The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 64: Swords, Sobs, and Spicy Chicken

[Season Two – Duclair Estate / Aftermath of Warning]

The grand Duclair estate, normally a haven of refinement and soft music, was currently shaking at its marble roots.

Somewhere between war and weeping.

Because Lucien Rynthall—noble rare male omega, bearer of fury, storm in silk—was now curled in the embrace of a woman with graying hair and diamond-dagger eyes.

Countess Isadora Duclair, the terror of teas and the undefeated queen of upper-crust rage.

Lucien clung to her like a lifeline, face buried in her neck, shoulders shaking like leaves in a thunderstorm.

"Aunty Isadoraaaa," he wailed, voice cracking with betrayal and snot, "I WAS BETRAYED!"

"There, there, my child... It’s good. Let it all out." Isadora patted his back with the calm of someone who had comforted both colicky babies and decapitated traitors with equal grace.

But as she glanced down at Lucien’s face—

"Oh dear," she muttered.

His nose was leaking. His eyes were puffed. And there was dried tear-trail glitter clinging to his cheeks like tragic starlight.

A noble disaster.

A weeping hurricane in a pearl-buttoned coat.

Across the room, Count Alaric Duclair—Isadora’s husband and the kind of man who’d once tried to fight a knight with a fireplace poker—was huffing like an offended bull.

"I knew it!" he snapped, arms flailing like windmill blades. "I knew that bast—ahem, I mean grand duke—would pull something like this!"

"He probably thinks secrets make him mysterious," Seraphina added with a scowl. "Well, guess what—they make him trash."

Alaric turned to her, eyes lit like a man discovering fire. "How about we—" he flung a dramatic hand toward the foyer— "put up a bloody big notice at the gate?! Something simple. Elegant. Something like: NO GRAND DUKES ALLOWED!"

Seraphina clapped. "Genius. I’ll write it."

"USE RED INK!" he bellowed.

All the maids and servants in the hallway jumped and nodded like soldiers in formation.

Seraphina smirked. "And underline it thrice. Add a skull."

"Yes!" Alaric snapped his fingers. "And blood splatters. Dramatic. Accurate."

Back near the hearth, Lucien sniffled, his head still buried in his aunt’s collar. Isadora pulled back gently and cupped his face, brushing a thumb over his cheek.

"Sweetheart," she said, voice softening. "I made your favorite—crispy, extra spicy fried chicken. Would you like some?"

Lucien’s teary eyes sparkled. "I knew it...! I knew you’re the only person who loves me properly in this world."

And just then—

"AHEM."

Count Alaric and Seraphina popped their heads into the conversation, red ink smeared on their hands like blood from a battle fought in stationery.

"Don’t forget us too," Seraphina said flatly, gesturing to the banner-in-progress.

Lucien blinked at them. Then gave a pitiful nod. "Fine... I love you both... less dramatically, but yes."

Isadora chuckled fondly, then turned to the head maid with her usual commanding grace. "Bring it in."

The maid immediately dashed to the kitchen, skirt swishing, yelling, "HOT OIL ON THE WAY! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"

And then—

CRASH!

"MY LORD!!!"

Everyone turned just in time to see Marcel, chaos-in-human-form, stumble into the estate like a comet. His shirt was misbuttoned. His hair looked like he’d fought wind. And his pants—

Were in the process of betraying him.

"LORD LUCIEN!" he shrieked, running toward him while trying to pull his trousers up and speak at the same time. "I heard—I heard—you’re DIVORCING—?!"

Lucien blinked, mouth open.

Then Marcel dramatically thudded onto the floor, face-first, and wailed, "NOOOOooooOooo... Not like this! Not when I haven’t even planned the young Lord Wobbelbean’s welcoming party!"

Isadora raised a single, imperial eyebrow and smacked the back of Marcel’s head with her fan. "He’s not divorcing. Stop spreading madness."

Marcel groaned. "He’s not...?" He looked up, dazed, like a puppy caught in a rainstorm. "Are you sure?"

Lucien wiped his eyes with a corner of his sleeve. "I—I’m just furious, not insane. Why would I leave him? He’s my... stupid fate-sent infuriating disaster of a husband."

Marcel touched his chest dramatically. "Thank the stars. I thought I’d have to wear black for six months in mourning!"

Isadora stared at him for a beat. "Is that why your pants are on backwards?"

Marcel blinked.

"Pardon?"

He looked down.

A long, awkward pause. And then, like a ninja struck by shame, he slowly rose... turned... and dashed out of the room silently—pants still betraying his bloodline.

"I’ll be right back!" he shouted over his shoulder.

No one answered.

Everyone just resumed their positions: Seraphina is painting war banners. Alaric pacing like a general preparing for siege. Isadora calmly fluffing Lucien’s hair. And Lucien—

Lucien finally exhaled.

He didn’t smile.

But some of the weight lifted.

Because sometimes, the real army isn’t made of swords or titles. It’s made of furious aunts, sarcastic cousins, too-much-ink banners, and fried chicken.

And in the war that was coming?

Lucien would need them all.

***

[Rynthall Estate – Post-Temple Catastrophe]

The grand doors of the Rynthall Estate creaked open like a funeral dirge.

Silas walked in—not like a duke, not like a war hero, not like the man feared across half the empire—but like a ghost.

His sword dragged behind him, scraping against the polished marble like the weight of his sins.

His shoulders?

Slumped.

His eyes?

Dead.

His entire aura screamed: This man has seen God, and God told him to get lost.

In the hallway, Callen, Silas’s loyal personal assistant—and reluctant babysitter—watched his lord’s pitiful entrance with a deep, long, soul-wilting sigh.

One of the imperial knights standing nearby leaned over and whispered to Callen, "Are you... sure Lord Lucien didn’t declare he’s divorcing him?"

Callen didn’t blink. "I’m sure."

The knight raised an eyebrow. "Because the Grand Duke looks like he’s already writing his farewell letter to life."

Callen grunted. "You can go."

The knight nodded and left with a final pitying glance toward Silas, muttering under his breath, "Love makes even the strongest humans... very, very weak."

Callen rolled his eyes and walked forward.

Silas, meanwhile, had stopped walking altogether halfway to his chamber. He just... stood there. Frozen like someone yanked the plug out of a walking air balloon. A duke with no air. No dignity. No soul.

"Your grace Silas," Callen said slowly, "you’re being dramatic. Lord Lucien is angry, yes. But he’s not divorcing you. So for the love of the stars, stop dragging your sword like you’re about to crawl into a grave and ask death for a room share."

Silas turned his head—slowly.

Those fire-red eyes, normally sharp enough to cut glass, were now red-rimmed and vacant. His voice was hoarse.

"You don’t understand... I hurt him."

Callen winced. "Yes. You did. But—"

"I made him cry, Callen."

"I mean... that too, yes—"

"I made the strongest omega in the empire sob internally while holding a fruit knife, CALLEN."

"Okay, yes, now that you put it that way—"

"I—I watched him step on the High Priest’s robe like it was made of sin and shattered dreams!"

"...That was actually kind of badass."

Silas slumped.

Like paper.

It was like someone had pulled the bones out of his spine and replaced them with regret. Callen exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay. Listen. You monumental idiot...I mean, your grace."

Silas blinked up at him.

Callen continued, tone exasperated but firm. "You made a mess. You were dumb. You let your ’I’m the strong protective duke’ instincts override your ’my-husband-has-a-brain-too’ logic."

Silas looked like he might cry again.

Callen crouched slightly and poked him in the chest.

"So now what do you do, Your Grace? Do you collapse into a puddle and write sad poetry about lost love? Or do you stand the hell up—and win his heart back?"

"...What?"

"WIN. HIS. HEART. BACK!" Callen shouted. "Start from scratch if you have to! You don’t deserve the shortcut anymore."

Silas blinked slowly. "...You want me to court him?"

"YES."

"Like, for real?"

"YES. LIKE A MAN WHO WANTS HIS HUSBAND BACK BEFORE HE DELIVERS YOUR CHILD...WOBBLEBEAN."

Silas went emotional again. "That’s right, my wobblebean. He must’ve heard everything from inside. Do you think he will hate me?"

"FOCUS, GRAND DUKE!" Callen barked. "Start groveling! Apologize until your tongue falls off! Send him flowers! Candies! Baby-safe perfumes! Shiny things! Tell him he’s beautiful every hour! Use metaphors! Lick the floor if you have to!"

Silas looked slightly overwhelmed. "So I’m not... completely ruined?"

Callen groaned. "You are not ruined. You’re just—tragic. Which is fixable."

He stood straight, adjusted his collar, then muttered under his breath, "Barely."

Silas finally stood properly. Straightened his shoulders. Took a deep breath.

"...Where do I start?"

Callen grinned, teeth flashing like a general going to war. "You start... by writing him a letter."

Silas blinked. "A letter?"

"A sweet, pathetic, lovesick letter."

"I don’t know how to write ’sweet.’"

Callen patted his shoulder. "You will. I’ll help. But first—get rid of the sword. You look like you’re about to duel your feelings to death."

Silas finally—finally—cracked a small smile.

It was wobbly. Sad. Barely there.

But it was a start.

Because if Lucien was fire... then Silas was the fool who touched it, burned himself, and now had to earn the right to be warmed again.

And this time?

He’d do it right.

Even if it meant writing love poems.

With metaphors.

And wobblebean.

Updated from fr𝒆ewebnov𝒆l.(c)om