The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist Chapter 96: Laughter in the Steam

[Grand Duke’s Office—Morning]

The heavy oak doors slamd shut behind Silas, the echo rolling through the vaulted chamber like distant thunder.

His father, Theoran, stood at the massive table in the center, its surface covered in maps, red-marked territories, and scattered parchnt. A single candle burned beside him despite the daylight, its fla bending to the drafts that slithered through the stone walls.

Theoran didn’t look up at first, just traced a gloved finger along the northern border of the map. "I assu you’ve read the letter, Silas."

Silas laid the sealed parchnt on the table. The wax had already been broken in his haste."Yes. Three weeks in a row, children have gone without a trace. And now—spies." His voice was low, carrying an edge sharp enough to cut steel. "Is this what you felt? The unease that clung to you every damn day you spent in the North?"

Theoran finally t his gaze. His eyes—dark as stormwater—held a flicker of sothing uncharacteristic for the man who ruled half the known world: hesitation.

"I could sense sothing festering there, yes," he said slowly, choosing each word as if it were a blade. "But I did not think it would sink its teeth this deep, this fast."

Silas leaned forward, palms flat on the map. "Then it’s worse than you expected."

Theoran’s jaw tightened. "Far worse. Spies on our soil ans soone is feeding them routes, openings, and whispers about our patrol schedules. Whoever is behind this—" He broke off, his gaze drifting to the northern expanse inked in grey. "They are not acting alone. And they are not afraid."

Silas’ fingers drumd once against the table before stilling. "Not afraid of us... or not afraid of ?"

Theoran’s eyes sharpened. "Perhaps both. You have a reputation, Silas, but reputations are only useful to those who fear them. If they no longer do..." He let the thought trail into silence.

The room felt colder.

Silas’ tone dropped to a growl. "If children are being taken, this isn’t politics anymore. This is war on our bloodline. On our people, Father."

Theoran nodded grimly. "And wars like that... they rot a kingdom from the inside before the first blade is drawn."

Silas straightened, pacing once along the table’s edge. "Did you sense any movents there during your stay?"

"During my stay in the North, I kept waking at night, sensing movent beyond the walls. Not the kind of footsteps you hear—" Theoran Theorang glanced at his son—"but the kind you feel, crawling up your spine. Now I know it wasn’t just my instincts gnawing at ."

Theoran exhaled slowly, the sound heavy. "I should have acted sooner. I should have sent more eyes, more n. I underestimated the reach of whoever’s pulling the strings."

"You’re telling we’ve been infiltrated for weeks and we still don’t know by whom?" Silas asked, his tone threaded with frustration and disbelief.

Theoran’s voice hardened. "We will know. I will tear apart every shadow in the North until I drag them into the light."

For a mont, neither spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of the candle fla between them.

Then Silas said quietly, "If the North is bleeding... I’ll be the one to cauterize it."

Theoran gave him a long, steady look—the kind that weighed a man’s resolve and found it dangerous enough to be useful.

"Then sharpen your blade, my son. Because whoever is out there..." His eyes flicked once more to the grey expanse on the map. "...is already waiting for you."

Silas’s jaw tightened, his breath leaving him in a slow, controlled sigh. "We should et Adrein," he said at last, almost like a verdict. His gaze lingered on the map a heartbeat longer before drifting toward the window, where the wind rattled the panes. "I just hope... we don’t have to go to war."

Theoran looked at him, the flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Ah... I see now," he murmured. "It’s not the steel or the blood that weighs on you... it’s the thought of being separated from your family, isn’t it?"

Silas turned to him, eyes narrowing slightly, though not in defiance. Theoran’s knowing smile deepened, and he began to walk toward the far side of the study, his steps slow, deliberate.

"It’s alright, son," he continued, voice lowering, as though sharing an old mory he’d kept tucked away. "I went through these sa storms once. The night your mother gave birth to you..." He paused mid-step, glancing toward the old hearth, as though the fire there still held the mory. "...I rember holding you for the first ti, so small you could fit in one arm. And I rember thinking—" His tone grew almost wistful. "—that nothing in this world could pull away from her... from you. Not even the Emperor’s call."

He turned back to face Silas, and for a mont, the steel in his eyes softened. "But the world doesn’t care about our hearts, Silas. It will demand us when it pleases... and we either answer, or it cos for what we love in ways far worse."

The words hung in the air, heavy, almost suffocating.

Silas exhaled slowly, as if trying to steady the weight settling in his chest. "Then I suppose," he said quietly, "we make sure it never cos to that."

Theoran’s smirk returned, but there was no humor in it—only the sharp glint of a man who’d seen too many winters. "Then prepare yourself. Because when we stand before Adrein... we’ll both know the truth. Whether this is a storm we can turn... or one we’ll have to weather head-on."

***

[Rynthall Estate—Bathroom—Sa Ti]

The steam curled gently in the air, the faint scent of lavender soap mingling with the warm water. Elysia, chubby legs kicking, sat securely in Lucien’s lap, her tiny fists splashing with wild enthusiasm. Every movent sent ripples dancing across the surface of the bath.

Lucien’s mind, however, wasn’t in the water—it was still tangled around Silas’s low murmur from earlier.

"Did sothing happen?" he’d asked himself. The way Silas had left—so abruptly after that sealed letter from the Imperial Palace—it gnawed at him.

"He left in a hurry..." Lucien muttered under his breath, absently cupping water over Elysia’s shoulders. "Right after that letter. That’s not like him..."

SLAP!

A tidal wave (by Elysia’s standards) hit Lucien square in the face.

He blinked, dripping, his dark hair plastered against his forehead. Elysia froze for a heartbeat, blinking those round, curious eyes at him... and then let out a delighted giggle.

"Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?" Lucien chuckled, shaking his head so droplets sprinkled back into the water.

She slapped the surface again, harder this ti, sending a fresh spray over his shirt.

He froze for a second, dripping, before Elysia’s wide blinking eyes locked with his... And then she erupted into the tiniest, most triumphant giggle.

"Oh, so that was on purpose, was it?" Lucien’s lips curved despite himself. "Already attacking your poor mama? At three months? Ruthless."

Elysia gurgled, kicked, and sent another mini tsunami across his chest.

"Alright, alright, I surrender!" Lucien laughed, tipping his head back. "You win, little general." He reached for the sponge, but she grabbed it first—well, sort of—her tiny fingers squishing it into an unrecognizable shape before she dropped it into the water with a splash.

Lucien sighed dramatically. "You know, your father is going to think I let a sea monster in here."

Elysia just squealed, smacking the water again, droplets landing in Lucien’s hair.

"Fine, fine... You’re the queen of the bath," he said, planting a quick kiss on her damp forehead. "But no more sneak attacks, alright? Mama’s already had one bath today."

She stared at him, completely unrepentant... and splashed again.

. . .

. . .

"Hahaha..." Lucien’s laughter filled the room, the sound mingling with her happy squeals. "Looks like my little girl is getting naughtier, huh?"

For a few monts, the worries about Silas and the imperial letter faded into the steam and warm light—leaving only a father and his daughter, tangled in joy.

"Looks like you both are having fun without ?"

They turned to see Silas leaning lazily against the wall, his robe hanging loosely around his broad shoulders. "I am hurt."

Lucein smiled, saying, "This mother and daughter mont, you won’t understand."

"I see, then..." With a smirk, he strolled forward. "Let join too. Let’s make this a family mont."

Before Lucien could protest, Silas slipped into the bath in one smooth motion—now holding Lucien in his arms as though he belonged there.

"Wait—Silas, I’m holding her—"

Too late. Silas had already plopped down in the warm water, settling Lucien securely on his lap. Little Elysia ended up perched right on Lucien’s knees, blinking curiously at her parents as if she couldn’t quite figure out what was going on.

Steam curled around them, the three of them frad in golden light—an unlikely little family, pressed close, hearts beating in sync, not knowing that...soon one of them will be separated from them for a long ti.