Chapter 41: Where Gods Watch, Lovers Rest - The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist - NovelsTime

The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist

Chapter 41: Where Gods Watch, Lovers Rest

Author: supriya_shukla
updatedAt: 2025-07-12

CHAPTER 41: WHERE GODS WATCH, LOVERS REST

[The Holy Temple of Aetheria—Inner Sanctum]

The bells of Aetheria Holy Temple tolled, deep and thunderous—like the heartbeat of an ancient god stirring beneath the marble.

In the heart of the Imperial Capital, high above the glittering spires and gold-laced rooftops, the Holy Temple sat like a crown made of white stone and ancient whispers. Its towers pierced the sky. Its halls swallowed light. And behind its prayer-draped doors, the air was always cold—holy, heavy, and watching.

Candles flickered along the columns, smoke curling toward vaulted ceilings like offerings reaching for judgment.

A pair of bare footsteps echoed.

The man in the silver-white robe knelt before the carved gates of the inner sanctum, head bowed, hands pressed in fervent devotion. He did not move. He did not speak.

Until the doors creaked open.

And the high priest stepped into the light.

High Priest Caldris wore robes of woven moon-thread, his silver headdress casting a halo of refracted light behind his crown of bone. His skin was pale, untouched by sun. His eyes, however—his eyes burned with cold, devout certainty. Like a prophet who had already seen the end of the story.

"You have something," he said, voice smooth as carved obsidian, "worth interrupting the silence of the gods."

The kneeling man lifted his head.

"I witnessed him, Your Holiness," he whispered. "The rare male omega."

The High Priest went still. Not a blink. Not a breath.

"You’re sure?"

"Yes. He is with child. The glow was unmistakable. Divine. Unnatural. No aura of concealment."

A slow exhale.

"A rare male omega..." Caldris said, almost reverently. "They haven’t appeared since the Third Prophetic Era."

The flicker of candles danced on his face, shadowing his eyes.

"Do you know what this means?" he whispered.

The man nodded once. "A divine rebirth."

"No," Caldris replied, stepping closer, voice sharper. "A divine correction."

His footsteps rang across the polished stone. Behind him, disciples in white robes waited like silent shadows.

"The world has drowned itself in corruption. Greed. False monarchs. Contaminated bloodlines. But now... the gods have sent us a key."

He turned to face the temple’s altar, an enormous carving of the celestial tree said to bear the fruits of destiny.

"The child he carries—it must be raised under holy protection," Caldris said. "Taught the sacred truths. Freed from the pollution of palace decadence and mortal attachment."

The robed man hesitated. "...He will soon be married to a grand duke, your holiness. Surrounded by royals. The Emperor and Empress herself—"

"—They will not keep him," Caldris said, a shadow passing through his voice. "They do not understand his divinity. But we do."

He extended a hand, palm toward the altar.

"He is not theirs. He belongs to the gods. He belongs to us."

The flames in the room flickered.

The air grew colder.

"And if he resists?" the robed man asked softly.

Caldris smiled—serene, unwavering, absolute. "Then it is our sacred duty to correct him."

***

[Rynthall Estate—Morning, The Return of the Blessed Escapee]

Lucien collapsed dramatically onto the silk-draped fainting couch in the Rynthall estate’s drawing room, sighing like he had just escaped a burning building—or worse, a brunch with the Empress.

"By the gods, I made it out alive..." he whispered to the ceiling. "Barely."

Silken cushions cushioned his overdramatic flailing. He stared at the chandelier like it had personally witnessed his trauma.

"Do you even know how hard it was," he mumbled, flopping an arm across his forehead like a hero fallen in war, "to convince Elise that I could not live with her for the rest of my pregnancy?"

He rolled over, eyes wide. "She tried to assign me a royal maternity entourage. Do you understand what that means, Silas?! A thirty-person unit to monitor my naps. My naps, Silas."

From the doorway, Silas—now freshly dressed in a soft linen shirt and with his hair actually relaxed for the first time in a day—was smiling like a man reborn.

Like a man who had, quite literally, escaped the Empress’s emotional dungeon with all limbs intact.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe with the kind of casual ease that said I could rule a continent, but I’d rather feed my spouse fruit slices right now.

Lucien, curled on the couch like a spoiled cat in silk, raised his head with a weary sigh. "Yeah... Something fresh, please. Fruity. Sweet. Non-imperial."

Silas smirked—smirked like he had already predicted that answer. He gave a subtle nod to the maid standing beside him, and without a word, she bolted. Not walked. Bolted. As if Lucien’s hydration was a matter of national security.

The moment she vanished, Silas strolled over and lowered himself beside Lucien with the grace of a man who knew he belonged there. Like that spot had been carved from royal marble specifically for him.

Lucien, of course, wasted no time.

He sighed—deeply, dramatically—and shuffled over like a sleepy baby lamb. Nestling his head into Silas’s shoulder with all the effort of a human pudding cup, he slumped into maximum comfort position. Legs half over his lap. Arms draped. A faint sparkle shimmering from his curls.

Silas smiled softly.

His fingers moved on instinct—brushing gently against Lucien’s cheek. His thumb lingered for a second, drawing a lazy line over his skin as if memorizing it all over again.

"You feel good?" Silas murmured, his voice low and warm like early morning honey.

Lucien didn’t even open his eyes.

Just hummed, all muffled and blissful. "Mmmhmmm. Good. Very good. Keep petting. I’ll melt eventually."

Silas chuckled. "Duly noted."

The maid returned then, less than thirty seconds later, carrying a tray with chilled lychee juice, a tiny mountain of sliced fruit, and something suspiciously shaped like a heart-shaped cookie. She placed it down with the quiet precision of someone who had seen too much romance already today—and dashed away like a lightning bolt before she could witness one (1) forehead kiss and faint from cuteness overload.

Lucien didn’t even open his eyes.

He just blindly lifted a hand. "Is that juice I hear?"

"Yes, Your Glowy Majesty," Silas said with a grin, picking up the glass and helping him drink like he was the royal center of a mango-scented ritual. "Fresh and fruity. Just like you ordered."

Lucien sipped lazily.

Then: "Mmmm. I approve. Good job, husband."

Silas blushed as he heard husband again.

A long, warm pause. Then Silas reached over to the snack tray and plucked a piece of honeyed melon, holding it up.

"Say ’ah,’" he teased.

Lucien opened his eyes halfway. "Are you hand-feeding me now?"

"Only the best service for my inconveniently adorable omega."

Lucien rolled his eyes but opened his mouth anyway. "Aaaaah."

The moment the fruit touched his tongue, he sighed like he was being saved from starvation. "Gods. Why does it taste better when you feed me?"

"Because I use the ancient method of Love-Based Delivery."

Lucien snorted. "You’re so dramatic."

"I’m dramatic?" Silas raised an eyebrow. "You swooned into my shoulder like a widowed duchess ten minutes ago."

Lucien gasped, one hand flying to his chest. "How dare you. I was emotionally recovering!"

"From being hugged too much?"

"From nearly dying under Elise’s seventeen cuddling maids!"

Another piece of melon was placed near his lips.

He took it with a pout. Then smirked mid-chew. Silas gently kissed the top of his head and rested his cheek against Lucien’s curls, letting silence stretch.

A soft, comfortable silence.

Warm with shared breath. Easy with the kind of affection that didn’t need to ask for permission.

For the first time after a long day... everything was still. And in the safe cocoon of the Rynthall estate, Lucien mumbled, "Silas?"

"Mhm?"

Lucien’s eyes narrowed against his shoulder, voice quiet—yet lethal. "Don’t you ever try to leave me..."

Silas blinked.

Lucien paused for dramatic effect.

"...Or I will kill you and run away with Wobblebean."

Silas blinked again. "What—"

"I mean it." Lucien’s voice was steady. Cold. Deadly sincere. Like he’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror while holding a fruit knife.

Silas stared down at him, utterly stunned.

There was no malice in Lucien’s expression, only pure possessiveness bundled in the softest blanket. His cheek pressed against Silas’s chest as if nothing had happened. As if threatening murder and kidnapping their unborn child was just... an affectionate bedtime whisper.

"Where did that come from?" Silas asked, half-laughing, half-terrified.

Lucien didn’t respond at first. He simply continued to rest there, comfortable as a crown prince in a hammock made of compliments. Then, he mumbled, "I don’t know... hormones. Or maybe the trauma of almost dying between Elise and Seraphina today."

Silas chuckled softly and reached for Lucien’s hand. He threaded their fingers together and squeezed.

"Then let me promise you something."

Lucien glanced up, suspicious and squinty-eyed.

Silas leaned closer, brushing their foreheads together with a quiet confidence that made Lucien’s breath hitch.

"I won’t ever leave," he said firmly. "And to prove it—"

He lifted their entwined hands between them like a vow sealed in light and lavender.

"Within two weeks... we’re getting married. No delays. No excuses. Just us, some chaos, and a really shiny cake."

Lucien blinked.

Then blinked again.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just... stared.

And then?

He nodded.

Snuggled even closer—if that was physically possible.

And murmured with a sleepy, royal pout, "Fine. But now feed me the cookie. The heart-shaped one. Not the stupid square one."

Silas grinned and obeyed without question.

He reached over, picked the warm, slightly-crumbling heart cookie from the tray, and gently fed it to Lucien like he was offering gold to a dragon curled on a throne.

Lucien took a bite. Chewed thoughtfully.

"Hmm. Love tastes like vanilla shortbread."

Silas laughed.

Outside, the last golden rays faded into a soft twilight.

Inside, the air was wrapped in promise and comfort—the gentle scent of sugar and sandalwood drifting lazily through the quiet.

But what they didn’t know—What neither of them could see, safe in their moment of peace—was that somewhere beyond those walls, someone had already begun to claim their Wobblebean as their own in the name of divine.

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