[BL]Reborn as the Empire's Most Desired Omega Chapter 44: No Traceable Origin

Trevor left the estate shortly after his talk with Lucas.

Caelan’s summons had arrived thirty minutes earlier from Adelle, his secretary, who was terse, dry, and imperial in the way that all truly dangerous things were.

He knew why he was called to the palace and he was guessing that Caelan would ask for Lucas soon too.

Now, seated in the back of the car, one ankle resting over his knee, he watched the city unfold like a stage set—polished roads, curated greenery, gates that parted on sight. The D’Argente estate fell behind in the rearview mirror, swallowed back into its stone and hedges.

Lucas had agreed.

Trevor didn’t expect to beco impulsive, but sothing told him the boy was hiding more than he or Serathine realized, and as with everything that drew his attention, he would unravel it all.

He smiled to himself; his life had been dull up until now; he had never cared about other people’s problems, and his duties were completed with the precision of a good watch.

The car turned past the final checkpoint, guards signaling wordlessly, and began its slow ascent toward the northern wing of the Imperial Palace. This wasn’t the wing used for banquets or state announcents. This one was quiet and Trevor had been there in the past more than he wanted to admit.

The car rolled to a stop.

Trevor buttoned his coat with practiced ease. He stepped out without needing the driver to open the door. The guards in the northern wing didn’t speak; they rarely did, and when they did, it wasn’t good. He nodded once, and they let him through.

Inside, the air was cool, and the grand halls were filled with midday light from the ceiling-high windows.

A young escort was waiting in the corridor—barely trained, stiff in the shoulders, and trying not to look nervous.

"Follow ."

Trevor raised an eyebrow with amusent and said nothing.

He walked with the precision of soone who knew how far the Emperor’s shadow extended because he had helped cast it.

The guard stopped at the final door.

"His Majesty is already waiting for you," he said.

Trevor offered a polite nod, the kind that could be read as acknowledgnt or dismissal depending on who was watching.

He pushed the door open with the ease of soone who had stood in this room too many tis to bother pretending it ant sothing.

"Took you long enough," said Caelan from his desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, raising his eyes from the computer in front of him.

Trevor closed the door behind him, unhurried. "You sent a summons, not a stopwatch."

Caelan leaned back, one brow lifted. "And yet you showed up five minutes early."

Trevor raised his brow and took the seat in front of the desk with ease. "That’s called respect."

"No," Caelan replied, returning his gaze to the screen. "That’s called anticipation. You think I’m going to ask you sothing you’re not prepared to answer."

"I think that you found out about Lucas agreeing to what I asked suspiciously fast," Trevor said, settling into the chair like it owed him rent. "The only ones who know about it are and him—but Serathine has a knack for guessing the right outco."

Caelan didn’t blink. "Serathine doesn’t guess. She forecasts".

"And you intercept," Trevor added smoothly, "which makes wonder if this eting is about the boy or the storm you think he’s bringing."

Caelan shut the laptop fully, the click deliberate.

"Isn’t it the sa thing?" he said. "Lucas is the storm."

Trevor let the silence stretch—not as a challenge, but agreent. There was no need to argue when the facts already landed clean.

"He didn’t hesitate," he said finally. "There’s no trace of guilt in him, no need for reassurance. He weighed the cost and accepted it. That’s not instinct. That’s training."

Caelan’s fingers tapped once against the desk, then stopped. "Soone taught him to survive in pieces."

"And now he’s learning how to stay whole."

Another pause.

Then Caelan glanced toward the sealed folder on the desk.

"It wasn’t just Serathine who predicted the outco," he said. "It was delivered to . Sealed. Before you even arrived at the estate."

Trevor’s jaw didn’t tighten, but sothing in his spine straightened. "From where?"

Caelan pushed the file across the desk.

"No return mark. No traceable origin. But the handwriting on the label—"

Trevor opened the folder.

The na Lucas Oz Kilr stared back at him in script he hadn’t seen until now.

"Christian?" Trevor asked.

Caelan shook his head once.

"No. We already compared it with what we have. It’s not Christian—but it’s the sa person who sent the note about Lucas being my son."

Trevor’s gaze narrowed. "Serathine knows?"

"She knows about the note," Caelan replied, tone flat. "But not about this. I received it yesterday."

Trevor didn’t respond right away. He studied the pages again, not for their content, but for their timing.

"Convenient," he murmured. "Just after the boy was nad heir to a ducal house."

"Or after Misty started being attacked by Christian," Serathine said from the door.

Neither man flinched.

Caelan didn’t look surprised. Trevor didn’t look up.

She stepped inside without waiting for permission. Her coat was thrown over one arm, silk blouse pristine, eyes sharper than they had any right to be at this hour.

"I thought you weren’t inford," Trevor said mildly.

"I wasn’t," Serathine replied, walking in as though the room were hers. "But you know how I get when people leave my na out of sothing important."

Caelan didn’t rise. "You’ve only just arrived."

"I was outside the door for three minutes," she corrected, "which in this palace is long enough to stage a coup or fake a death certificate."