The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist Chapter 12: A Storm in the Distance

[Rynthall Estate, Grand Duke’s Office]

At the Rynthall Estate, all was still.

Grand Duke Silas sat behind his massive oak desk, the early afternoon sunlight pouring through the tall windows behind him, casting long golden stripes across the stacked papers. He hadn’t moved in so ti—his eyes locked on a particular intelligence report, though he’d read the sa line at least three tis and retained none of it.

His thoughts were... foggy.

He leaned back in his chair slowly, long fingers lifting to rub the space between his brows. His usually impeccable hair had co loose at the temple, a few dark strands falling into his eyes. The collar of his shirt was undone, revealing a sliver of his chest, and his black coat was draped neatly over the back of the chair, as if abandoned in a mont of weariness.

Sothing had been gnawing at him for days.

A tension under his ribs. A pressure in the air. As if sothing—soone—was approaching.

And then—

Knock knock.

His spine straightened. "Co in."

The door opened swiftly, and Elize stepped in—his second knight and most trusted blade. She moved with urgency, her armored boots clicking softly on the floor. She bowed once, briefly.

"My lord," she said. "Another black-haired woman went missing this morning."

Silas’s gaze sharpened like a blade drawn from a sheath.

He didn’t speak—just waited.

Elize’s tone was clipped and professional. "Age 26. She left her ho at dawn to shop for groceries. Never returned."

His jaw tightened. His fingers curled over the edge of the desk.

"And?" he prompted.

Elize hesitated. Just for a second. Then: "She was three months pregnant."

CRACK!

The report snapped as Silas slamd both hands down on the desk and shot to his feet, the chair behind him screeching slightly across the marble floor.

"WHAT?!"

The room seed to pulse with tension. Even the air held its breath.

"A childbearing oga?" he said, his voice low and sharp. "Why wasn’t this reported imdiately? That makes five disappearances in a month!"

Elize’s expression was grim. "It was confird only an hour ago. Her husband ca to the guard tower in tears. Said she was glowing just yesterday."

Silas’s chest rose and fell in restrained fury, eyes narrowing. A shadow passed across his face.

"Five won," he murmured. "All young. All pregnant. All black-haired."

A terrible silence settled over the room.

Elize added softly, "We suspect it’s the sa pattern. But there’s no sign. No ransom notes. No demands. They vanish."

Silas turned to the window, his hand clenching at his side. The tranquil garden below looked like a lie.

"That bastard," he growled under his breath. "Take action imdiately. We can’t afford to let another pregnant oga be the next victim. Mobilize all informants in the outer districts. Check inns, alley markets, shipping yards—every corner. And find the woman who went missing this morning. I hope..." He exhaled sharply, his jaw tight. "I hope she’s still alive."

Elize nodded with crisp efficiency. "Yes, my lord."

There was a mont of heavy silence before Silas asked, without turning, "Did the nobles I summoned arrive?"

Elize hesitated, just enough for Silas to sense it. "...Everyone has arrived, my lord."

A pause.

"Except... Baron Lucien d’Armoire."

CRACK.

Silas’s fist struck the windowsill, the sharp thud echoing across the room.

"That reckless, infuriating—!" he snapped, turning away from the light, his expression stormy. "Of all days to be late. Does he think I summoned the council for my amusent?!"

"My lord," Elize offered carefully, "Maybe sothing happened, my lord. Perhaps there was a complication—"

"—Does losing innocent lives weigh less than whatever complication that Baron has?" Silas cut in, his voice low, calm, and burning with tightly controlled fury. His gaze was sharp enough to wound.

Elize fell silent, her posture stiffening as she bowed her head, "N-no, my lord."

Silas grabbed his coat from the chair and threw it over his shoulders with the fluid grace of a man done with patience. "We will wait for ten more minutes," he said coldly. "If he hasn’t arrived by then, strip him of his title and position."

Elize bowed again. "Yes, my lord."

Silas strode toward the doors with long, furious steps, his coat billowing behind him like a cloak of thunderclouds.

As the heavy doors clicked shut behind him, Elize let out a quiet sigh and muttered under her breath, "He’s been having too many mood swings lately..."

***

[Outside the Rynthall Estate, Sa-ti]

The carriage lurched to a stop with a wheeze, and before the wheels had even fully settled, the door burst open with theatrical force.

Lucien flung himself out like a man reborn—or perhaps violently expelled by life itself. His hair was a ss, his eyes unfocused, and he stumbled two steps before dropping to his knees on the gravel.

"I’m seeing stars!" he cried out, voice hoarse from a morning of groaning. "Daylight stars! I thought only saints got those!"

One hand clutched his stomach protectively, and he gasped dramatically, "We survived, my little Wobblebean..."

Marcel scrambled out behind him, dusting his pants, looking like he aged five years during the ride. "My lord! Are you okay? Breathe the air, my lord. Breathe the air!"

"I am breathing the air!" Lucien snapped, panting like he’d just crossed the desert on foot. "Don’t tell how to breathe when I just survived death on wheels!"

Then, as if catching sight of paradise, Lucien froze mid-breath.

His gaze slowly rose to the towering, majestic figure of Rynthall Estate—the gleaming marble, the cascading ivy over the carved stone archways, and the gold-etched gates that shimred in the morning light like a divine revelation.

"Oh... my gosh." A gasp escaped his lips, wide and reverent. "Is this estate in heaven?! Did I die and arrive in the afterlife?! Is that why I’m still dizzy?!"

Marcel stood silently beside him, staring at the building. "It’s... just a house, my lord."

"JUST A HOUSE?" Lucien shrieked. "It has more windows than my entire estate! Do you see those arches? That balcony?! That fountain is shaped like a lion vomiting pearls!"

Marcel let out a long-suffering sigh. "We should go inside, my lord. We’re already late than the ti ’estimated’ by the Grand Duke."

Lucien clutched his stomach with an exaggerated gasp. "The baby is fashionably late, Marcel. It runs in the blood."

Still practically swooning over the interior walls and ceiling molding, Lucien finally let himself be ushered inside. His eyes sparkled like he’d stumbled into royalty’s personal jewel box, marveling at every lamp, tile, and distant vase with the enthusiasm of a man who clearly had no idea how etings worked.

At that very sa mont, Grand Duke Silas was walking down the opposite hall toward the eting chamber, his long strides echoing commandingly across the marble floor.

And then—he froze.

His eyes locked on him.

Lucien.

Silas’s pupils dilated slightly, like soone had just smacked him across the soul with a pillow embroidered in regret and shirtless flashbacks. His feet refused to move. A whisper left him before he could stop it.

"...What is he doing here?"

Beside him, Elize paused mid-step. "That’s Baron Lucien d’Armoire, my lord. Finally, he arrived."

Silas’s jaw nearly unhinged. "What!"

His voice dropped an octave. "He’s a baron?!"

anwhile, Lucien was still busy ntally cataloguing Rynthall’s carpets and dramatic drapes.

"My lord," Marcel hissed urgently, nudging him with an elbow, "That’s Grand Duke Silas."

Lucien blinked, turning slowly toward the tall figure now standing just feet away.

Their eyes t.

And ti stopped.

Silas, the sober one-night-stand survivor, and Lucien, the dramatic pregnant baron who’d apparently wiped the entire night from mory.

Silas stared as if witnessing a royal disaster unfolding in real ti. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, jaw tight. He could still rember the way Lucien had collapsed dramatically onto him, tipsy and flushed.

Lucien, anwhile, stared back—tilting his head slightly. His eyes squinted.

"There was sothing... oddly familiar about that man’s jawline," he muttered to himself.

...and this is just the beginning.