charles like he’d been nominated for a very dangerous job.

Charles blinked, slow. "No."

Gregoris’s grin shoed teeth. "Yes."

Charles’s gaze flicked around the room - at the other Shadows, at the weapons, at the ether lines humming in the air. He could feel it in their attention: surprise, curiosity, and the faint, respectful dread that came with knowing Gregoris didn’t ’promote’ anyone unless he intended to grind them into something useful.

It wasn’t an opportunity. It was labor. It was responsibility. It was work.

And Charles hated work more than he hated pain.

His mouth opened, then closed. His face twisted, because the truth caught up and bit him in the ankle: this wasn’t Gregoris offering him greatness.

This was Gregoris weaponizing his potential.

Charles exhaled, long and suffering. "That’s not a promotion."

Gregoris tilted his head, all fake innocence. "It is."

"That’s a sentence," Charles snapped. "That’s you handing me your problems."

Gregoris’s grin didn’t fade. "Congratulations," he repeated, like the word was salt he intended to rub in until it stuck. "You’re important enough to be inconvenienced."

Charles stared at him, and for a moment the lazy, whining part of him went quiet, replaced by the sharper, angrier part Damian had noticed long ago.

"Fuck you," Charles said.

The line of Shadows flinched.

Gregoris didn’t.

He stepped out of the training ring with unhurried calm, crossed the small distance, and set his hand on Charles’s shoulder with a muted thud, almost friendly if you didn’t know what his touch meant in this context.

"That’s the spirit," Gregoris said.

Charles stiffened under the contact, fury vibrating under his skin.

Gregoris let his hand linger one heartbeat longer than necessary, then turned away like he’d already filed Charles’s reaction under acceptable.

He raised his voice, projecting enough that the entire hall snapped to attention without thinking.

"There will be others," Gregoris said, "promoted."

A ripple went through the line, predators tensing while waiting for the rest.

Gregoris continued as if he were discussing scheduling. "You will receive your paperwork this week. You are expected at your posts next week."

Charles’s head snapped up. "Posts?"

Gregoris glanced back at him, the grin returning, thin and pleased, timed like a knife.

"Yes," he said. "Posts."

He let the word hang for a beat, long enough for the hall to tighten around it.

"As you may know," Gregoris continued, voice smooth as a briefing, "Prince Christian is already dealing with Donin. Donin needs special troops that don’t collapse when the ether air turns wrong and the nights get loud."

A few Shadows shifted, the reflexive, predatory tension of people who understood what Donin meant without needing the headlines.

"The south needs reinforcement," Gregoris went on. "The Capital needs teeth. And Donin needs men who can be sent without needing their hands held."

Charles’s jaw clenched. "So send your monsters."

Gregoris’s smile sharpened. "I am."

Charles blinked, thrown off for half a second. "Then why am I—"

"Because you’re useful," Gregoris cut in, mild enough to be insulting. "And because you’re lazy."

A ripple moved through the line almost amused. Everyone had eyes. Everyone had watched Charles do the bare minimum and still outshine half the room by accident.

Charles’s face colored. "I’m not lazy."

"You are," Gregoris said, calm as a verdict. "You just happen to be talented. Damian saw it. Gabriel saw it. Now I’m forced to see it too."

Charles’s grip tightened on the blade. "Forced."

"Yes," Gregoris said, unbothered. "Just like you."

He took a step closer, not threatening, just inevitable. The ether pressure in the hall tightened, enough to remind everyone who set the rules here.

"You are to remain in the Capital," Gregoris said, and his gaze locked onto Charles like a chain being fastened. "Under my direct orders."

Charles’s lips parted in disbelief. "Absolutely not."

Gregoris lifted a brow. "Absolutely yes."

Charles’s eyes flashed. "I’m not your errand dog."

Gregoris’s grin widened, pleased by the resistance. "No. You’re my underdog."

The word landed like a slap.

Charles froze. The room went still.

Gregoris didn’t give him time to recover.

"You’re going to learn," Gregoris said, voice almost conversational, "what you’re capable of when you stop performing helplessness as a personality."

Charles bared his teeth. "You enjoy this."

Gregoris’s eyes gleamed. "Yes."

The honesty made it worse.

He turned back to the hall, voice carrying now, the commander mask sliding fully into place.

"There will be others promoted," Gregoris repeated. "Orders will be issued this week. You will report next week."

A pause, just long enough to let dread bloom.

"Nonconformity," Gregoris added, still looking at Charles, "will be treated as treason."

Someone swallowed audibly.

Charles’s voice went tight. "You can’t..."

"I can," Gregoris said, and the grin in it promised pain. "Especially if you try to make it public."

Charles stared at him, breathing hard, hatred and inevitability tangling until he couldn’t tell which one burned more.

Gregoris lifted the training blade again, offering it like a doorway.

"Begin," he said.