The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 74: The Sword Beneath the Cradle

[Rynthall Estate—Lucien’s Chamber]

It was quiet.

Unnaturally quiet.

The kind of silence that made the hair at the back of Lucien’s neck rise. A deceptive hush that wrapped around the room like velvet... thick, beautiful, and ominous.

Lucien stood by the tall window, draped in layers of pale silk, one hand absently cradling the swell of his stomach. Wobblebean had been suspiciously still all morning.

Not a single kick. Not a single flip. Just... stillness.

Too soft.

"Are you okay in there, my little croissant thief?" Lucien murmured, giving his belly a gentle pat. "Did yesterday’s raspberry tart offend your divine taste? You liked raspberry last week."

Still nothing.

Until—

Thump.

Then another. Soft. Firm. Reassuring.

Lucien exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding that breath since dawn. He pressed his palm deeper and whispered, "There you are... You scared me, little drama bean."

The door creaked open behind him, followed by slow, deliberate footsteps—boots that echoed with the kind of arrogant rhythm that could only belong to one man.

Lucien didn’t turn.

He didn’t need to.

"Still not sleeping, my love?" Came Silas’s voice—low, smooth, and criminally soothing.

Lucien sighed. "How can I sleep, Silas, when people are out there whispering my child’s name like it’s a holy hymn? Chanting my womb into legend. Drawing halos on our unborn child like he’s going to float out glowing and speaking in tongues."

Silas came closer, placing one hand on Lucien’s back—warm and firm, like an anchor.

He leaned in. "The Empress’s son is twenty days old. A perfectly healthy royal heir. Yet the city won’t stop talking about Wobblebean."

Lucien’s jaw tightened. "I hate it. I absolutely hate it. I don’t like people whispering about my child like he’s public property. It makes my blood boil. Makes me want to hex someone."

Silas gently turned him and guided him toward the bed.

"I know, my love," he murmured. "But you’ll hex someone later. Right now—" he lowered Lucien to the bed like a precious glass sculpture—"you’re going to lie down and let your husband spoil you rotten."

Lucien huffed. "I’m not a fainting maiden, you know."

"No," Silas replied smugly, crawling onto the bed beside him, "you’re far worse. You’re a dramatic, irate, hormonal porcelain war goddess."

Lucien rolled his eyes. "Says the man who threatened to burn down a holy building for me."

"I did. And I’ll do it again. But first..." Silas sat upright and tugged Lucien gently to sit between his legs, his back against Silas’s chest.

"It’s time," he said solemnly, like a knight preparing for battle. "For your daily massage."

Lucien blinked. "Again?"

"Yes. This belly’s getting royal treatment. The baby’s being cradled in velvet and affection. You, however, are being rubbed like a well-oiled warhorse."

Lucien snorted but raised his arms obediently, letting Silas tug the shirt off over his head.

"Don’t make that face," Silas said, reaching over to the table where a small glass bottle glinted in the morning light. "Frederick gave this lotion. It’s expensive, medically approved, and apparently strong enough to erase trauma, stretch marks, and possibly sins." 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "Are you trying to tell me something?"

"I’m trying to tell your skin something." Silas popped the cork and poured a little lotion into his palm. The scent of lavender and expensive alchemy filled the air.

And then—

He touched him.

Lucien sucked in a breath as Silas’s warm hands pressed gently over his belly, rubbing slow circles, careful and reverent. The lotion was cool, but Silas’s palms made it melt instantly.

"You’re good at this," Lucien muttered, eyes fluttering shut.

"I’ve had months of training on the Royal Belly," Silas said proudly, massaging lower with hypnotic rhythm. "This is my battlefield now."

Lucien chuckled, resting his head back against Silas’s shoulder. "You’re ridiculous."

"And yet here you are," Silas whispered near his ear, "trapped between my legs and moaning like I’m feeding you grapes."

"I am not—"

"Mmm. There it is again."

Lucien elbowed him weakly. "Don’t make this weird."

Silas smiled wickedly. "Too late. Your belly is now my playground of devotion."

"You need help."

"I need to keep touching you forever," Silas said, voice quiet now, the playfulness fading into something soft. "Every scar you might have... I’ll kiss it. Every mark—earned or accidental—I’ll worship it."

Lucien blinked slowly.

His throat tightened, but no tears came. Just warmth.

"...I love you," he whispered, so soft it was almost lost in the stillness.

Silas leaned down, brushing his lips to the back of Lucien’s neck. "I know," he whispered back. "But say it again. Louder. I’m greedy."

Lucien smiled. "I love you, you greedy bastard."

Silas grinned. "That’s better."

And the morning sun poured through the windows onto bare skin and warm hands as Wobblebean stirred quietly between their shared hearts.

***

[The Holy Temple – Inner Sanctum of the High Priest]

The incense curled in lazy spirals around the carved marble pillars of Caldric’s office, thick and sweet—masking the rot beneath its sacred smoke.

Behind a desk far too opulent for a man of supposed humility, High Priest Caldric sat like a spider in the center of his web. The golden threads of his robe shimmered faintly in the candlelight, his rings glinting with the weight of false divinity.

He held a goblet of temple wine in one hand, swirling it slowly, eyes trained on the flickering flame of the candelabra before him.

Then—he smirked.

A low, knowing, spine-chilling smirk.

"They say the child is coming soon," he said, his voice soft—almost reverent—but laced with poison. "The divine vessel is finally preparing to open."

Several priests stood before him, cloaked in pristine white and trembling slightly in the silence that followed his words. They were loyal. Terrified. Foolish.

Caldric tilted his head toward the youngest of them, eyes glinting. "You understand what must be done, don’t you?"

The priest gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a drowning man. "Y-Yes, Your Grace. Lord Lucien is nearing delivery. We have eyes on the estate. As soon as we hear the moment is near... we will act."

"Act?" Caldric’s smile widened. "You will deliver salvation into my hands. Not the Duke’s. Not the Emperor’s. Not even the gods’."

Another priest bowed low, his voice trembling but firm. "We’ve already placed informants along the estate’s outer corridors—disguised as healers, servants, and even guards. If Lord Lucien so much as breathes too sharply... we’ll know."

"Excellent." Caldric leaned back in his throne-like chair, tapping a single finger on the goblet’s rim. "And the child?"

The first priest spoke again, this time more confidently. "As soon as Wobblebean—"He paused, wincing at the ridiculous nickname.

Caldric’s brow twitched, clearly unamused. "The divine being," he corrected, tone sharp as a blade.

"Yes, of course—of course! As soon as the divine being is born, we will ensure... the child is brought directly to you. Before anyone else can hold it. Before anyone can even lay eyes on it."

Caldric closed his eyes for a moment, as if savoring a vision no one else could see.The crowds. The temple bells. The adoration.

The power.

"...Good," he breathed. "You may all leave. Go. Prepare. Pray, if you must. Or pretend to."

They bowed—one by one—and retreated in eerie silence, robes whispering over the marble floor like the rustle of white leaves in winter wind.

And then—

Only Caldric remained.

He stood, slowly, like a statue awakening.

The candles around him flared slightly, as if reacting to his presence.

And he walked to the grand window of his office, overlooking the sprawling temple courtyard where worshippers knelt in blissful ignorance.

He placed both hands behind his back, posture regal, expression cold.

"I am waiting for your arrival, little one," he murmured, a glint of madness in his eyes. "Come to the world... come into my hands. You will not be a Duke’s heir. You will not be a prince nor an emperor’s kin. You will be mine."

His smile returned, slow and wicked.

"You will belong to the gods. And I..." He paused— "...will be the only one fit to hold you first."

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

As if the sky itself had heard the heresy.

And yet—Caldric only laughed.

***

[Rynthall Estate – Midnight / Underground Dungeon]

Thunder cracked through the midnight sky, echoing across the stone corridors like a war drum. Rain lashed against the high windows of Rynthall, turning the estate into a fortress swallowed by shadow and storm.

Upstairs, Lucien slept peacefully—curled in silken sheets, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, one hand cradling the swell of his belly. Wobblebean stirred gently within, safe and warm.

But below, far beneath that peace—

Hell moved.

Steel gleamed in the torchlight. Wet footprints stained the dungeon floor. And blood—so much blood—pooled between the ancient stone tiles like ink spilled from a god’s quill.

Silas stood at the center of it all.

Half-naked.

Bare-chested and barefoot, skin streaked with red, muscles tense like coiled steel. His long hair clung to his face in damp strands, and his eyes—once red—now glowed a deep, unnatural red.

In his hand, his sword dripped crimson.

He exhaled slowly.

Then—without a word—he raised it again.

SLASH.

A final arc of steel.

The last body dropped.

And silence returned to the dungeon.

Silas looked down, breath calm and even. The floor around him was littered with corpses—men and women once dressed as maids, guards, servants. Familiar faces... or so it had seemed.

Now?

Only rats.

Intruders. Spies. Insects sent from the temple.

"That’s all?" Silas asked without turning, voice low and dangerous.

Behind him, Callen stepped forward, careful not to step in blood.

"For now," he said, voice clipped. "We found them scattered throughout the estate—some posing as guards, others blending into the kitchen staff. Most of them were waiting for a signal."

Silas finally turned, his body glowing faintly in the torchlight—beautiful, lethal, untouchable.

"Good," he said. "But this won’t be the last wave. The bastard won’t stop until he’s choking on his own gospel."

Callen nodded grimly. "Understood. I’ll double the security. Triple it. No one gets within ten feet of Lucien without your seal."

Silas’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling—toward the room where Lucien lay asleep, unaware.

"Make sure no one gets close," he said quietly. "Lucien’s in his final days. I want him safe. I want him calm. I want him laughing, not flinching."

Callen gave a small nod. "And the High Priest?"

A pause.

Then—Silas let out a slow, deliberate breath.

He stepped toward the table in the corner of the dungeon, where a set of documents lay—neatly stacked, sealed in dark wax.

The proof.

The rot.

The truth behind Caldric’s so-called purity.

"Yes," Silas murmured. "I’ll take action. But not yet."

He ran a finger down the spine of the top document, a grim smile curling at the corners of his lips.

"When the time is right... I’ll release these."

He looked up, eyes burning with promise.

"And they’ll spread through the empire like wildfire. Every home. Every shop. Every shrine. I’ll turn his scripture into scandal. I’ll make his name filth."

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the blood-soaked walls. The air hummed with something ancient. Inevitable.

"Let him preach prophecy," Silas whispered. "Let him chant lies. While he speaks, I’ll sharpen the sword."

He turned toward the corridor, cloak snapping behind him as he walked.

"Because when Wobblebean comes into this world," he said over his shoulder, voice like steel wrapped in silk—

"...Caldric won’t live long enough to whisper his name."