[WEEKS LATER]
The Rynthall Estate,
The Rynthall Estate basked beneath the golden afternoon sun, its sprawling grounds humming with cicadas and the distant chatter of training knights. The air was thick with warmth, clinging to the skin like a second layer.
Inside the main study, however, the mood couldn't have been more different.
"—and according to reports, something monstrous has been spotted near the outer villages by the border," Silas's assistant Callen Ryhs said, standing stiffly with parchment in hand. "A creature, possibly magical in origin. Several livestock were found mutilated."
But the Grand Duke of Aetherian, Silas Virellian Rynthall, wasn't listening.
Not really.
He sat in a deep leather chair near the open window, where the breeze barely stirred the heavy air. His elbow rested on the armrest, fingers pressed against his temple, as if steadying a headache—or something more persistent.
His crimson gaze wasn't on the parchment. It was miles away. Back in the imperial palace.
Back in a bed tangled with sweat and silk.
Back to the night he couldn't seem to shake.
He hadn't meant to remember it. But it kept clawing its way up, uninvited.
That young boy—if he had known even his real name—had been so feverish, so dazed, clinging to Silas like his life depended on it. He could still feel those trembling fingers against his chest. That flushed, beautiful face pressing into his neck. The boy's voice—breathy, barely a whisper.
"A-gh! Please...kiss me…"
Silas's eyes darkened slightly at the memory.
The way Lucien kissed him—sloppy, needy, completely without shame.
The way he moaned softly when Silas bit his shoulder.
The way he collapsed afterward, fast asleep like a kitten curled in the aftermath of a storm.
"…Damn it," Silas muttered under his breath, fingers tightening into a fist.
"Your Grace?" The assistant, Callen, blinked.
"Send a scouting unit to sweep the area around the southern border," Silas sabriskly, hisly, voice cold and tight. "I want answers before this becomes the next village panic."
"Of course," Callen bowed and exited.
Silas didn't move for a moment.
He exhaled, slow and annoyed, then stood, pacing toward the open window. Outside, the sun beat down on the courtyard stones, almost too bright to look at.
And yet in the back of his mind, it wasn't sunlight he remembered.
It was Lucien's flushed skin under candlelight.
"…Tch. He's a male and not even an omega," Silas muttered to himself, scoffing. "There's no reason to be thinking about him. It was just one night. A heat-triggered mistake."
But the image lingered anyway.
The heat hadn't left.
Neither had the ghost of those lips.
But the image lingered anyway.
Silas stood up abruptly, jaw tight. "I need to calm down," he muttered, striding toward the training grounds with the grim purpose of a man walking to war.
As he descended the marble steps and crossed the estate courtyard, all eyes snapped to him—and then swiftly averted.
"Shit," one knight whispered to another. "He's heading to the yard again."
"Hasn't it been more ten days?" another groaned. "Every morning like clockwork—and every time, someone nearly loses an arm."
"Maybe it's not training anymore. Maybe he's exorcising demons."
"Shut up before you become the next dummy!"
At the center of the training field, armored knights were already backing away like ants from fire. That's when a woman in a knight's uniform rushed forward, almost sliding as she halted before him and bowed deeply.
The second captain of the Rynthall Knight, Elize.
"My lord—are you planning to train again today?" Elize asked, sweat on her brow that wasn't from the heat.
Silas stopped, eyeing her like she'd asked something deeply stupid.
"I'm the Grand Duke, Eli," he said flatly. "What kind of grand duke doesn't wield his sword daily?"
Eli blinked. "Of course, but… you've been training like a possessed beast lately."
Silas tilted his head. "Did you say something, Eli?"
Eli stiffened. "No, my lord! Merely admiring your discipline."
"Hmm."
He walked past her, unbuckling his coat, letting it fall to the ground behind him like a shed skin. Then, with calm precision, he unsheathed the long black sword at his hip.
A heavy silence fell.
The air crackled with tension as Silas turned, blade still gleaming, his gaze sweeping across the assembled knights like a guillotine.
"Line up," he ordered.
The knights hesitated, glancing at one another like condemned men. No one wanted to be next.
"I said—line up."
They scrambled into formation.
One knight stepped forward. Silas pointed at him. "Draw."
"My lord, perhaps—"
"Draw," Silas repeated coldly. "or resign and go home."
The knight fumbled with his sword and engaged, but the fight lasted less than three seconds. One clang, a blur of silver, and he was flat on his back with his sword skittering across the dirt.
Silas didn't even glance down. "Next."
The next knight tried to dodge, and another tried to strike from behind. Silas danced between them with terrifying precision, disarming one and slamming the other's blade to the ground so hard it shattered.
In less than ten minutes, five knights were groaning on the ground.
Then he snapped.
"Why are you all so weak?!"
His voice boomed across the grounds.
"Is this how you were trained?!" he snarled, pacing like a predator. "Are you all holding your swords for decoration?! Who is in charge of your drills?!"
Everyone was silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
"Is no one feeding you?! Is that it?!" Silas barked, tossing his blade into the dirt with a loud thud. "You swing like starved beggars! No strength, no speed, no fucking instinct! Did your hands forget what war feels like?!"
That's when his assistant Callen appeared.
Callen approached Eli quietly, arms folded. "How long has he been like this?"
"Since the palace ball," Eli muttered, eyes wide. "Something happened. He's been like a… a damn storm since."
Silas looked over the knights once more, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "You think enemies will wait for you to adjust your stance? To breathe? They'll slit your throat while you blink."
The knights stiffened, many visibly pale.
"Again," he said coldly. "From the top. Until I say stop."
Callen sighed beside Eli. "He's either in love… or planning to kill someone."
"…Love? It's impossible. He is definitely planning to kill someone." Eli muttered.
And under the blazing sun, under Silas's sharp tongue and sharper sword, they bled, sweated, and cursed—but none dared walk away.
***
Meanwhile at Baron Armoire Estate,
Panic. Utter, chaotic, operatic panic.
If one passed by the Armoire estate that morning, they would hear not birdsong or courtly chatter, but—
"LORD LUCIEN IS DYING!!"
Marcel, the head butler, was frantically dabbing Lucien's sweaty forehead with a lace-trimmed handkerchief, his hands trembling like he was partaking in a royal funeral. "My Lord, please stay with us—DON'T GO INTO THE LIGHT!"
"I'm not dying, Marcel. Stop being dramatic for God's sake," Lucien croaked, half-buried under a mountain of silk sheets, his face as pale as cheese left out in the sun. "I'm just… urghh—"
BLAARHGHHH!
And there he went again, retching into a porcelain bucket with such passion, it echoed off the marble walls like an exorcism.
"Again?! That's the fifth time since sunrise!" cried Sophie, the maid, hovering like a distressed hen. "What did he eat? Did someone poison him? Check the shrimp! THE SHRIMP!!"
"There was no shrimp!" another maid shouted from the corner.
"Then check the wine!"
"THERE WAS NO WINE!"
Lucien whimpered, clutching the bucket. "Stop yelling near my corpse…"
"Lord Lucien, please," Marcel said, placing a trembling hand on his young master's clammy shoulder. "Do you… have any idea what might have caused this?"
Lucien stared up at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe. His voice came out in a rasp. "I mean… I did drink something… strong… at that masquerade event. But… it's been more than ten days…"
"What did it look like?"
Lucien squinted, thinking hard. "A cup. Fancy. Might've glowed… a little."
Marcel went pale. "MY LORD, YOU DRANK ALCHEMIST POTION WINE?!"
"…No?" Lucien offered, incredibly unconvincing, before leaning back over the side of the bed and retching into the bucket with the misery of a man betrayed by life itself.
Everyone screamed in unison.
"We need to call a priest—"
"No, a healer—"
"No, a poison tester—"
"Damn it! Just call our physician—Dr. Faelan!" Marcel barked, losing the last bit of his butler composure as he flailed toward the door. "Tell him to bring every antidote, holy water, charm, and anti-curse scroll he owns!"
A maid bolted out like her dress was on fire. Lucien, half-melted into his sheets, turned pitiful eyes toward Marcel.
"Marcel… do you think I'm dying?" he whispered, voice trembling like a wilting flower. "If I die… burn my journals. All of them."
Sophie panicked. "Don't say that, my lord!"
"I'm serious," Lucien muttered with a pale seriousness that could only be rivaled by a ghost on its tax return. "Especially the red one with the golden ribbon. Burn it twice."
Marcel leaned down, gently wiping the sweat from his brow. "Don't say that, my lord! You're strong. You've survived worse!"
"Like what?"
"An awkward dinner with Marquise Lambert, for one."
Lucien gagged into the bucket again. "You're right. This is worse."
Ten agonizing minutes later, the chamber doors slammed open.
In stormed Dr. Faelan Hawke—young, too good-looking for someone with a degree, and permanently exasperated. His coat fluttered behind him like a caped crusader of common sense and medical anxiety.
"Move," he snapped, elbowing past the flustered maids with the speed of a man used to noble drama. Bottles clanked in his leather satchel as he dropped to Lucien's side.
He squinted. "What happened this time?"
"I might be dying," Lucien whimpered.
"He's been vomiting nonstop," Marcel added with grave urgency. "He's pale, feverish, and hallucinating about… death and journals."
Faelan gave a long, tired sigh. "Of course he is."
He whipped out a stethoscope-like charm, pressing it to Lucien's chest. His brow creased. Then furrowed deeper. Then twisted into a tangled knot of what could only be described as oh no.
He yanked open his bag, bottles clinking as he rummaged. "I—I need to take some tests."
Marcel stiffened. "W-what? What is it?"
Faelan didn't answer. Instead, he looked up grimly. "Everyone out. I need a moment alone with my lord."
"Is it contagious?!"
"IS HE CURSED?!"
"SHOULD WE START PRAYING?!"
"Should I burn the red journal?!" shouted a panicked maid.
"OUT!" Faelan roared.
The room emptied in seconds, leaving behind an ominous silence. As the doors clicked shut, Lucien turned to the physician with a shaky breath.
"Am… am I dying for real?"
Faelan gave him a long look, then sat back on his heels, rubbing his face. "No, my lord. It's not that."
Lucien blinked. "What is it then? Something worse? A royal plague? A rare noble flu? A demonic curse?!"
Faelan sighed, took off his spectacles, and said the words that would haunt the Armoire Estate for the next decade.
"The symptoms… your pulse… your aura… all point to one thing."
Lucien stared, wide-eyed. "One thing…?"
Faelan closed his eyes.
"…Pregnancy."
Silence.
Lucien blinked.
"....EXCUSE ME?!"