CHAPTER 26: THE OMEGA, THE FURY, THE FLAME

The sun was starting to dip low, painting the sky in bleeding orange and ash. The air was too still. Marcel paced by the tree, hands trembling. He looked pale. Sweaty.

Then—

"Where is he?"

Silas’s voice cut through the field like a blade. His footsteps were fast, unrelenting. His eyes were glowing with raw panic. Even from a distance, his pheromones hit like a crashing tide—thick, feral, charged with desperation.

Marcel spun around, nearly tripping. "My grace! I—He—My lord—"

"Where. Is. Lucein." Silas’s tone dropped to a deadly growl.

Marcel swallowed hard, his throat clicking. "He was right here. After we checked the burnt warehouse, he said he needed something to eat. He sat down under this tree. This very tree. I told him to stay put. I told him not to move. I—he looked tired, and now—now he’s just—he’s gone, my grace, he’s just—"

Marcel choked, eyes wide. "He promised he wouldn’t go anywhere."

Silas’s body went rigid.

Then, a low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest.

His fists clenched. The scent of burning ozone filled the air—his alpha pheromones exploding outward in a terrifying pulse that made the leaves tremble and the horses nearby rear in panic.

The knights behind him stiffened, caught in the storm of raw dominance and fury that poured off him like wildfire.

Silas turned toward them, voice thundering across the clearing.

"FIND HIM."

The earth itself seemed to shake beneath his command.

"Search every road, every alley, every cursed rat hole in this goddamned city!"

His voice cracked into a roar."I want my Lucien found. I want him safe. I want him HOME."

His eyes burned gold as he took a deep breath and bellowed again.

"Do. Not. Rest. Not until you’ve checked every market stall, every locked door, every backroom, every corner of every house. I don’t care if you have to turn this town upside down. MOVE. NOW."

The knights scattered like wind-blown leaves, scrambling into formation and disappearing down different paths, their armor clattering like the ticking of a war clock.

Marcel stood frozen, breath shallow. "My grace... what if he was taken...?"

Silas didn’t answer right away. His jaw twitched. His entire body was tense, rigid with restraint, fury and dread barely leashed. Then his voice came, low and venomous:

"...Then someone just made the worst mistake of their goddamned life."

His eyes locked onto the horizon like a beast tracking prey.

"He’s pregnant," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "He’s carrying our child. My Omega...my Lucien..."

Silas’s voice cracked, almost inaudible.

Then he straightened, pulling himself together with a sharp breath. His eyes were full of fire. Alpha instinct in full blaze as he looked at Elize.

"Send a hawk to the outer villages. Alert the gatekeepers. Search the rivers, the tunnels, the bakeries, the f***ing roof tiles if you have to. We bring my Lucien back. No matter what."

And then, with a growl low in his chest, Silas shifted into a sprint—vanishing into the trees, his presence leaving behind a crater of tension, dread, and scent-marked rage.

Because when an Alpha loses his Omega, the world better pray he gets him back—

—before he decides to burn it all down.

***

[Unknown Location—A Room That Smells Suspiciously Like Yeast and Doom]

Lucien fluttered open his eyes.

Groaned.

Everything hurt—everything. His head, most notably, was apparently bleeding like a budget Shakespeare play, precious noble blood trailing down his temple in slow, dramatic dribbles. He was dizzy. Woozy.

The room spun gently—like a carousel operated by a drunk conductor who had no business being near carnival machinery.

His vision blurred.

Then cleared.

Small room.One dim lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, swinging lazily like a ticking pendulum of doom.He was tied—tied—to a wooden chair, thick ropes wrapped around his wrists and chest in a way that was frankly unnecessary. A rusted metal tray lay abandoned in the corner, smelling vaguely of cinnamon and... regret.

Lucien stared at the damp floor for a solid ten seconds.

Then he muttered, hoarsely, like a man narrating his own downfall, "...So. I walked with my own legs into a serial killer’s den?"

A pause.

Then a dry, scoffing laugh escaped him. "Classy. Absolutely fucking classy."

Right on cue—because the universe clearly had a sense of irony—the door creaked open.

Slowly.

Dramatically.

Like someone had oiled the hinges just enough to sound like they were auditioning for Phantom of the Opera: Basement Edition.

Enter: The Baker.

Still in the same flour-dusted clothes and white apron, now suspiciously crusted with something that may have once been raspberry jam—or perhaps something more hemoglobin-adjacent. A pair of sleek leather gloves now adorned his hands. A new touch.

The smile? Still there. Only now it had a touch of murder-flavored sparkle.

The kind of smile that said, I bake cookies... but I also keep secrets in the freezer.

"Ahhhhh... my lord," the baker purred, stepping into the room like he was stepping onto a Broadway stage. "You’re awake. I was afraid I hit you too hard. I didn’t want to hit you hard—but it happened. My bad. Sorry."

Lucien blinked.

Then scoffed. Under his breath, he muttered, "Does he expect me to say, ’Oh, no, it’s alright. It happens’? What is this, a hostage etiquette class?"

The baker stepped closer, one gloved hand trailing over a small side table—lined with knives.Some were rusty. Some gleamed. One had a curl of dried something that definitely wasn’t ganache.

"Now, Lord Lucien..." the baker murmured. "How does it feel... to be trapped in a dark room... all alone... with me?"

He leaned in.

Closer.

Smile widening, voice dipping low and dramatic: "I hope... you’re not feeling uncomfortable."

Lucien blinked slowly. Like a cat who had just watched someone fall down the stairs.

Then raised one elegant brow.

"Can I have something to eat first?" he asked, his voice utterly neutral. "I’m starving."

The room went still.

The bulb swung in awkward silence.

The baker blinked. Once. Twice. Like his brain had stalled. "Oh, sure, what would you like to—"

Then his entire body tensed.

As if the realization suddenly drop-kicked him in the soul.

"IS THAT WHAT YOU HAVE TO SAY?!" he shouted, slamming a gloved hand on the table and sending a butter knife flying off with a clatter.

Lucien blinked again. Calmly. Unfazed.

"Yes," he deadpanned. "I need energy to respond to your unhinged theatrics. Where does energy come from?"

The baker opened his mouth, baffled. Then, instinctively, he answered like a first-grader being quizzed. "From... food?"

Lucien nodded, pleased. "Good answer. Gold star. So now... feed me. I’m so damn hungry."

A long pause.

The baker’s mouth opened again.

Closed.

His serial killer vibe was slowly crumbling into a confused fast-food employee.

"...What would you like?" he asked, voice softening, dangerously close to becoming customer service.

Lucien hummed, thoughtful. "Something creamy. And tasty. Maybe... custard? Do you have mille-feuille? Or tiramisu would be divine."

The baker stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

"...Alright," the baker said, dazed. "I’ll... I’ll see what I can do."

He turned to leave.

"Oh," Lucien added casually, "and bring a tissue. My head is leaking."

The baker nodded, halfway through the door. Still muttering to himself as he went: "Am I not scary enough? Do I need more knives? Maybe a chant?"

The door creaked shut behind him.

Lucien sat alone in the silence once again. The air was thick. His head still throbbed. His wrists still ached. But his pride?

Unshaken.

Lucien slowly, quietly began to wiggle his fingers. With the grace of someone who had definitely been in this situation before (don’t ask), Lucien flexed, curled, twisted, angled, and wiggled like a well-trained escape artist—or someone who’d binge-watched too many action dramas during emotionally unstable nights.

One tug. Two. Twist. Wiggle.

"Don’t panic," he whispered to himself like a bored narrator. "Stay calm. Stay cool. Stay elegant. Be the rope."

There was a small creak. A whisper of slack.

Lucien paused, eyes narrowing.

"...Was that the rope loosening?" He paused dramatically. "Or one of my bones dislocating? Either works."

With the determination of a man fueled by sheer petty vengeance and pregnancy cravings, he resumed his escape—rotating his wrists like he was performing Serial Killer Escape: The Ballet Edition.

More slack. A twist. A very dramatic gasp.

"HAH!!! Finally!"

Lucien yanked his wrists free and beamed at no one in particular.

"Self-defense classes in my last life worked, baby!" he announced proudly, cracking his knuckles with a flourish. "Thank you, sensei. I mocked your Thursday karate electives, but look at me now."

And then—

The door creaked open again. The baker stepped in, smiling sweetly and holding a delicate tray. "I brought custard tarts and—"

That—dear audience—was the baker’s last mistake.

Lucien, with the grace of a hormonal ninja, grabbed the chair he had been tied to and yeeted it full-force across the room.

CRACK.

BOOM.

The tray shattered. Tarts exploded like battlefield landmines.

The baker collapsed to the ground with a startled yelp.

Lucien pounced like a vengeful squirrel with a vendetta. "You FUCKING, DISGUSTING, ROTTING, UGLY BASTARD!!" he shrieked as he leapt onto the baker, chair leg in hand like a holy relic of wrath.

"DID YOU THINK I WAS HELPLESS JUST BECAUSE I’M OMEGA AND PREGNANT?!"

The baker groaned, disoriented.

Lucien stomped toward him, dragging the broken chair leg behind him like it was Excalibur forged in IKEA.

"I am ONE MONTH PREGNANT, and I will STILL beat your flour-covered face into the WALL if you breathe funny, you half-baked HOMICIDAL BAGUETTE!"

He pointed the chair leg at the man’s forehead like a laser pointer from hell.

"I was SOUTA TACHIBANA in my last life! I had perfect attendance, crippling anxiety, and a BLACK BELT in ’DO NOT TOUCH ME’! Self-defense classes every Thursday, you yeast-risen mistake!"

The baker groaned in pain.

"I came here—DESPERATE—for a croissant," Lucien continued, hair wild, eyes ablaze. "I was hungry. Hormonal. Vulnerable. And you—YOU TRIED TO KILL ME AND MY WOBBLEBEAN."

"...Wobble...what?" the baker wheezed.

Lucien pointed dramatically at his stomach. "My BABY. The WOBBLEBEAN. They are ONE MONTH OLD and shaped like a BEAN. If you so much as look at me sideways, I swear I’ll YEET you into another timeline and make sure your ancestors feel it."

The baker tried to crawl backward.

Lucien advanced like a slow-motion action scene in a soap opera. Blood was dripping down his temple, but his glare could have melted iron.

"You think I can’t kill a man while pregnant?" he hissed.

The baker squeaked, trying to raise his hands in surrender.

Lucien raised the chair leg instead.

"Try me. I have hormones and unresolved trauma from four lifetimes, and my baby is craving JUSTICE."

THWACK.

The chair leg slammed down beside the baker’s ear, missing by an inch on purpose.

"Oops," Lucien purred. "Hand-eye coordination’s a little off with the mood swings."

"P-please," the baker whimpered. "You’re—you’re bleeding—"

"AND WHOSE FAULT IS THAT?!" Lucien roared.

He struck again—this time across the floor beside the baker’s thigh, a warning shot of rage. "You messed with the wrong wobble-parent, you undercooked PIECE OF SHIT!"

The baker sobbed. "Please don’t kill me..."

Lucien leaned down, deadpan.

"Why not?"

"...Because... you’re glowing?"

Lucien paused.

"...Flattery? At a time like this? Bold move. Unexpected. Not enough to save your life."

He stood tall, wiping the blood from his forehead with the last remaining tissue. A slow, dramatic inhale. Then—

"Now," he snarled, voice low and unhinged, "WHERE. IS. MY. CUSTARD?"