CHAPTER 52: WOBBLEBEAN, THE CHOSEN ONE

[Rynthall Estate—Duke’s Private Bedchambers, Late Morning Madness]

Lucien lay in bed.

Swaddled in silk robes, hair a tragic opera of tangles, eyes glazed like a pastry left out too long. His legs were stretched awkwardly, one arm tossed over his forehead like a fainting widow, and the other gripping the bedsheet with righteous fury.

At the foot of the bed, Fredrick, the duke’s personal physician, sat on a velvet stool—stone-faced, professional, and very clearly trying not to look at the suspicious bite mark peeking out from Lucien’s collar.

Fredrick gently withdrew the stethoscope and sighed like a man who had seen too much.

"Thankfully," he said calmly, "the child is safe and well. No harm done. Strong heartbeat. Miraculously untouched."

Lucien collapsed backward onto the pillows like a dying duchess. "Oh, thank the gods. I was sure Wobblebean was going to file a domestic complaint from inside the womb."

Silas, lounging nearby with his arms crossed and a smug smirk stitched across his ridiculously perfect face, chimed in helpfully. "I told you, my love. Everything is fine."

Lucien’s head turned so fast it might’ve cracked. He glared at Silas like he was mentally measuring the weight of a bedside lamp. "Fine? I couldn’t FEEL MY SPINE FOR SEVEN HOURS."

Fredrick cleared his throat—loudly. "Yes, well..." He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze reluctantly sliding over to Silas. "My lord, with all due respect, you’ve... um... left bruises on him like some sort of—well—mad dog in heat. Any mother would be worried."

Silas blinked, unapologetic. "I am a husband. A passionate one."

Lucien let out a strangled, hoarse laugh. "You were a werewolf in a brothel last night; that’s what you were."

Fredrick held up a finger. "Let’s... keep metaphors medically accurate."

Then he turned back to Lucien and hesitated. He adjusted his spectacles, blinked twice, and asked very seriously, "Lord Lucien... Should I address you as Your Grace? Or perhaps Her Grace the Duchess? Lord Callen has not clarified protocol."

Lucien let out the most pitiful, deadpan sigh ever exhaled by a soul still technically living. "Just call me a walking corpse, Fredrick. One with fabulous cheekbones but dead inside. And outside."

Fredrick blinked. Slowly. "Your Grace, it is."

Silas, unfazed, stepped closer and dropped a kiss on Lucien’s forehead.

Lucien swatted him weakly. "Don’t touch me. I will combust. I’m ninety-seven percent soreness and three percent dramatic trauma."

Fredrick, looking like he’d aged ten years in ten minutes, packed up his physician’s bag with the grim solemnity of a man who had survived the Battle of the Bedsheets.

"I’ll... leave a list of salves," he muttered, already halfway out the door. "Possibly holy water. And maybe... rope next time."

Lucien let out a guttural groan into his pillow. "Bring a priest."

Fredrick saluted like a war veteran and fled the room as though chased by ghosts of questionable moaning.

The door clicked shut.

Silas exhaled, stretching luxuriously like the smug bastard he was. "Finally. Some privacy."

But before he could make another depraved suggestion, Lucien—still in his robe, hair resembling a thunderstorm—got out of bed

.

Silas blinked, surprised. "Wait, love? Are you... walking? Already?"

Lucien didn’t answer. He just approached. Slowly. Dramatically. Like a noble ghost with unfinished business. He took Silas’s hand in both of his.

Silas looked down, heart fluttering like an idiot. "Aw... What’s the matter, my darling?"

Lucien said nothing.

He walked with purpose. Straight to the door. Still holding Silas’s hand.

And then—

WHAM.

Lucien shoved Silas out into the hallway with the strength of a scorned Greek goddess and slammed the door shut like a divine punishment.

BANG!

Silas stood in the hallway.

Blinking.

Processing.

Buffering like a broken spell crystal.

"Did you just...?" he whispered to no one.

Then, louder: "My love...? Did you just kick me out?"

No response.

So he tried again, his voice wounded. "My love, I am your beloved husband. Why would you—?"

Lucien’s voice cut through the door like a banshee with receipts.

"YOU’RE NOT BELOVED. YOU’RE A DEMON. A WALKING NIGHTMARE IN A ROBE. GO AWAY BEFORE I RUN AWAY FROM THIS DAMN ESTATE!"

Silas flinched. His soul cracked.

"...I guess I’ll come back after he cools down," he mumbled pitifully.

He turned, defeated, and began walking down the grand hallway with the posture of a dog denied belly rubs.

That was when he heard it.

Snrk.

Giggle.

He whipped his head to the side—eyes sharp, mafia instincts twitching.

Two maids were peeking from behind a curtain, giggling like schoolgirls who had just seen a forbidden romance scene unfold in real time.

The moment they made eye contact with him, they both stiffened like caught rats.

"W-We were just—uh—admiring the tapestries!" One squeaked.

"Yes! So detailed! Much velvet!" the other added, nodding like a bobblehead.

They tried to flee.

But not before one of them whispered loudly enough for the gods to hear:

"The Duke just got kicked out... the morning after the wedding night. HAHA—Ow!" (She was elbowed.)

The other grabbed her and hissed, "Quick! To the kitchens! We must cook something warm and healing! For our poor, violated, valiant duchess!"

"YES! Soup of recovery! Bread of emotional support!"

They scampered off like panicked squirrels.

Silas stood there.

Speechless.

Abandoned.

Emotionally naked.

"...I just got dethroned by my own husband," he muttered.

Then he sighed, turned on his heel, and muttered under his breath: "Maybe I am the demon..."

He walked away slowly.

Defeated.

Dramatic.

Still barefoot.

Still hard.

And haunted by the sound of distant giggles and Lucien’s muffled voice yelling from inside—

"AND IF YOU EVEN THINK ABOUT CRAWLING BACK IN HERE, I’M SLEEPING WITH A HOLY DAGGER UNDER MY PILLOW!"

***

[Rynthall Estate—Grand Duke’s Office, Shortly After the Banishment]

The double doors creaked open, and Silas trudged in—barefoot, shirtless beneath his disheveled robe, hair tousled like he’d fought a hurricane and lost.

Callen, seated by the wide desk, didn’t even look up at first. He continued calmly sorting through an intimidating stack of ledgers and correspondence.

Only when Silas slumped into his chair like a man who’d just been kicked by his soulmate and the divine right of marriage did Callen finally glance over.

And then—without emotion—he asked:

"...So. You got kicked out again?"

Silas flinched like he’d been stabbed.

"How did you—?"

Callen flipped a page. "Well. It’s not like it’s the first time."

Silas groaned into his hand, dragging it down his face like a war-torn soldier.

Callen, ever composed, pushed a letter forward on the desk with two fingers. "Before you begin your mourning period, Your Grace...there’s a letter."

Silas didn’t move.

Callen’s voice turned cold.

"It’s from the High Priest

."

That got his attention.

The air shifted.

The warmth of post-marital chaos froze, replaced by something razor-sharp and heavy with unspoken meaning. Silas’s eyes dropped to the wax-sealed envelope.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Silas leaned forward, broke the seal with a flick of his thumb, and unfolded the parchment.

His eyes scanned it.

Once.

Twice.

Then his jaw clenched.

The paper crumpled in his fist with a sudden snap as he slammed it down onto the desk with enough force to rattle Callen’s inkpot.

Callen straightened slightly, watching him carefully. "...What is it?"

Silas didn’t answer right away.

When he finally spoke, his voice was no longer casual, no longer tired. It was ice. Fury barely bridled by formality.

"The temple," he growled, "one day—I swear on every ancestor I have—I’ll burn it to the ground."

Callen blinked.

"Is it something serious?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Silas slowly leaned back, his eyes gleaming not with mischief—but the cold, quiet hatred of a man protecting what’s his.

"That bastard," he hissed, "knows Lucien is pregnant."

Callen stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the marble.

"...Don’t tell me—"

Silas nodded, eyes sharp as blades.

"You’re right. The High Priest," he spat the title like poison, "claims my child—our child—is a gift from the gods to him. That my heir was sent to fulfill some divine prophecy—his prophecy."

A silence dropped like a guillotine.

Callen’s jaw tightened. "That’s blasphemy. Political blasphemy. He’s laying claim to your child."

"He’s trying to bait me," Silas said darkly. "He knows I won’t hand over the child. But now—he has a reason to start weaving religious pressure. Prophecy. Pilgrimage. ’Sacred lineages.’ And Lucien—" His hand trembled slightly, just once. "Lucien won’t be safe. Not now. Not while the temple has its eyes on him."

Callen crossed the desk in two strides, lowering his voice. "What do you want to do?"

Silas’s eyes gleamed.

"Get me every record of temple donations for the last ten years," he said, voice low and deadly. "I want their ledgers. Their allies. Their debts. Their sins."

"Understood."

"And Callen?"

Callen paused.

"Keep this from Lucien. For now," Silas added. "He’s already furious with me. If he finds out the temple’s watching him like a breeding vessel, he’ll do something reckless."

Callen gave a grim smile. "He might try to stab the High Priest with a decorative spoon."

Silas didn’t smile.

He looked back at the crumpled letter, eyes burning—an inferno held tightly behind noble stillness.

"I can’t just sit around and wait for danger," he murmured, more to himself than to Callen. His voice was low, grim, and pulsing with barely leashed fury.

"I have to find a solution... before Lucien finds out."

And with that, the grand duke rose from his seat.

The light from the window caught his eyes—gleaming like a predator ready to protect what’s his.

Whatever the temple was planning... they had just declared war on the wrong man.