CHAPTER 35: ROYAL PILLOW WARS & POSSESSIVE GLARE OF DOOM

[Evening—Rynthall Estate]

"Summoned by His Majesty?"

Lucien asked, barely looking up from his desk as he scribbled something elegant and baronial onto a very expensive scroll.

Silas sat heavily on the bed, arms crossed and face locked in a stormy pout. "Yes. And we can’t reject it."

Then he muttered under his breath, low and dangerous, "One of these days, I will kill that smug, imperial bastard... Slowly. Elegantly."

Lucien’s quill paused. He blinked. Then he leaned back in his chair, suddenly squinting toward the ceiling with a weirdly starry look in his eye as he muttered to himself. "So... I’m gonna meet the male lead of this novel. For real?"

Then Lucien squinted harder, whispering to himself, "Why do I feel like some rabid fan about to meet their favorite celebrity at a comic convention?"

Silas stood and sighed, saying. "Get dressed. Before he sends one of his Imperial Knights to drag us out."

Lucien nodded. "Alright."

***

[Later—Silas’s Chamber]

Lucien stood in front of the tall mirror, admiring his reflection with the kind of awe usually reserved for meteor showers and divine visions. He wore a fitted black and crimson formal suit with gold threadwork glimmering across the cuffs like flames. His black hair had been styled perfectly, and he looked like the forbidden prince from an epic opera who sings in high notes and breaks hearts by blinking.

"Hah," Lucien said, placing a dramatic hand on his chest, "Who is this... this universal cute guy? I can’t believe I’m so handsome that even the sun would dim in shame next to me!"

Behind him, Silas leaned casually on the doorframe, arms folded and eyes lingering like a man witnessing both a masterpiece and a menace.

"You’re talking to yourself again," he murmured, lips twitching.

Lucien turned—and promptly forgot how to speak.

Because Silas... was a problem.

The Grand Duke stood tall in his formal uniform—black and silver military-style with crimson embroidery hugging every broad line of his body. And draped dramatically over his shoulders was a long cloak, regal and flowing, like he’d just returned from conquering a kingdom or ten.

Lucien’s mouth fell open. "He’s—he’s... he’s so—damn." He forgot English for a moment. Maybe even breathing.

His gaze landed on the cloak and narrowed with comical longing. "Can I get one of those too?" he asked, voice small, like a child begging for a toy at the market.

Silas blinked, looked over his shoulder at the cloak, then stepped forward with all the slow grace of a predator. He reached out, took Lucien’s hand gently, and kissed the back of it, his lips brushing with maddening softness.

"Once we’re married," Silas said with a smirk, his voice rich like melted chocolate with violence hidden underneath.

Lucien flushed crimson. "Oh. Okay. That’s... reasonable."

Silas offered his arm gallantly, one brow raised. "Shall we go then?"

Lucien gave a small, proud nod like a noble prince ready to march into history. But then—Silas bent down slightly, arms moving in that unmistakable bridal carry formation.

"DON’T YOU DARE—" Lucien shrieked, flinging both hands out like he was casting a divine banishment spell. "DON’T YOU DARE LIFT ME IN YOUR ARMS, SILAS VON RYNTHALL!"

Silas froze mid-bend, stuck halfway between ’romantic gesture’ and ’startled cat caught on camera.’ "...But—"

Lucien’s glare could have melted a steel sword.

Silas cleared his throat. "Understood."

And just like that, the Grand Duke of the Rynthall Empire—the very same man who led the war—straightened up and proceeded to walk three respectful paces behind Baron Lucien D’Armoire.

Like a well-trained, mildly terrified husband escorting his hormonal, noble, pregnant, divinely glowing omega through an emotional minefield.

Lucien sniffed haughtily, hands folded behind his back, belly barely visible but held like it carried the future of the empire (because, technically, it did).

***

[Outside the Rynthall Estate—Evening]

Lucien stood frozen on the grand marble steps, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.

Beside him, Silas also stood stock-still, wearing an expression usually reserved for people who just witnessed a goat give a TED Talk.

"...What," Lucien croaked. "What in the name of the Ancients is that?"

There, parked gloriously at the gates of the estate, was the royal carriage.

Except... it was no longer a carriage.

It was a pillow fortress.

The inside looked like someone had raided an elite feather emporium during a Black Friday sale. Floor-to-ceiling pillows. Pillows stacked like castle walls. The seats had been replaced with a plushy mattress that looked like a cloud summoned from Heaven’s guest bedroom.

There were even—Lucien squinted—two embroidered cushions that read "BABY ON BOARD" in cursive gold thread.

A maid stepped forward proudly, hands clasped, beaming like she had personally invented comfort. "My lord," she chirped. "We heard you mentioned discomfort during carriage rides. And there are so many bumps on the royal roads, so—" she gestured toward the plushy monstrosity, "—we ensured maximum safety. For you... and the little dumpling."

Lucien blinked. "That’s... very thoughtful, but don’t you think this is a little—"

"EXCESSIVE?" He shouted, stepping forward and flailing his arms. "THIS LOOKS LIKE A ROYAL PILLOW FIGHT WAITING TO HAPPEN!"

Another maid, glowing with pride, added, "There’s also a lavender-scented relaxation pad under the seat."

Lucien slowly turned to Silas.

Silas sighed deeply. "Elize."

Then Elize—the only sane member of House Rynthall’s staff and keeper of the collective brain cell—stepped forward with all the weariness of a woman who has cleaned up after thirty fainting maids in the last hour.

She gave a tight nod and began yanking pillows out of the carriage with practiced aggression.

Poof. Poof. Poof.

A cloud of feathers floated dramatically into the sunset like sad confetti.

The maids gasped, horrified. "But my lord, he’s pregnant—he must float like royalty!"

Silas looked at them, eyes sharp but strangely soft.

"I’ll make sure he’s safe," he said coolly. "Because..." —he walked to the steps, eyes gleaming— "he’ll be sitting on my lap."

The air stopped moving.

Even the birds overhead paused mid-flap. Somewhere, a god choked on ambrosia.

Lucien turned slowly, like a haunted protagonist in a thriller. "I—I’m sorry, did you say your lap?!"

Silas nodded solemnly. "It’s the safest spot. Cushioned by muscle. Armrest made of love. Fully temperature-regulated."

One of the maids burst into tears. "THAT’S THE SWEETEST THING I’VE EVER HEARD!"

Another gave him a thumbs-up so aggressive she sprained her wrist.

"THE GRAND DUKE WINS HUSBAND OF THE YEAR!" someone shouted.

"I ship them so hard," whispered a stable boy, sobbing quietly into his horse.

Lucien, meanwhile, had his hands on his hips. "This is ridiculous. This is embarrassing. I am a Baron, not a plush toy!"

Silas smirked. "A very important plush toy."

"I—wait—wait, don’t—DON’T YOU DARE—" Lucien squealed as Silas effortlessly scooped him up like a dramatic toddler mid-tantrum and gently placed him onto his lap inside the now slightly-less-pillow-filled carriage.

Lucien sat stiffly, arms crossed, cheeks puffed out.

"This is humiliating," he muttered.

Silas pulled the blanket over Lucien’s legs like a doting nursemaid. "Would your grace like a pickle custard cup while we ride?"

Lucien hissed. "Shut up."

Then, after a beat...

"...Do we have the kind with the cinnamon rim?"

Silas smiled smugly.

The carriage doors shut. The wheels began to roll. The maids wiped their tears, sniffled, and waved like mothers watching their child leave for wizard college.

"PROTECT THE BABY!" they shouted.

"AND THE GRAND DUKE TOO, I GUESS!" someone added.

And thus, under a golden sky, the Empire’s most dramatic couple rode toward the Imperial Palace—wrapped in velvet, covered in scandal, and seated on a lap destined for legend.

***

[Imperial Palace—Grand Arrival Courtyard—Nightfall]

The carriage rolled to a smooth stop before the towering gates of the Imperial Palace, its wheels gleaming like liquid gold under the thousands of flickering lanterns that lit the grand courtyard. The palace itself loomed ahead—majestic, intimidating, and so decadently ornate.

Lucien peeked out the window, his eyes wide and sparkling.

"Woe," he whispered, dramatically clutching his chest. "It’s my second time here, and I still can’t believe we use this much gold for a building. Do we not have, like... banks?"

Silas didn’t even blink. "Let’s go."

Lucien nodded, already distracted by the golden archways and jewel-encrusted lantern poles as the carriage door opened with a theatrical creak.

They were greeted by an impeccably dressed line of maids and a head butler of the Imperial Palace Velrin.

"Greetings to Grand Duke Silas and Baron Lucien," Velrin said, bowing deeply. "Please follow me. His Majesty is expecting you."

They walked through the grand corridors, Silas moving like a storm given human form—tall, proud, terrifyingly graceful—while Lucien walked beside him like a curious crow at a royal parade, his eyes darting from one shimmering wall to the next.

"Oh my god," Lucien gasped under his breath, pointing at a ceiling mural. "That’s a battle scene painted entirely in gold leaf! Do you know how many omegas you could feed with that?!"

"Approximately four million," Velrin said without missing a step.

Lucien gaped. "You’ve done the math?!"

"We get that question often."

As they approached the massive double doors of the Imperial Dining Hall, Lucien clung tightly to Silas’s hand, still a bit overwhelmed by the grandeur. The guards snapped to attention and—

SLAM!The doors swung open with a dramatic flourish, revealing a grand hall bathed in warm candlelight, silver chandeliers glittering overhead like stars. The long dining table gleamed, set with enough cutlery to arm a small kingdom.

And at the head of the table sat none other than— Emperor Adrien Soleil. Tall, elegant, and wearing a smirk that could curdle milk.

Beside him sat Empress Elise, regal in every way, though the chill in her eyes suggested that diamonds might melt before she ever smiled.

"You kept us waiting, Silas," Adrien said lazily, resting his chin on his hand like a cat ready to pounce.

Silas, unfazed, bowed with all the stiff grace of a man who’s been tolerating this royal circus since birth. "Greetings to His Majesty and the Empress."

Lucien mirrored the bow, a beat behind, but still very much trying his best. "Um—yes! Greetings! To both of you. Your Majesticness-es."

Adrien’s eyes, however, were laser-locked on Lucien. That smirk? Growing.

Lucien gave him a nervous smile.Why does he look like he knows every embarrassing thing I’ve ever done?

Meanwhile, Silas was glaring at the Emperor with the intensity of someone who’s one insult away from regicide. The temperature in the hall dropped like a stone.

Even the candles flickered nervously.

But perhaps more unnerving than Adrien’s smirk... was Empress Elise. Her cold eyes scanned Lucien like he was a statue up for auction. From his hair, to his shoes.

And then—Her eyes shifted.

From Lucien’s wide-eyed, awkward stance...To their intertwined fingers. Cold. Calculating. Judgy.

Lucien caught the glance. His brain short-circuited.

Wait. Wait a goddamn glittering second.Why is she throwing laser beams at our hands?

His eyes widened as the dots connected.

Oh. Oh no.No way.Don’t tell me she’s in love with my Silas?!

His internal voice practically screamed.

MY. ALPHA?!

Lucien’s grip tightened on Silas’s hand like a wolf staking its claim. Then, slowly—dramatically—he lifted his chin and turned to face the Empress...And glared.

It wasn’t just a glare. It was the kind of fierce, petty, territorial glare that only an omega in love and full delusion could master. His eyes practically said:

"Back off, royal lady. HE’S. MY. ALPHA."

The air froze.

Silas blinked, sensing the shift."...Lucien?"

Lucien didn’t even look at him. He was too busy mentally drawing a chalk line around his mate.

Elise raised one imperious brow.

Lucien raised both.