CHAPTER 100: AN UNUSUAL WISH

[Rynthall Estate—Later—The war Preparation]

The carriage wheels had barely stilled before Silas stepped down, boots meeting the stone with a dull thud. The courtyard of the Rynthall estate was alive with urgency—knights hoisting crates of dried meat, barrels of grain being rolled toward waiting wagons, and blacksmiths hauling bundles of freshly forged weapons. The metallic tang of steel mixed with the scent of oiled leather and dust.

Silas’s gaze swept over his men, their movements sharp and precise, but his eyes inevitably sought one figure inside the open hall.

Lucien.

He stood near the grand staircase, Elysia perched securely in one arm. The little girl clung to his tunic, her tiny fingers gripping as though she sensed the weight of the day. With his free hand, Lucein pointed to a chest being filled.

"Not that one," his voice rang firm over the bustle. "Replace the blankets with oilskin. If the rains start early in the north, damp bedding will be useless."

His expression was carved in stone—grim, controlled—but Silas could read the subtle strain in the lines around his eyes. Responsibility had settled on him like armor, and yet beneath it... there was worry.

Silas stepped inside, the noise of the courtyard dulling to a distant hum.

Lucein looked up at him briefly before returning his gaze to the servants. "The salted fish—keep it separate from the bread. I won’t have mold ruining it before it even reaches the border."

Silas stopped in front of him. "You’ve taken over my steward’s duties."

Lucein adjusted Elysia against his hip, his tone cool but not unkind. "Your steward doesn’t know your men like I do. You’ll need them fed and alive, Silas. I intend to make sure of it."

Silas’s jaw tightened. "Lucein..."

Only then did Lucein meet his eyes fully. The control in his face faltered for a heartbeat. "If you must go, then go prepared. I won’t... I won’t have you marching to the front with half-rations and ill-packed supplies. Not when..." His voice caught before he forced it steady. "Not when she’s still too young to remember your face if you don’t come back."

Elysia, sensing the tension, looked between them and reached a chubby hand toward Silas. He took her fingers gently, his large hand engulfing hers.

"I will come back," Silas said, low but certain. "No kingdom, no blade, will keep me from you two."

Lucein’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Then make sure those aren’t just words."

For a moment, they stood in silence—two men bound by a child, by duty, by a bond neither could fully name. Outside, the shouts of the knights continued, the sound of war preparations pounding like a drumbeat toward the inevitable.

Silas’s gaze softened on Elysia. "Please... show her my portrait every day."

Lucein arched a brow. "Why?"

Silas’s expression morphed into something pitifully dramatic, his shoulders slumping. "Because... my daughter... I want her to recognize me when I come back!"

Lucein sighed, smacking his shoulder lightly. "Stop acting like a child, you colossal idiot."

Instead of being offended, Silas lunged forward and crushed both Lucien and Elysia in a suffocating embrace. "I will miss you, my love—how... HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE WITHOUT YOU?!"

Lucein winced, his ears ringing. "For the love of the gods, stop yelling directly into my skull!"

But Silas only snuggled in closer, rubbing his cheek against Lucein’s shoulder like an oversized cat.

"Promise me she won’t forget me..." His voice suddenly dropped into something low, sharp, and cold. "... And don’t you dare find her another father for my baby girl while I’m away."

Lucein stared at him for one beat, then his eye twitched. Without hesitation, he kicked Silas sharply in the shin.

THWACK!!!!

"You marked me, you moron! And—" he grabbed Silas by the collar, yanking him down until their noses nearly touched, his own voice dropping into a threat-laced whisper—"I should be the one saying this. If you so much as look at another omega or beta up north, I swear I will personally cut your dick off and feed it to the hounds. And then I’ll deal with her."

Silas’s eyes went wide. "...Crystal clear, my love. I have no intention of endangering my most treasured... appendage."

Lucein released him with a shove. "Good. Now go—and come back soon. I am not raising our daughter alone."

A small, genuine smile ghosted over Silas’s lips before he leaned down and kissed Lucien softly, lingering for just a moment. "I’ll come back. I promise."

Then he turned to Elysia, gently taking her from Lucien’s arms. He pressed a long kiss to her forehead. "Daddy will come back soon, my precious girl..." His tone dipped into a conspiratorial whisper. "...and when I do, I’ll give you a little brother or sister as a present."

In an instant, Elysia was yanked back into Lucien’s hold.

Thwack.

Silas yelped as Lucien’s foot met his leg again. "Stop spouting nonsense to my daughter, you lunatic!"

Silas rubbed his shin with a wounded pout. "It was a gift idea..."

"Your gift ideas are horrifying," Lucein snapped.

Outside, the war drums of preparation continued to pound, but here—just for a heartbeat—the chaos was theirs alone.

Silas leaned in, pressing one final kiss to Lucein’s forehead. "I will be back soon. Take care."

Lucein nodded, his lips parting as if to say something more—but the words never made it past his throat.

"Father will be here while I’m away," Silas added softly, his voice carrying that rare warmth he reserved only for the two people in front of him. "So you don’t have to worry about the workload."

Another silent nod. Lucein’s arms tightened around Elysia, as if she were the only anchor in the world.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Courtyard—Later]

The courtyard was alive with the sounds of war. Horses stamped their hooves, steam curling from their nostrils in the cold morning air. Knights in polished steel mounted up, their banners snapping in the wind—bright cloth against a sky the color of forged iron.

Silas stepped out into the chill, his cloak billowing behind him, the insignia of Rynthall catching the pale light. He mounted his black warhorse in a single, practiced motion. The animal pawed the ground, eager yet restless—mirroring the tight coil in Silas’s chest.

Lucein stood at the steps with Elysia in his arms. Her tiny hand waved at him, a movement so small yet heavy enough to nearly break his resolve.

Silas met Lucein’s eyes one last time. The distance between them felt like miles, though it was only a few paces. He wanted to burn that image into his memory—Lucein’s steady but weary gaze, the child in his arms, the wind tugging at their clothes.

The horns sounded.

"Go, my lord," one of the captains urged.

Silas gave the barest nod, tore his gaze away, and urged his horse forward. The gates of Rynthall creaked open.

The army moved out—steel, hooves, and the thrum of war drums fading into the distance—leaving behind only the echo of their lord’s promise: I will be back soon.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Lucein’s Chamber—Night]

Lucien lay sprawled on the bed, one hand absently patting Elysia’s small chest in a steady rhythm. Her tiny breaths were eeven andpeaceful—utterly oblivious to the storm brewing inside him.

But his gaze wasn’t on her. It lingered instead on the empty half of the bed. The cold, untouched space.

His lips curled downward. "It feels... lonely," he murmured, almost to himself, voice heavy with a quiet ache.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of ten winters, he rose and padded to the window. The night stretched before him—black velvet pierced by silver stars, the moon watching like a silent witness.

His jaw tightened. His fingers curled into a fist until the knuckles ached.And then—

"I hope," he growled under his breath, "that the rotten bastard who dared to attack our North... begins to suffer."

A beat. His eyes narrowed.

"Suffer in the most miserable way possible... I hope—" his voice rose, sharp with venom— "that he starts having constipation. Daily. For the rest of his pathetic life!"

His words spilled faster now, building like a war cry of absurdity.

"I hope every single soldier in his filthy army clutches their stomach in agony every morning, praying to gods who will not listen! I hope their feasts turn to stone in their bellies! I hope they groan, squirm, and cannot—" he jabbed a finger toward the moon "—cannot poop... for a year!"

Finally, he clasped his hands together in mock prayer, eyes glinting with both rage and wicked humor.

"Oh Moon God, if you’re listening... grant them this curse. Let them know the torment of a body that rebels, a belly that refuses release!"

Lucein glared up at the glowing orb in the night sky, his voice low but venomous."MAKE. SURE. THEY. DON’T. POOOP. FOR. AN. ENTIRE. YEAR."

Somewhere in the divine stillness above, the Moon God froze—utterly taken aback.In all the eons of mortal pleas—wealth, love, vengeance—never had someone prayed with such fiery conviction... for constipation.

For a long, awkward moment, even the Moon seemed unsure whether to grant this wish or... just pretend it never happened.