CHAPTER 82: NOT THE VILLAINS—JUST THE CONSEQUENCE

[Rynthall Estate—Dawn | The Drawing Room]

The sky was just beginning to pale into soft lavender. The last wisps of storm clouds clung to the horizon like reluctant shadows, casting the estate in a pale, silvery glow.

But inside House Rynthall?

There was silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

No. This silence was the kind that made seasoned guards stand straighter. That made butlers tread lightly, as if the floor might judge them. Even the enchanted grandfather clock by the archway ticked slower—hesitant, almost apologetic, unsure whether it had permission to exist.

Because Lucien Rynthall was awake.

And he was not pleased.

He sat stiffly on the velvet couch—posture impeccable, expression unreadable. In his arms, lying peacefully against his chest, was the smallest storm ever born. His daughter. His heart.

The tiny heir of Rynthall was sound asleep—her breath even, her brow softly furrowed as if she were dreaming about all the things in the world she planned to one day disapprove of. One tiny fist curled near Lucien’s collarbone, the other tucked beneath her cheek.

But Lucien?

He was glowing with one thing only: controlled, maternal, incandescent rage.

Not smiling. Not speaking.

Just sitting in unnerving stillness—like a volcano dressed in silk, cradling a flower.

Alphonso and the nearby maids stood at the edge of the room, whispering prayers in their heads. Even Marcel, who had seen wars and court executions and Lucien’s labor (especially Lucien’s labor), stood rigid by the fireplace, muttering under his breath and pretending to scribble in his journal.

Alphonso finally dared to step forward. He cleared his throat. "My lord... Perhaps you should rest. Just a little. You’ve been awake all night."

Lucien turned.

Slowly. Very slowly.

His eyes gleamed with the kind of calm that preceded thunderstorms.

"I delivered a child one day ago, Alphonso." His voice was soft. Too soft. "My back is broken. My legs are numb. My stitches feel like I’m sitting on vengeance itself."

He tilted his head, smiling faintly. A porcelain smile with jagged teeth underneath.

"But I’m going to throw a fireball through someone’s sacred altar... and then I’ll sleep."

Alphonso blinked. "Of course, my lord. Would you... perhaps like an extra cushion to throw? Or maybe... one for aiming?"

Lucien paused.

Stared at him.

And then gave the smallest, most dangerous nod. "That’s the smartest thing anyone’s said today."

The double doors creaked open then—and in walked a man who looked like he’d walked through war and won.

The cloak was singed at the hem. Shirt bloodstained but irritatingly still tucked in. Hair wild. And in his hand? A scroll sealed in gold. Possibly damning evidence. Possibly a resignation letter from God himself. Alphanso immediately gave him a shirt to change.

Lucien turned his head.

Silas froze.

"Oh no," Silas muttered under his breath like a man who just stepped on a trap in his own living room.

Lucien smiled.

It didn’t reach his eyes.

"Well?" he asked, voice laced with honey and arsenic. "Where’s the holy mosquito?"

Silas cleared his throat, already surrendering. "Alive. Slightly bruised. Thoroughly gagged. Currently chained in the imperial dungeon—smells like desperation and old incense."

Lucien rose, graceful and terrifying.

"Why alive?"

Silas raised both hands like a man in a holy standoff. "Because you told me—very clearly—that if I killed him without you, you’d ruin my tea life for an entire year."

Lucien blinked. "Correct."

"And set my books on fire."

Lucien nodded. "Also correct."

"...And hex my hair into a tragic, frizzy puffball."

Lucien finally smirked. "Darling, that would’ve been art."

Silas stepped forward carefully, reaching out to touch Lucien’s hand—the one not currently wrapped protectively around their daughter.

"He’s yours now," Silas said softly. "Every lie. Every sin. Every plea for mercy."

Lucien inhaled, slow and deep.

Then exhaled.

And smiled.

"Good. Because I want him to weep... in seventeen dialects. Preferably while crawling."

Silas chuckled. Then paused, glancing at the little one snuggled on Lucien’s chest. His gaze melted.

He stretched his arms a little, eyes wide and hopeful.

"...Can I...?"

Lucien frowned. "What?"

Silas blinked innocently. "I want to hold my baby girl..."

And just like that—he lit up like a star given legs. The Grand Duke of the Empire looked like a golden retriever in love, sparkling with uncontainable affection.

Lucien sighed.

"You’re ridiculous," he mumbled—but his voice was soft now. So, so soft.

Carefully—very carefully—he shifted their daughter into Silas’s waiting arms.

Silas held her like the world itself was breakable.

She stirred. Grumbled. Frowned.

Silas froze like he’d just been judged by the gods.

Lucien leaned in. "That face? She gets it from you."

Silas beamed like a comet had called him daddy. And for one blessed moment in the storm—

Peace returned to the estate.

Until Lucien said, tone sweet but glinting, "Now hand her back. I need to feed her soon, and I’m going to change and go personally threaten the prison guards. They better not have fed him mint tea. That man deserves nothing but stale air and cold water."

Silas blinked.

Clutched the baby tighter.

Lower lip wobbled—wobbled—like he was about to burst into actual, royal tears.

Lucien stared.

Hard.

"Oh gods," he groaned. "Don’t do the sad starfish eyes, Silas. I just gave birth. You think I’m emotionally equipped for this?"

Silas sniffled. "She’s so tiny, Lu. And warm. She looked at me just now. I swear she smiled."

"She’s sleeping," Lucien corrected flatly. "And maybe passed gas."

"Still counts!"

Lucien ran a hand down his face. "Fine. Hold her for five more minutes. But if she cries, I’m deducting cuddle time for a week."

Silas beamed so hard he almost lit the drapes on fire. "I will not let her shed a single tear."

Lucien huffed, amused despite himself. He turned and headed toward the grand staircase, muttering under his breath:

"I swear... I’m raising a small toddler and married a very large one."

Behind him, Silas was whispering to their daughter, "Don’t worry, little comet. Papa’s just being dramatic. He loves us both. Mostly me. You’ll see."

And thus, the Rynthall estate returned to temporary calm.

But calm in House Rynthall?

Never lasted long.

Because Lucien was getting dressed.

And someone was about to suffer.

***

[Imperial Palace Grounds—Morning | Just Before the Storm]

The imperial carriage rolled to a slow halt outside the east wing of the palace gardens.

Silas stepped out first—cloak fluttering, jaw tight, posture still tense with residual fury. He turned instantly, one arm extended, ready to help his husband out.

Lucien emerged next.

Slowly.

Painfully.

One hand on the carriage door. The other clutching his abdomen. His legs trembled the moment his boots touched the polished stone path.

Silas moved forward instinctively. "Should I carry you, my love?"

Lucien exhaled through his nose, wincing as he adjusted his weight.

"No," he muttered, cheeks slightly flushed. "Fredrick said I need to walk a little every day... or else I’ll forget how."

Silas blinked. "Forget how? You’re not a duckling."

"Speak again and I’ll make you quack," Lucien hissed under his breath and took the first step forward—like a royal ghost made of pain, determination, and caffeine withdrawal.

Silas, wisely, said nothing.

They walked slowly—Silas shadowing Lucien like a very concerned husband-slash-bodyguard-slash-anxious goose.

They turned the corner into the imperial garden... and paused.

Because there, at the center of the rose garden... sat Seraphina and Empress.

Having tea.

Together.

Smiling.

Not arguing.

Not throwing sharp fans.

Just... existing in the same dimension without war.

Silas squinted. "Did the sun rise wrong today?"

Lucien blinked. "I... I think so."

"I feel uncomfortable," Silas whispered.

"You look uncomfortable," Lucien replied. "Fix your face."

At that moment, Empress turned—and the moment she spotted Lucien, her entire cold, diamond-hard aura melted like snow on hot silk.

Her eyes widened.

Her teacup floated midair as she stood—graceful, majestic, utterly ignoring Silas—and swept Lucien into a tight hug.

"Oh, my precious cinnamon roll," she cooed, pressing her cheek against his. "Congratulations on the successful delivery of little Wobblebean."

Silas frowned. "I—excuse me? My child—"

"Hush," the Empress snapped. "The adults are talking."

Lucien blinked, still being smothered. "You didn’t come visit."

Empress drew back dramatically, eyes big and mournful. "I wanted to, but my little boy kept clinging to me like a sad duckling. So clingy."

Lucien snorted. "I get it."

Empress then cupped his cheeks with both hands. "You are radiant. You survived childbirth, almost set the temple on fire, and still managed to wear silk. You are a legend."

Silas cleared his throat. "I helped—"

"Shhh."

Then—

Seraphina stood, fixing her gloves with the flair of someone about to commit crimes elegantly.

"Enough sweet talk," she said with deadly glee. "LET’S GO. I AM DYING TO TORMENT THAT HOLY WORM-SACK IN PRIEST ROBES. He dared to kidnap my niece?!"

She yanked a scroll from the sleeve of her pastel gown like a magician drawing a sword. It was thick. Ancient-looking. Possibly cursed.

"I’ve brought one hundred and twelve ideas for psychological, magical, and mildly culinary torment."

Lucien raised an impressed brow.

"Did you... index them?"

"Of course," Seraphina scoffed. "Alphabetical and emotional impact order."

Lucien gave her a thumbs-up, deadpan. "You’re definitely my sister."

Seraphina beamed. "That’s the best compliment I’ve ever received."

Silas sighed, rubbing his temples. "Are we the villains?"

Lucien smirked, slowly walking forward with all the menace of a very sore omega on a vengeance tour.

"No, darling. We’re the epilogue to their sins."