The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 80: Let the Temple Burn

[Rynthall Estate—Midnight | The Nursery]

The room was warm.

Soft candlelight danced across cream-colored drapes. A lullaby murmured from the enchanted music box on the shelf—an old tune, laced with forgotten magic, gentle as moonlight. In the crib, swaddled beneath a quilt stitched with stars and silver-threaded moons, the youngest heir of House Rynthall slept soundly.

Her tiny fists were curled beneath her chin. Her brow furrowed ever so slightly, as though even in dreams, she found the world disappointing.

Then—

CREEAAAAK.

The nursery door opened.

A figure entered.

She moved like a ghost—soundless, practiced. The hem of her gray uniform barely whispered over the polished floorboards. One of the estate’s senior maids. Trusted. Loyal. Invisible.

Her hands trembled.

Her face was pale.

She approached the crib like she was approaching an altar she was not worthy to touch. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she bent over the child.

"I’m sorry, little miss," she whispered, voice broken. "But... I have family too."

Her fingers—gentle, experienced—lifted the baby from her crib. The child stirred faintly but didn’t cry. The maid cradled her like something precious and fragile... then turned toward the door.

And froze.

Lucien.

Standing there.

Silk robe loose, hair messy, eyes burning. Not a single word on his lips—but fury radiated from him like heat off a wildfire.

His gaze dropped to the child in her arms. His child.

His expression shifted in a heartbeat.

From stunned.

To cold.

To murderous.

His voice, when it came, was low. Deadly. "Where are you taking my child?"

The maid flinched as if slapped already. "My... my lord," she stammered. "She was... she was crying. I—I thought you might—"

"Lie again," Lucien whispered, stepping forward, "and I will bury you with your own apron."

He snatched his daughter from the woman’s arms with terrifying precision, cradling the baby close to his chest.

She didn’t wake.

She didn’t stir.

Because she was sleeping soundly.

Lucien looked at his child, and then his eyes stayed locked on the maid.

She turned to leave.

Lucien’s voice cut the air like a sword.

"Stop."

She froze.

And then—

SLAP.

A single, stunning strike that echoed through the nursery like thunder. The maid collapsed to the floor, cheek red, breathing shallow. Lucien stood over her, no longer looking furious—

But cold. Cold as winter steel.

"She wasn’t crying," he said softly. "She was sleeping. Peacefully. Until you touched her."

He bent slightly, just enough to whisper into the maid’s ear.

"You thought I wouldn’t notice. That I’d be too exhausted. Too sore. Too full of postnatal bliss to care. But I have lived through fire. Through blood. Through pain you cannot imagine. And this—**this—**was the last mistake you’ll ever make."

He stood up and bellowed:

"GUARDS."

The hallway shook. Footsteps. Gasps. Doors flying open. Alphonso arrived first, trailed by house guards and startled maids.

They stopped short at the sight: the Grand Duchess standing like a storm, holding his baby, while the trusted maid lay crumpled on the ground, eyes wide with fear.

Alphonso stepped forward carefully. "My lord... What happened?"

Lucien turned his burning eyes on him. "She tried to take my child. I caught her red-handed."

The maid opened her mouth—perhaps to beg, perhaps to explain.

Lucien’s voice thundered again: "Throw her in the dungeons. Or kill her. I truly don’t care."

Alphonso flinched. "But, my lord—"

"I know," Lucien hissed, "exactly who sent her."

Alphonso turned to the guards and nodded. Two of them immediately seized the maid by her arms. She shrieked, flailing, crying, "Please! My lord—my family! Don’t punish them! They don’t know anything!"

"Then run," Lucien snapped. "Run far. Because if I find out they did—they’ll join you underground."

She was dragged away, wailing into the dark.

Silence followed.

Lucien exhaled, but his fury hadn’t ebbed. If anything, it had sharpened.

Alphonso spoke again, hesitantly. "Sh-should I inform Lord Silas?"

Lucien didn’t look at him. He looked down at his baby girl.

Still sleeping.

Still safe—for now.

"Where is he?"

Alphonso swallowed. "At the Imperial Palace. He’s meeting with the royal court and some other nobles, possibly discussing about High Priest Caldric—"

Lucien’s expression twisted. Something between disdain and wrath and the divine promise of vengeance. His grip on the baby tightened protectively.

He whispered into the quiet:

"Looks like the High Priest didn’t take my warning seriously."

A pause.

"Seems like it’s time to burn down the temple."

Alphonso stiffened. "My lord—it’s midnight. The temple is protected. I don’t think this is the right time—"

Lucien’s eyes snapped to him. The fire in them was not metaphorical.

"He tried to steal my child at this time. Why should I wait to strike until it’s convenient? I’m not asking for a formal invitation to war—I’m starting it."

Alphonso took a step back.

He had seen Lucien’s drama, his vanity, and his rage.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

This was the mother in Lucien.

Unforgiving. Unstoppable.

Deadly.

"At least let us wait for Lord Silas," Alphonso tried, his voice small. "He may already be working on a plan with the Temple—"

Lucien turned away, whispering to his daughter.

Then, without turning back:

"Inform Silas of this—" ’I will burn the Temple to its foundations. Personally.’ And if he tries to stop me, he’ll burn too."

Alphonso swallowed. 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

And nodded.

Lucien walked away, the baby clutched in one arm. Behind him trailed a storm.

And ahead of him—

Righteous vengeance.

***

[Imperial Palace—War Chamber | Just Past Midnight]

The chamber was ablaze with candlelight.

Scrolls were spread across the long obsidian table. Maps of sacred grounds. Layouts of the Temple’s defenses. Crumbling records of its holy vaults. Magic sigils floated above the parchments, pulsing with crimson light as the final phase of the plan was being discussed.

Silas stood at the head of the table—arms folded, hair loose, sleeves rolled. The calm before war cloaked him like a king about to tip his sword.

Emperor Adrien leaned forward, brows furrowed, fingers steepled over his mouth. Beside him stood the Royal Captain, armored in imperial gold, waiting for a command.

"By sunrise," Silas said coldly, "the Temple will fall. We strike with precision, contain the relics, and cut the head off the serpent."

"Are you certain the High Priest won’t see it coming?" Adrien asked, voice low.

Silas smirked. "Caldric believes he owns the gods. But gods bleed, Your Majesty. Especially when they touch what’s mine."

Just then—

BANG.

The doors flew open.

Two imperial guards stormed in, panting.

"My Lords," one bowed, voice urgent. "There’s an emergency message from House Rynthall."

Silas turned sharply, brows creasing. He took the scroll from the guard’s hand. The wax seal had been broken hastily. His name was scrawled across the parchment in familiar, elegant fury.

He read it.

And the war chamber shifted.

Not by wind. Not by magic.

By power.

A wave of alpha fury—raw, ancient, and uncontainable—rippled off Silas like wildfire on a battlefield.

The air grew thick. The room vibrated.

The emperor’s goblet cracked from the pressure. The Royal Captain took a step back, eyes wide, hand instinctively going to his sword.

Even Adrien stiffened.

"Silas," he said tightly, "you’re flooding the entire wing with your aura. Control it, you idiot—you’re going to kill us."

Silas didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His jaw clenched so hard it looked like he might shatter bone. His hand trembled as he crumpled the parchment, and a laugh—a low, vicious, unhinged laugh—escaped him.

A sound like death smiling.

"I thought..." he whispered, voice dripping with venom, "I thought I’d wait until dawn."

He looked up.

Eyes like cold steel lit with wildfire.

"But I see now... waiting is mercy."

Adrien narrowed his eyes. "What does it say?"

Silas didn’t answer.

Adrien snatched the paper from his hand.

His eyes scanned the note.

And then—

"Someone... tried to take your child?" Adrien whispered, stunned.

Silas’s fists shook. His voice was a growl now—low, guttural, and not entirely human. "They dared to touch my daughter. In my house. Under my roof. While I was still breathing."

He took a step forward. His aura crackled.

"They think they can steal from me and live to speak of it?"

He turned to the table.

And flipped it.

Scrolls, maps, and enchanted sigils—all went flying.

"They will beg for death."

Adrien stood, tall and solemn, his own fury awakening.

"I agree. We cannot wait. Gods help us all; who knows what Caldric will do until then..."

He turned to his Royal Captain.

"Gather the Imperial Knights. Full mobilization. We attack the Temple now."

The captain didn’t hesitate. He bowed once—then bolted from the chamber like hell itself was chasing him.

Silas didn’t look at Adrien again. He was already halfway to the door, shadows dancing around him, steps echoing like a declaration of war.

"He laid hands on my child," Silas said, voice barely audible. "So I will lay ruin upon his gods."

He turned his head, eyes glowing with a fury only fathers and monsters understood.

"I will make sure High Priest Caldric dies...slowly."