CHAPTER 34: THE CHAOS, AND THE RED SEAL

[TWO WEEKS LATER]

[Aetheria Empire—Morning, Main Street]

It had been a little over two weeks since the notorious Serial Killer Baker had been arrested and locked away in the dungeons of the Rynthall Estate.

Across the kingdom, the headlines hadn’t stopped screaming:

SERIAL KILLER BAKER BURIED! Notorious Murderer of Pregnant Omegas Finally Caught!

What in the name of the Ancients is happening to the Empire? Where were our Imperial Knights while this horror unfolded?

"He Fed Me Pie," Reveals Survivor—Chilling Confessions from the Rynthall Dungeon!

IS ANYONE SAFE? Kingdom in Frenzy as Public Demands Omega Protection Reforms!

Markets buzzed with fear. Courtiers clutched their pearls. Husbands refused to let their pregnant partners leave the house without a full guard escort. Entire towns installed curfews. The nation was in chaos.

But that?

That was polite chaos.

At the Rynthall Estate, chaos had a personality. It wore lace-trimmed aprons, sobbed into silver trays, and broke expensive porcelain just to feel something.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Main Hall, Near the Stairs, Present Day]

"—And I repeat!" roared Alphonso

, the ever-dignified butler of Rynthall Estate, now standing atop the grand staircase like a war general addressing an army. His posture was impeccable, his voice thunderous, and his monocle glinting furiously in the morning sun.

"Baron Lucien D’Armoire is a rare male omega, and he is with child! With our grace’s child!" He paused for effect, puffing out his chest. "And soon..." he drew a long, breathless beat, "...he shall be the next Lord of Rynthall Estate."

Silence.

Below, a sea of maids, cooks, footmen, gardeners, and one very confused stable boy holding a pitchfork stared back—frozen. It was as if someone had hit pause on reality.

Alphonso frowned slightly. Did they not hear me? Did our loyal staff collectively lose their ears overnight? He opened his mouth to shout again when—

"KYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

A shriek split the silence. A maid fainted dramatically into the arms of a footman—who, overwhelmed by emotion (and possibly the weight), also fainted. A pot clanged to the ground. Someone dropped the soup of the day. A gardener fell to his knees and sobbed, "A MIRACLE! A RARE MALE OMEGA NOBLE-BORN BABY—RIGHT HERE! RIGHT IN THIS HOUSEHOLD!"

"I always knew Baron Lucien was special!" wailed Old Miss Petunia, the ancient laundress, clutching her heart like she’d been struck by holy lightning. "I just didn’t know he was this fertile!"

Another maid sniffled. "I agree. He tamed His Grace. He tamed Satan!"

The crowd nodded solemnly. Indeed. If anyone could make the Grand Duke act like a semi-reasonable human being, it was Lucien.

"WE MUST REDECORATE THE WEST WING!" shrieked the head housekeeper, waving a feather duster like a battle flag. "Pastel curtains! Child-safe furniture! A cradle carved from imported pearlwood! FROM THE NORTHERN ISLES, DAMMIT!"

One of the younger maids, overwhelmed with joy, tossed rose petals from her apron with divine fervor.

"FOR THE BABYYYYYYYYYY—!!!"

Alphonso wiped away a dignified tear. "Truly... Lord Lucien brings light to this household. This estate has never known such joy."

Then, as if the gods themselves decided to crank the chaos knob to maximum, a maid from the back shrieked, "WE HAVE TO PROTECT LORD LUCIEN AT ALL COSTS! HE’S IN HIS THIRD MONTH OF PREGNANCY!"

Gasps.

Scandalized gasps.

"I thought it was only two months!"

"No—officially three! I’ve been tracking it since the moment he arrived at the estate. I have a chart. With stickers."

Everyone fell silent.

Then they nodded. Slowly. Gravely. United in purpose.

Their expressions turned from tear-stained glee to militant devotion.

And then—

SHE

descended.

Madam Gertrude.

The Head Maid. A woman carved from granite and powered by discipline, with a towering gray bun so tight it had its own gravitational pull, and eyes so sharp they could slice diamonds in half. Her apron had never once wrinkled in 40 years.

She stormed forward, clapped her hands once, and the entire courtyard snapped to attention like a military camp facing a holy war.

"Enough squealing, you walking drama flares!" she barked, her voice like thunder and divine judgment rolled into one. "We have a pregnant noble omega under this roof—AND HE’S CARRYING THE FUTURE LORD OF RYNTHALL!"

Tears returned. Reverent sniffles echoed.

"Everyone to positions! I’m assigning protective duties!"

She reached into her apron, pulled out a scroll so long it thudded to the ground like a medieval weapon, and unfurled it with the kind of flourish that would shame a magician.

"YOU!" she barked, pointing at a footman. "From now on, your job is to walk behind Lord Lucien at all times with a cushion. If he so much as leans, I want that cushion under his divine behind in under one second. Am I clear?"

"CRYSTAL, MA’AM!" the footman saluted like he’d just been enlisted into the Holy Guard.

"YOU!" she turned to a pale young gardener still clutching his rake. "Sweep every rose petal within a five-mile radius. If Lord Lucien even sneezes near a thorn, I will personally shave your head and mop the nursery floor with it. DON’T TEST ME."

"Yes, ma’am! I’ve already started weeding the air!"

"Maid Team A and B!" she called, spinning dramatically to a pair of wide-eyed girls. "You’ll rotate his tea shifts. No caffeine, no sugar, no honey. Nothing stimulating. The tea must be lukewarm, omega-safe, and blessed by a certified forest priest wearing seasonal robes. If I see a single unblessed mug, I will SCREAM."

"Yes, ma’am!" the maids chorused, already sketching designs for an omega-safe teacup holster.

Then she turned to the crowd and raised her hand like a general preparing for war.

"And finally—under NO CIRCUMSTANCES is Lord Lucien to walk more than fifteen seconds at a time. If he needs to move? I want him escorted, carried, or rolled on the Royal Pregnancy Chaise. WHICH IS TO BE POLISHED EVERY HOUR."

"YES, MA’AM!" the estate thundered in glorious unison.

Madam Gertrude rolled up the scroll, shoved it back into the depths of her apron like she was sealing a sacred contract, and nodded. "Now go—protect that omega like your paychecks depend on it."

She squinted.

"Because they do."

Somewhere behind the topiary, a footman whispered to his comrade, "She’s terrifying... I think I’m in love."

While the estate surged into full military-grade baby-omega-defense formation, upstairs on the second-floor balcony, a tall figure stood—watching his entire staff spiral into the emotional equivalent of a midsummer musical.

Silas, Grand Duke of Rynthall, Commander of Legions, veteran of a dozen wars, and slayer of infamous beasts... stood completely deadpan.

"...Are they really my people?" he muttered, eyes twitching slightly as a gardener began crafting a floral arch that read ’Lucien’s Womb, Our Future’ in rose stems.

Beside him, wrapped in a luxurious dressing gown with not a single hair out of place, Lucien

leaned over the balustrade, eyes wide with awe and cheeks slightly flushed.

"They love me," he whispered, like a character in a tragic opera. Then his gaze sparkled, and he turned toward Silas, placing a dramatic hand over his own chest. "They love me more than they love you."

Silas slowly turned his head. "Lucien..."

Lucien beamed. "More. Than. You."

Silas opened his mouth. Closed it.

Lucien reached down, grabbed the long velvet curtain trailing beside him like a royal cape, flung it over his shoulder, and marched forward as if entering a ballroom in Versailles.

Then—he yelled:

"EVERYONE! I—" he gasped, placing a hand on his belly, "—am craving something URGENTLY!"

The entire crowd below froze. Alphonso dropped his goblet of prenatal potion. Madam Gertrude snapped her scroll like a whip.

Lucien raised both arms to the heavens, voice echoing like he was delivering prophecy.

"OLIVE PICKLE—" Gasps. "WITH COLD CUSTARD!"

An audible scream rang out.

A maid collapsed.

"WE MUST FETCH IT!" someone shrieked.

Another shouted, "TO THE CELLAR! I KNOW WE HAVE A PICKLE FROM THE ROYAL BANQUET OF 206!"

"WHAT ABOUT THE CUSTARD?!"

"I’LL CHURN IT WITH MY OWN HANDS IF I HAVE TO!"

Silas sighed.

A long, weary, soul-drained sigh.

Just then, Callen strolled up the grand staircase, completely unfazed by the pandemonium. He sidestepped a maid chasing after a runaway cradle and calmly stopped in front of Silas, who was muttering to himself, hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"...This must be the side effect of having a dramatic omega," Silas mumbled.

Callen didn’t blink. "My Grace, we’ve received a royal letter."

Silas turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "That insufferable bastard... What does the Emperor want now?"

Callen handed him a pristine envelope, wax-sealed and glinting with gold.

"He’s invited you and Lord Lucien for dinner. Tonight."

Silas blinked. Once. Then twice.

"...Lucien? Don’t tell me he—"

Callen gave a solemn nod. "It seems His Majesty found out Lord Lucien is a rare male omega... and pregnant. With your heir."

Silas’s jaw twitched. "How. Does. He. Always. Find. Out?!"

Callen shrugged. "He’s the Emperor."

"Reject it. I’m not going."

Callen’s voice dropped an octave. "It was sealed with red wax, Your Grace."

Silas froze.

The red seal.

The imperial command that could not—must not—be disobeyed. Not without... consequences.

His eyes dropped to the letter. The deep crimson insignia of the Soleil royal house stared back at him like a smug curse. He crumpled the envelope in his gloved hand, teeth clenched.

"I swear," he growled through gritted teeth, voice low and thunderous, "I will kill him."

And far below, the estate still screamed:

"THE PICKLES! BRING THE PICKLES!"