The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 70: Glitter, Betrayal, and the Banned Duke

[Temple of the Divine Flame – Inner Sanctum]

The scent of burning myrrh lingered in the air, curling around the ancient stone pillars like smoke-wreathed serpents. Golden light from a thousand candles flickered across the marble floor, casting long shadows against the domed ceiling, where painted gods gazed down with stern, timeless eyes.

At the center of it all knelt High Priest Caldric, his crimson and gold robes pooled around him like a river of blood and fire. His hands were clasped in solemn devotion, his forehead pressed to the edge of the altar—a monolith of obsidian, carved with divine symbols older than any kingdom.

His lips moved silently.

Whispers to gods that hadn’t answered in centuries. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

And yet—he prayed.

Still. Unshaken. Unyielding.

Then—

Creak.

The chamber doors opened with a slow groan, followed by soft footsteps echoing against stone.

But Caldric did not move.

He didn’t even lift his head.

His voice cut through the silence like a knife dipped in honey and venom.

"I trust everything is ready...?"

A pause.

Then, a young priest’s voice replied, hushed and reverent, "Yes, High Priest. As you commanded... we’ve begun spreading the message. Every temple, every village—your words are being spoken."

Caldric’s eyes opened—slowly. Deliberately.

And behind those eyes was something ancient. Something hungering.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It was not warm.

"Good..." he whispered, rising from the altar like a storm taking form. "Then that means..."

He turned at last, his gold-trimmed robes trailing behind him like the cloak of a king.

His gaze was sharp. Too sharp. Like he saw through the priest’s skin, through his soul, straight into the marrow.

"That means no one... no noble, no merchant, no blasphemous king... can now deny the will of the gods."

His voice grew louder—richer. Dripping with prophecy.

"They will bow. One by one. Not to crowns. Not to armies. But to truth."

The young priest bowed his head, trembling under the weight of Caldric’s conviction.

"Of course, Your Grace. The people are listening. They’re... they’re frightened. They whisper in the markets that the gods are waking. That judgment is near."

Caldric let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost.

"Fear," he said, stepping down from the altar. "It is the first seed of faith."

He stopped in front of a brazier burning a blue flame and dipped his fingers in the smoke, drawing a symbol on his own forehead.

"Let the world tremble. Let them question their kings, their shields, and their so-called reason. When the earth cracks and the skies cry blood..."

He turned to the priest with a look so fierce, the young man nearly dropped to his knees.

"They’ll remember who spoke first."

The high priest stepped forward again, voice lowering into something conspiratorial.

"And when the time comes, when the heavens break open... they’ll not just believe."

A slow, dangerous smile curled his lips.

"They’ll beg."

***

[Outside DuClair Estate—The Next Morning]

Silas Rynthall, Grand Duke of Half the Kingdom and Full-Time Regret Factory, stood outside the massive gates of the DuClair Estate, staring up at what could only be described as an art installation of emotional warfare.

A giant white banner fluttered proudly above the entrance, hand-painted in aggressively stylish calligraphy:

NO ENTRY FOR GRAND DUKE SILAS.

Below that, in glitter glue that sparkled violently under the morning sun, was a sketch of his face.Underneath it was the word:

TRAITOR.

It was bedazzled.

Someone had bedazzled his eyebrows.

Silas stared.

Callen, standing beside him with zero shame, tilted his head thoughtfully.

"...She captured your cheekbones really well, my Lord. And that nose—very symmetrical. I mean, for a traitor, you look stunning."

Silas twitched like his pride had been stabbed with a glitter dagger.

Callen, however, lit up like a chandelier at a royal ball. He clasped his hands together dramatically and declared, "As we say... Lady Seraphina is not just a warrior—she’s a goddess with a brush."

Behind them, two guards from Silas’s personal escort stood slack-jawed, watching Callen spiral into what could only be described as full-blown fanboyism.

One of them leaned toward the other, whispering behind a gloved hand, "Wait... did he just fall in love with Lady Seraphina?"

The other nodded grimly. "Yup. Completely. Irrevocably."

"But... isn’t she the one who hit him last night?"

"Yes."

"...She hit him. And he fell in love? What kind of twisted fairytale romance is this?"

"Highborn romance," the other whispered. "Tragedy in lace."

Meanwhile, Silas—oblivious to the whispered gossip—sighed with the weariness of a man who had fought dragons, wars, and now... in-laws.

"I can’t believe this," he muttered. "My own in-laws... plotting against me like I’m some scandal-ridden suitor trying to steal their heir."

"You are scandal-ridden," Callen reminded cheerfully. "You nearly broke their beloved Lucien in half."

"I gave him affection!" Silas snapped.

"You gave him a limp," Fredrick corrected from behind, holding a bottle of supplements.

Silas groaned loudly, dragging both hands down his face. "It’s like everyone in that estate took a personal oath to sabotage me."

Then he sighed, and Silas mumbled under his breath, voice lower, almost pained, "I just... want Lucien to come back with me..."

His eyes lingered on the glittery "TRAITOR" sign with all the warmth of a man staring at his own execution invitation written in rhinestones.

Then—

He straightened his spine.

Face reset into regal determination.

Voice lowered into pure Grand Duke intensity.

"I’ve had enough."

He stepped forward, dramatically tossing his cloak back as if expecting the wind to cooperate. (It didn’t.)

"Let’s go."

The grand doors creaked open like they were just as reluctant as the people inside to let him in.

Silas stepped through with all the dignity of a war hero—and all the guilt of a husband who had definitely caused a scandal, destroyed a reputation, and possibly given his spouse a limp and emotional damage in one passionate evening.

The scent of tea, floral perfume, and powdered judgement hit him like a wall.

Countess Isodore DuClair stood at the center of the hall in an immaculately embroidered gown that screamed, I’ve read the scriptures and will still destroy you with a single eyebrow raise.

She smiled sweetly—the kind of smile that made Silas’s military instincts twitch.

"Welcome, Grand Duke Rynthall," she said, voice soft as silk and sharp as a guillotine. "Would you like tea... or...?"

Silas cleared his throat. "Neither. Just here for Lucien."

She tilted her head. "He’s in the room, my lord."The pause before my lord was so icy, Silas was surprised it didn’t frost the floor.

He nodded awkwardly. "Thank you... Countess."

Behind her, Seraphina lounged on the divan like a judgmental cat with a vendetta. She took one long, dramatic sip of her tea, never breaking eye contact with Silas.

Then—she rolled her eyes so hard they nearly went on a full pilgrimage to the heavens.

Silas said nothing. His pride had already taken enough hits today. From glitter. From banners. From being immortalized as a bedazzled traitor.

With his cloak swirling behind him (dramatically, this time aided by an actual breeze—thank the estate’s overenthusiastic enchantments), he marched down the familiar hallway.

Each step echoed like a countdown to his doom—or, hopefully, redemption.

He reached the door.He took a breath.He knocked once, hesitated, then pushed it open.

[Lucien’s Room—The Sanctuary of Peace, Pudding, and Petty Silence]

There, on a mountain of silk pillows, surrounded by an ocean of books and delicate dessert trays, lay Lucien.

Hair tied loosely.Silk robe dangerously off one shoulder.One hand cradling a spoon. The other holding a novel.Belly round, beautiful, and commanding enough to start a religion.

He glanced up like he hadn’t been waiting—like this was a completely normal Tuesday and not the fallout of domestic royal drama.

"Oh," Lucien said, lifting a brow. "Look who finally emerged from the depths of guilt."

Silas blinked. He opened his mouth to speak—

Lucien calmly lifted a spoonful of raspberry pudding to his lips.A slow, deliberate bite.A longer, more judgmental chew.Then he licked the spoon.

Silas’s mouth went dry.

"Is that... my robe?" Silas asked dumbly.

Lucien looked down. "Yes. It’s very soft. Which is more than I can say about your approach to marital communication."

Silas winced.

He stepped forward slowly, cautiously. "I... just wanted to talk."

Lucien turned a page in his book. "That’s funny. You didn’t seem interested in ’just talking’ three nights ago when I was yelling ’slow down’ and you thought it meant ’go faster.’"

Silas coughed into his fist. "That was... That was a misunderstanding."

Lucien’s eyes sparkled with the kind of pettiness only royalty and heavily pregnant omegas could conjure.

"Well," he said sweetly. "Let’s misunderstand each other with words this time, shall we?"

Silas took a deep breath.

Then the door creaked shut behind him with a final thunk—as if sealing them in for whatever ridiculous, emotional, sugar-fueled storm was about to erupt.

Outside the room, the Countess turned to Seraphina.

"Should we call the physician now or wait for the sounds of broken furniture?"

Seraphina sipped her tea. "Let’s wait. He deserves at least one flying book to the face."