The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist

Chapter 24: The Feather Vault and the Hunter’s Path

[Rynthall Estate—Mid-Morning]

The Rynthall Estate was basking in an illusion of peace.

Well... not exactly peace. Because if our dramatic baron, Lucien d’Armoire, exists within a five-mile radius, peace is nothing but a fantasy novel no one asked for.

But still, relatively peaceful—because the aforementioned baron was currently seated in the garden under a lace-draped canopy, sipping his morning tea with the blissful expression of a poet in love with a daffodil.

The birds were chirping. The tea was steaming. The chaos... was temporarily paused.

It was, as they say, too good to last.

"MYYYYYYYY LORRRRRRRRRRRRRD!!!"

Lucien choked mid-sip, spraying Earl Grey all over his cravat like a broken fountain.

A blur of black and tears came sprinting across the garden like a man possessed by theatrical spirits. It was none other than Marcel, his long-suffering butler, who ran toward him with flailing limbs and the expression of someone being chased by tax collectors.

Arms flailed. Coat tails whipped like curtains in a hurricane. His eyes glistened with tragic tears that caught the light like overly dramatic diamonds.

The maids. The gardeners. Even the swans in the pond. They all paused—too stunned to react to the spectacle of Marcel charging through the hedges like a tragic bride.

Lucien, wiping tea from his face, blinked in deadpan horror as Marcel approached in slow motion. Literal slow motion. The wind even picked up dramatically.

"Are we... filming something?" Lucien muttered under his breath, squinting toward an imaginary camera crew.

Then—thud.

Marcel collapsed at his feet, onto his knees, sobbing as if the world had ended and taken his favorite soap opera with it.

"MY LORRRRRRDDDDDD—!!" Marcel wailed again, now mere inches from Lucien’s ear, which probably burst a blood vessel from sheer volume.

Lucien flinched. "By all that is holy, Marcel! Do you mind?! You’re going to traumatize Wobblebean! Do you want my heir to be born with chronic stress?!"

Still sobbing.

Lucien glared. "Use your indoor-tragedy voice."

But Marcel didn’t stop. Oh no. He got louder.

"OUR... OUR WAREHOUSE OF IMPORTED ORNAMENTAL GOOSE FEATHERS... HAS CAUGHT... FIIIIIIIIIIIIREEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!"

Time froze.

Lucien’s teacup slipped from his hand in slow motion, shattering against the tiled floor like his heart.

"WHATTTTTT?!" Lucien screamed, standing up so fast his chair flipped. "THE GOOSE FEATHERS?! THE ENTIRE COLLECTION?! THE ONES I HAD COLOR-CODED BY MOOD?!"

He lunged forward, grabbed Marcel by the lapels, and yanked him up like a chicken being questioned by the law.

"HOW?! HOW IN THE NAME OF AESTHETICS DID THIS HAPPEN?! WHO HAS COMMITTED SUCH A HENIOUS CRIME?"

Marcel, now dangling, was possibly seeing stars and geese. "I—I don’t know, my lord! One of our worker said he saw smoke... And then it just... exploded in flames! Feathers flew everywhere... it looked like a blizzard in hell!"

Lucien gasped and dropped Marcel like a sack of sorrow.

"No... no... my poor pastel lavender fluff... my lemon-sorbet soufflé collection... Wobblebean will never know their soft touch!"

Then he grabbed his embroidered coat off the chair, flinging it over his shoulders like a tragic war hero.

"I must go! I must see the ruins with my own eyes! I must... mourn my fluff!"

He dramatically turned to the stunned staff.

"Prepare the carriage! Fetch the Fire Warden! And find me a black veil—I shall grieve properly!"

As he stormed off toward the stables, his coat flaring in the wind like a cape of justice, Marcel lay on the grass, wheezing.

"You didn’t even ask if I’m okay..."

Lucien spun on his heel. "Your suffering is secondary! But my goose feathers, Marcel—my hand-plucked, ethically-sourced, winter-grade goose feathers—they were my life’s work! That vault was the soul of my upholstery empire!"

He turned back around and mumbled, "Don’t worry, Wobblebean. Mommy shall avenge the fluff."

And with that, chaos resumed.

***

[Imperial Palace, Meeting Room—Mid-Morning]

The air inside the grand meeting chamber of the Imperial Palace was thick with silence—and tension.

Silas sat in a high-backed chair made for diplomacy and posture. He was doing neither. Instead, he thumped his boots against the polished marble floor like a man trying to crack it open with sheer annoyance.

Thump.Thump.Thump.

Beside him, Elize stood perfectly composed, her hands on her sword. The imperial butler, a seasoned man with a stiff spine and nerves of glass, stood near the double doors, pretending not to exist.

Silas’s crimson eyes narrowed at him.

"How much longer?" he snapped. "Does His Majesty think I’m here for a casual afternoon tea? Or perhaps a game of ’who waits longest dies first’?"

The butler flinched like a man who’d just heard thunder in a church. He opened his mouth, perhaps to defend the emperor’s sense of timing or perhaps to beg for his life—but a voice floated in before he could speak.

"My, my, my... Grand Duke Silas, must you always treat waiting like an act of war?"

The doors parted with ceremonial grace as Emperor Adrein Soleil finally entered, dressed in casual royal ease, his golden sash slung over one shoulder like it had dressed him.

Silas stood stiffly, giving the customary nod. "Your Majesty."

Adrein waved his hand like a man brushing off a fly. "Oh, sit down before you wrinkle your eternal scowl."

Once both men had seated themselves at the long table, Adrein leaned back with a lazy smile.

"So... what kind of tea would you like? Chamomile? Mint? Something to match your temperament—blood tea, perhaps?"

Silas shot him a look sharp enough to slice porcelain. "I didn’t come here for tea parties and small talk, Soleil."

Adrein blinked, unfazed. "Wow. Still cold as ice, aren’t you?" He glanced toward Elize. "Is he always like this at noon?"

Elize, ever diplomatic, tilted her head. "This is him on a good day."

"Charming," Adrein muttered.

Silas ignored the banter, his tone dropping into seriousness. "Let’s move to the matter at hand. It’s about the serial murder case."

Adrein sat up, expression tightening just enough to show he was paying attention. "Go on."

Silas exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping once on the armrest. "The last omega who was kidnapped... she was found alive."

Adrein raised a brow. "That’s unexpected. And the child?"

"Delivered safely," Silas replied. "Thanks to Frederick’s medical skills and a few temple priests who decided to be useful for once."

Adrein gave a wry smile. "Miracles do happen. The temple crowd usually wouldn’t lift a finger unless the gods themselves lit a fire under their holy robes."

Silas let out a rare snort. "I won’t disagree."

"But," Adrein continued, folding his hands, "what about the murderer? Have you caught him?"

A long silence.

Silas’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a chilling calm. "Not yet. But I intend to find him myself... And when I do, I’ll make sure he regrets ever breathing."

Adrein blinked, leaning back with mock concern. "Wow. Alright, Lord Wrath and Vengeance, maybe take a breath?"

"I am calm," Silas said coolly.

From beside him, Elize muttered without looking up, "He’s definitely not."

Adrien chuckled. "Thank you, Elize." Then, more seriously, "Did the omega victim say anything? Any leads?"

Silas shook his head. "She’s still unconscious. Frederick says she’s stable, but trauma that deep... Recovery won’t be fast. He’s watching her round-the-clock."

"Hmm..." Adrein rubbed his chin. "So what exactly do you need from me, Silas? A troop? A title? Tea, after all?"

Silas met his gaze, dead serious. "I want full imperial clearance. Access to temple records, patrol logs, black-market intel, and jurisdiction to investigate across all territories without interference."

Adrein whistled low. "Now you’re sounding like a man on a mission. Very dramatic. Very ’vengeful king’s balde.’" He tapped a finger against the table. "You have it. But I want updates."

Silas stood, brushing invisible dust from his coat. "Fine. I’ll write you a haiku if I find the time."

Adrein grinned. "Just don’t use blood as ink."

***

[Rynthall Estate, Same time...]

The estate was in chaos.

Footsteps echoed through the marble corridors like war drums. Servants whispered behind trembling hands, and the usually composed atmosphere of Rynthall had fractured under the weight of one name.

"HOW COULD YOU LET THE BARON LEAVE WITHOUT A GUARD?"

Calen’s voice thundered through the main hall like a whipcrack. The commander of the estate’s knights flinched, his shoulders drawing taut like a man expecting execution.

"We—we didn’t know, Lord Calen," one knight stammered. "By the time we were informed... he was already gone. Left with just his butler. No escort."

Calen raked a hand through his hair, his breath coming short and sharp. "Damn it," he hissed. "If Silas finds out—"

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Every knight present paled at the very idea.

Another beat of silence.

"Stop standing here like decorative armor!" Calen barked. "Find him. Now. Before he wanders into something he can’t walk away from!"

The knights scrambled, boots clattering against stone, fear driving them faster than duty.

As the last of them disappeared down the corridor, Butler Alphonso stepped forward, his face grave, his voice low.

"Do you truly believe he could be in danger?"

Calen turned slowly, his expression tight. "Alphonso... we can’t say anything for certain. His pregnancy may be hidden for now, but that doesn’t change the truth. There’s still a killer out there."

He paused, voice dropping to a whisper. "A killer targeting pregnant omegas... specifically, those with black hair."

Alphonso’s breath hitched. "You think... he could be next?"

"I hope to every god he’s not," Calen muttered. "But hope won’t protect him if we’re wrong."

The butler swallowed hard, then squared his shoulders. "We need to inform Lord Silas. Immediately."

Calen nodded once, grim. "Yes. Before this turns into something we can’t undo."

A cold wind blew through the open balcony doors, fluttering the curtains like ghostly fingers. In the distance, the estate gates stood ajar—just wide enough for one person to slip through.

And somewhere beyond them...

Lucien was walking straight into the unknown.