The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 73: Sanctified Lies

[Two Months Later—The Kingdom was in Chaos]

It had been exactly two months since that prophecy was printed across the front pages of every newspaper in the Empire.

And the city had not calmed down.

If anything—chaos had evolved. Mutated. Taken on new and terrifying forms, like a gossip hydra with a printing press.

The Kingdom of Arvadis was no longer humming—it was howling with rumors.

Every morning, a new headline screamed louder than the last.

DAILY LIGHT HERALD"THE GOD-BORN CHILD SHALL WALK AMONG US!"

High Priest Caldric Declares the Unborn Heir of Grand Duke Silas as the Next Saint(ess)!Entire Nation on Edge as Silence from Rynthall Estate Continues!Why is the Blessed Couple Not Speaking?

THE HOLY EYE TRIBUNE"SAINT OR STORM?"

The High Priest Speaks of Fire, Light, and a Divine Voice Only He Can Hear"I Heard the Baby Cry in My Dream," Says Village Baker. "It Changed My Life."

THE GILDED CROWN GAZETTE"IS THE CROWN PRINCE A DISTRACTION FROM THE TRUE CHOSEN?"

Empress Gives Birth to a Boy—But All Eyes Still on the Grand Duke’s Mysterious HeirClerics Argue Over the Real Divine Child

THE IMPERIAL CHIRPER (GOSSIP COLUMN)"TWO BABIES ENTERED THE RING—WHICH ONE IS HOLIER?"

Royal Son vs. Godborn Heir: Which Child Will Win the Public’s Love (and Blessings)?Fashion Review: Lucien’s Maternity Robes vs. The Empress’s Silk Cloaks—Who Wore Prophecy Better?

And amidst this cathedral of insanity stood the towering marble walls of the Rynthall Estate.

Silent.

Unshaken.

Unbothered.

Not a single official statement had been released from the Grand Duke or his husband since the announcement. No interviews. No temple visits. No blessings. No commentaries on sainthood or divine destiny. Not even a vague public message about the weather.

They were ghosting the Empire.

And it drove everyone mad.

Especially because twenty days ago, the Empress had given birth to a healthy baby boy—the long-awaited Crown Prince.

An event that should’ve dominated the papers.

It should have been the main story for a month.

But instead—

FRONT PAGE, IMPERIAL NEWS"THE CROWN PRINCE IS BORN—BUT WHAT OF THE SAINT?"

Nation Celebrates the Birth of the Imperial Heir...But people whisper: Has the Real Miracle Already Been Conceived?

Crowds gathered at the temple daily, demanding blessings. Merchants sold "Holy Baby" amulets with suspiciously round-cheeked carvings. Bards composed ballads that rhymed Wobblebean with redeem.

And all the while—Lucien and Silas said nothing.

Not a word.

Not a whisper.

Not even a passive-aggressive poem.

***

[Imperial Palace – East Wing Nursery – Unofficial Committee of Baby Drama]

And in the absence of truth, the people built legends.

Legends of a glowing womb.Of dreams filled with sacred laughter.Of a tiny foot kicking darkness away.

And in the heart of the imperial palace—behind golden gates, guarded curiosity, and enough embroidered curtains to drown a horse—Lucien stood in deafening silence.

Staring.

At the enemy.

A devastatingly adorable, pink-cheeked, golden-haired, blue-swaddled enemy.

The Empress’s baby boy, barely twenty days old, was sleeping peacefully in a crib that looked like a royal blueberry had exploded.

Lucien tilted his head slightly, eyebrows scrunching as he stared at the disastrously themed nursery.

"Don’t you think..." he began slowly, blinking at the violently blue bedding, "...the crib color is... a little aggressive?"

The Empress, lounging beside him with her ankles crossed and one hand elegantly flipping a newspaper, didn’t even look up.

"It’s imperial blue. Symbol of power. Dignity. Legacy."

"It’s blinding," Lucien replied, squinting. "He’s going to open his eyes one day and just see sky trauma." 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

From the other side of the room, Seraphina, also staring into the blue abyss that was the royal crib, casually sipped her tea and added, "What can you expect from a weird lady?"

The Empress blinked.

Turned.

Glared.

"...Did you just—?"

"I said what I said." Seraphina took another slow sip, crossing her legs with the grace of someone professionally irritating. "Sorry, Your Highness, but I’m allergic to lies. You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you?"

The Empress’s fingers twitched around her teacup.

"The rumors that my son is being overshadowed by a fetus named Wobblebean? Oh yes, I’ve read the scrolls of stupidity."

Lucien coughed, trying to keep the peace. "Let’s not... um, compare children who haven’t even learned to poop on command yet."

The empress exhaled through her nose like a noble bull.

Then, surprisingly calm, she gestured toward the nearby chair. "Why don’t you take a seat, Lucien? It’s your due month, for heaven’s sake. You don’t want Wobblebean making a dramatic exit in the middle of royal blue chaos."

Lucien, though visibly amused, nodded and waddled toward the chair with as much grace as his swollen belly allowed. "Honestly, if he pops out now, it’ll be because this room gave him second-hand anxiety."

He sat down carefully and peered again at the baby in the crib. "So... did you decide on a name yet?"

The Empress groaned, dramatically tossing the newspaper over her shoulder.

"Don’t ask. Adrien and I have been at war over names. Every night it’s like: ’Darling, I want to name him after my grandfather,’ and I’m like, ’Your grandfather was named Horbel. You want our son to go through life as Prince Horbel?!’"

Lucien snorted, covering his mouth with his sleeve. "I mean... it’s got historical trauma. That’s something."

She rolled her eyes and pointed at Lucien. "That’s why you should start early. Prepare ten names for girls and ten for boys. Don’t leave it to the last minute. Choose one from each list before you go into labor, so you’re not screaming at Silas in between contractions like I did with Adrien."

Lucien blinked. "You yelled name suggestions while pushing?"

"I yelled profanities at first," the Empress replied with pride. "Then threats. Then the names."

Suddenly, Seraphina cleared her throat with all the ceremony of a royal herald. Her eyes gleamed like a villain in the second act of a drama.

"Well, worry not!" she declared grandly, lifting her chin. "I have already been preparing the name list for my nephew."

Lucien’s head whipped around. "Wait—really?! You’ve been making lists?"

"Of course! Do you think I’d let you name the heir something boring like ’Eliot’ or ’Bobby’?"

Lucien raised a hand. "Okay, no one was going to name him Bobby, and for heaven’s sake, we don’t even know if my child is a girl or boy."

Seraphina sniffed. "Regardless. I will be the best aunt in the Empire, and my glorious nephew shall have a name worthy of songs."

Lucien gave her a thumbs up, grinning. "You sure will. I fully expect battle-tested name scrolls tomorrow."

She nodded firmly. "I’ll visit you first thing in the morning. I’ve already narrowed it down to ’Aetheryn’ and ’Stormiel’ for a boy."

Lucien blinked. "Those sound like sword names."

"They are sword names," Seraphina said, not blinking.

Lucien sighed happily. "God help me...I am surfing around some chaos."

Seraphina smirked. "Royal chaos."

***

[Imperial Palace—War Room—Mid-Morning—Tea & Threats]

The room was quiet. Too quiet.

A storm waiting to strike.

The walls were lined with ancient war maps, dusty scrolls of forgotten bloodlines, and enough sharpened weapons to write a message in steel. At the long obsidian table, two of the most powerful men in the empire sat—Emperor Adrien and Grand Duke Silas—sharing tea like civilized monsters.

Steam curled upward from their cups.

Danger curled beneath their words.

Adrien didn’t look up right away. He swirled his tea with slow, deliberate calm. Then, without lifting his gaze, he spoke.

"Did you really find it?"

Silas leaned back in his chair with a smirk that could cut glass. He crossed one leg over the other, fingers idly drumming on the armrest like a lion bored of waiting.

"Oh, I found it," he murmured, eyes dark and gleaming. "Did you really think I’d let that sanctimonious bastard keep breathing in peace?"

Adrien finally looked at him—slowly, coldly. His golden eyes narrowed with a quiet, murderous thrill.

"My hands," he said calmly, "are itching to erase his entire existence. Slowly. Cell by cell."

Silas chuckled—low and wicked. "And my sword’s practically singing. I keep imagining it dragging him out of that temple... robes torn, holy staff broken in two... and then running him through."

Adrien sipped his tea.

"Too merciful."

Silas sighed, nodding. "I agree. I should carve a sermon into his spine first. Maybe gift-wrap it for the High Council."

He reached forward then, casually flipping through the damning stack of documents sprawled across the table—records, reports, and scrolls soaked in secrets.

Blackmail.

Bribery.

Betrayals that stank of incense and hypocrisy.

Then he paused, tapping a line on one of the papers with a single gloved finger.

"Isn’t it fascinating..." he said softly, "how a man who calls himself a servant of the gods is filthier than the gutters in my prison cells?"

Adrien’s smile was thin and dangerous.

"Caldric," he murmured. "High Priest. Holy Advisor. Public darling. But behind the curtain? Just a leech dressed in silk."

Silas chuckled again, leaning closer, voice like a blade. "I wonder... do the people still think he glows in the dark?"

Adrien’s lips twitched. "They’ll think otherwise once his corpse is swinging in daylight."

Silas raised his cup in mock salute. "To divine justice."

Adrien clinked his own cup against it.

"To cleanse the temple with fire."