The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 14: The Revelation

Baron Lucien, pale as moonlight, lay collapsed, arms still curled protectively around his stomach. His long lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks, and his breath was so faint it could barely fog a mirror.

Silas dropped to one knee beside him, expression carved from stone—but his hand, when it reached out to check Lucien’s pulse, trembled.

For some reason, it trembled.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, then slid an arm beneath Lucien’s shoulders and lifted him with practiced ease, like he weighed nothing more than a feather.

He didn’t spare the stunned councilmen even a flick of his gaze. His heel turned sharply, his coat flaring behind him as he stormed out.

The heavy doors slammed open, crashing against the marble walls.

The guards flinched, stepping aside.

Marcel, who had been waiting anxiously in the corridor, saw the scene—and his heart nearly dropped.

"My looooooordddddddddd!!!" he wailed, eyes bulging as he rushed forward. "My lord?! My lord?! What happened? Why did he faint?! Was he poisoned?! DID HE SWALLOW THE POISON?! WHO DID IT?!"

He started sobbing as if Lucien had just died on the battlefield.

Silas stopped mid-step, his shoulders twitching in pure frustration. He didn’t even turn around.

"Elize," he barked.

"Yes, Your Grace!" She responded immediately, stepping forward with military precision.

"Drag him away. And call the physician to my chambers. Now."

"Understood."

She shot a look at the nearest guards, who nodded wordlessly and stepped forward. A moment later, Marcel—still flailing—was unceremoniously dragged down the corridor like a sack of loud potatoes.

Silas didn’t spare him a glance. He rushed forward, Lucien still cradled tightly in his arms.

Even as he disappeared down the hall, Marcel’s voice echoed behind them, high-pitched and dramatic. "He said he was fine! HE LIED TO ME! I told him to rest! He—he looked tired, but he insisted! MY LORRRRRRRRRD—!"

The sound faded as he was dragged away, leaving only silence... and the thunder of Silas’s footsteps.

***

[Meanwhile Lucien in his Dreamland]

Lucien’s eyes fluttered open.

Blue. Endless, cloud-speckled, confusingly serene blue stretched above him.

"...Huh?"

He blinked.

Sky?

His gaze dropped. Wooden planks beneath him. Gentle rocking. A boat? A small, shabby one at that—floating in the middle of a vast, glittering ocean.

"What the—WHERE AM I?!"

He shot upright, nearly capsizing the boat. "Am I—am I being kidnapped?! Is this human trafficking?! Gods, I knew this face would get me into trouble someday!"

He whirled around, wild-eyed—and spotted something strange.

A single basket sat calmly in the center of the boat. In that basket, glowing under the sunlight, was...

"...A golden egg?" Lucien gawked. "What kind of budget fairytale nightmare—"

But then the boat rocked. The basket tipped.

"NO—WAIT—"

In slow, dreamlike horror, he watched the golden egg roll toward the edge.

Without thinking, Lucien dove overboard with a scream that probably startled several ocean fish. "NOT ON MY WATCH!"

He splashed dramatically into the water, flailing and cursing as he grabbed the egg before it could sink. Soaked, freezing, and still very confused, he climbed back onto the boat, gasping and wheezing like a half-drowned cat.

Cradling the egg, he tugged off his coat and gently wiped it dry. "There, there, little guy... I got you. You’re safe now. No egg left behind..."

Strangely... he felt calm now. The sun warmed his cheeks. The sea breeze tousled his hair. The egg pulsed faintly with a golden glow, like it liked him or something.

"...Huh. This is kinda nice."

Then—

Snap.

His eyes flew open. Different ceiling. Different smell. Not the ocean.

Someone was holding his wrist.

Lucien blinked into the face of a man hovering over him, brow furrowed, fingers delicately on his pulse.

"AH! PERVERT!" Lucien shrieked, yanking his arm back like it had been bitten by a snake.

The poor physician nearly jumped out of his skin. "I—I was checking your pulse!"

Lucien gasped. "Is that what they’re calling it these days?!"

From a nearby chair, Elize snorted so hard she had to pretend to cough.

The physician gave Silas—standing in the corner, arms crossed, looking like a thundercloud with a heartbeat—a desperate look.

Silas didn’t move.

"If you’re done accusing medical professionals of indecency," he said coldly, "perhaps you’d like to confirm whether what he’s saying is true?"

Lucien blinked. "About what?"

Silas’s eyes narrowed. "He claims that... you’re showing signs of pregnancy."

Lucien flinched so hard he nearly folded into the blanket like a burrito. "Wh-what?"

He felt sweat bloom along his hairline. His palms grew clammy. This couldn’t be happening. No. No one can know. Not here. Not now.

He forced a laugh that sounded like a dying goose.

"Pregnancy? Ha! My lord, how—how could I get pregnant? I’m—I’m a man. Man can’t get—ha ha, don’t be silly—"

The physician cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles. "Actually... they can. It’s very rare, but biologically possible under specific—"

Lucien turned his head slowly toward him, dead-eyed. "Can you not."

He hissed a curse under his breath and tried again, shakily, "I—I’m a Beta. Betas can’t get pregnant! Maybe you need to re-take your... your doctor-y exams or whatever it is you people do in your tower of books. I’m definitely not—"

The doors burst open like an explosion of bad timing.

"MY LORD—!!"

Marcel stormed in like a man possessed, clutching his heart and panting like he’d just sprinted through all five districts.

Lucien paled. "Oh no."

"My lord," Marcel wailed dramatically as he threw himself at Lucien’s bedside like a tragic widow. "How are you? You’re alive?! Praise the moons!"

He scanned Lucien up and down with the intensity of a mother hen. "You look pale! Pale as paper! Are your fingers swollen?! You’re glowing weirdly. I knew it! I knew it!"

Lucien tried to stop him. "Marcel—"

"I told you not to go today! But you, oh no, ’I’m totally fine, Marcel! Just a little tired, Marcel!’ Meanwhile, you’ve been vomiting for two days, can’t even stand for more than a minute, and rode a carriage over cobblestone roads while carrying our-soon-to-be-little-lord in your belly!"

Silence.

Absolute, bone-deep silence.

Lucien gawked at him in horror, mouth slightly agape like he’d just watched a murder. The physician—now practically sparkling with vindicated curiosity—adjusted his glasses with a delicate sniff.

"I knew it," he said with all the smugness of a man who read the last Chapter before everyone else.

But before Lucien could recover from this revelation, another voice sliced clean through the tension.

"So..." Silas spoke.

Everyone’s attention turned to him.

Silas was walking—slowly, deliberately—toward the bed. There was no thunder in his steps, no fire in his eyes. Just a kind of quiet, dreadful certainty.

"...you’re pregnant," Silas said, his voice low and unreadable. "For real."

Lucien’s spine went rigid. He instinctively curled a hand over his stomach as if shielding it from the weight of those words.

"...Even if I am," he said cautiously, "that doesn’t... concern you."

There was a beat of stunned silence before Silas said, "IT DOES!"

Everyone turned to look at him, confused.

Lucien blinked, thrown. "Huh? What do you mean, my lord?"

Silas exhaled sharply, like a man about to jump off a cliff. He ran a hand down his face, then finally lifted his gaze to meet Lucien’s.

"Because..." he said slowly, solemnly, "I am the father."

Silence. Again.

But this time, it felt like the entire universe hit pause.

Outside, birds halted mid-flight and hovered like badly rendered code. The breeze that had been rustling the curtains gave up entirely. Somewhere in the distance, a dog whimpered as if mourning all of humanity.

Inside the room, jaws dropped in unison.

The physician’s mouth formed a perfect ’O’—like he’d just witnessed the birth of a new religion. Elize looked like she was about to combust into glitter out of sheer drama.

And Lucien?

Lucien looked like someone had unplugged his brain. He stared at Silas, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob.

"Y-you—you’re—you—" he sputtered.

And then—

Marcel, who had been slowly turning pale with every passing second, clutched his own chest, staggered backward like a Shakespearean widow, and with all the grace of a man betrayed by fate, fainted onto the polished floor with a loud, echoing thud.