Shadow Unit Scandal: The Commander's Omega Chapter 127: They have

Rafael refused to go to his mother’s funeral.

The official narrative was neat and tasteful: his pregnancy had been flagged as delicate, the strain of a public ceremony would only make it harder, and Delphine wouldn’t have wanted that.

An excuse everyone accepted without blinking, because Delphine had spoken about Rafael’s pregnancy almost every second like it was hers. Even in death, she was granted the last little performance of ownership. People nodded solemnly, clucked their tongues, and pretended it was compassion instead of convenience.

Rafael stayed ho.

Gregoris stayed closer.

The days that followed were quiet in the sa way that a storm makes an estate quiet: the air still tastes like tal, but nothing is actively collapsing.

If one ignored Charles.

Charles had been relocated to the palace by imperial order, pinned into a new life with the clean efficiency Damian used when he wanted sothing rearranged. Gregoris had taken one look at his file, taken one look at that stubborn spine and that inconvenient honesty, and appointed him as one of the new field commanders.

Charles now had a routine he hated: deliver orders, collect signatures, get dragged through ’training,’ and learn how to function under soone who had no interest in accommodating him.

Charles wasn’t rude to staff. He wasn’t rude to Rafael. He wasn’t even rude to most people, because most people weren’t worth the effort. He was, if anything, lazy about social gas - too blunt to flatter, too tired to pretend, and too honest to do the exhausting little lies nobility used as currency.

But Gregoris?

Charles was an ass to Gregoris on principle.

He was persistently unimpressed, like Gregoris was a walking insult to everything decent, and Charles refused to pretend otherwise. In Charles’s mind, Gregoris deserved it. A Shadow commander didn’t get to demand obedience and also expect to be liked.

Rafael, unfortunately for Gregoris, liked Charles.

Not because Charles was charming - he wasn’t. Nor because Charles was easy - he absolutely wasn’t. Rafael liked him because Charles didn’t perform. Charles didn’t decorate truth to make it palatable. Charles said what he ant and did what he had to, and when it mattered, when it was ugly and dangerous and no one got applause, Charles had been there for Gabriel and his family.

That kind of loyalty left a mark.

So when Charles arrived at the manor, he arrived the way he always did: with a folder under his arm, a tired expression, and the posture of a man who looked allergic to etiquette.

He was led through the corridor by staff who treated him like a mildly volatile delivery package. Charles didn’t fight them. He didn’t charm them either. He just followed, because laziness was one of his few consistent virtues.

Gregoris t him halfway.

Charles stopped and lifted the folder a fraction. "Orders."

Gregoris took it, opened it, scanned it. His face didn’t change.

Charles exhaled like the entire existence of paperwork offended him. "Need your signature. And a confirmation on the field rotation schedule."

Gregoris didn’t look up. "You’re late."

Charles shrugged, unbothered. "The palace changes its mind every ten minutes. I can’t move faster than incompetence."

That, unfortunately, was said in the sa tone Charles used for everything: blunt, lazy, and honest. Not a provocation in his mind. Just a fact.

Gregoris’s eyes lifted, silver and flat. "You can move faster."

Charles’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. "You want to sprint through the palace corridors so the nobles can faint in my wake?"

Gregoris closed the folder with a soft snap. "Lower your voice."

Charles’s brow lifted. "I wasn’t yelling."

"You were pushing," Gregoris corrected.

Charles sighed, like this was the exhausting part of his day. "I am always pushing. That’s my personality."

Gregoris stepped closer.

Charles didn’t step back.

That was the problem and the point.

"You’re a field commander now," Gregoris said, voice calm. "Act like it."

Charles’s eyes narrowed. "I am acting like it. I’m here. I’m delivering. I’m not pretending to respect you while I do it."

Gregoris’s gaze sharpened, the air around him tightening in that subtle way that made the corridor feel smaller.

Charles noticed it and didn’t care enough to lie about caring. He stayed where he was, stubborn and irritatingly composed.

The office door down the hallway opened.

Rafael stepped out.

He moved like a man who had been working and had no intention of being dragged into nonsense, but his eyes flicked instantly to Charles, and sothing in his expression ward.

Then his gaze slid to Gregoris, and the warmth beca a quiet warning: behave.

Rafael’s eyes returned to Charles. "You’re back."

Charles’s shoulders loosened a fraction, like Rafael’s presence made the corridor less sharp. "Unfortunately."

Rafael’s mouth curved. "Orders?"

Charles lifted the folder. "Orders. Signatures. Your husband is trying to teach manners again."

Rafael took the folder from Gregoris with the kind of casual authority that had beco second nature in this house, flipped it open, scanned the first page, and then glanced up at Charles like he was looking at a familiar problem he’d decided to stop indulging.

"Charles," Rafael said mildly, "stop trying to hide your competence. It won’t work with Gregoris or Damian. You don’t have to live in Theo’s shadow forever."

"That’s not—" Charles started, and for the first ti since arriving, his laziness cracked just enough to show sothing sharper underneath.

Rafael didn’t press harder. He didn’t need to. He simply held Charles’s gaze like he’d already seen the truth sitting behind the deflection.

"That’s not what?" Rafael asked, still calm. "Not what you’re doing? Or not what you’re allowed to admit?"

Charles’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked away for half a second, toward the corridor, toward the door, toward anywhere that wasn’t Rafael’s quiet accuracy.

"Theo doesn’t need help," Charles said at last, his voice flatter, like he could sand the edges off the subject by refusing to give it emotion. "He’s the heir. He’s... built for it."

Rafael’s pen hovered above the paper. "Theo is already fighting your father," he said, tone unchanged. "The last thing he needs is a brother who turns himself into dead weight just to avoid becoming ’one more issue.’"

Charles’s expression was pinched and defensive. "You don’t know what our house is like."

"I know enough," Rafael replied. And then, because Rafael liked Charles and didn’t weaponize affection, his voice softened by a fraction. "You think being competent makes you a problem. But you’re already a problem, Charles."

Charles’s brows shot up. "Excuse ?"

Rafael’s mouth twitched. "I an that fondly. You’re stubborn, you’re loud with people who deserve it, and you refuse to lie even when it would make your life easier. You’re already a nuisance. The only difference is whether you’re a useful one."

Gregoris, behind Rafael, grinned widely.

Charles glared at the ceiling like it had betrayed him.

Rafael returned his attention to the docunt, signing with bored elegance. "You can stop pretending you’re diocre," he continued. "Gregoris doesn’t recruit diocre. Damian doesn’t tolerate it. And if you think either of them hasn’t already noticed what you’re capable of..."

He looked up again, eyes sharp.

"They have."