CHAPTER 83: LUCIEN’S LIST OF RIGHTEOUS VENGEANCE

[Imperial Palace—Interrogation Wing | Dungeon | Late Morning]

The palace dungeons were not designed for comfort.

Even the light didn’t behave the same way down here. It flickered, uncertain and cold, pooling in damp corners like it was ashamed to stay.

And in the deepest chamber—far beneath polished marble and golden halls—sat High Priest Caldric.

Or rather, slumped.

His robes were gone, replaced with rough prisoner’s garb. His hair, once powdered and oiled with ceremony, hung in limp, greasy strands. He smelled like a rotting sermon.

The silence was deafening.

Until—click.

He raised his head slowly. The heavy iron door creaked open, spilling sunlight that felt too pure for this space. He squinted.

Bootsteps.

And heels.

Click. Click. Click.

He blinked—eyes adjusting—only to see three terrifying silhouettes walk in like the holy trinity of vengeance.

Lucien. Seraphina. The Empress.

Lucien, draped in mourning black and postpartum glow, walked like his legs still ached—but his rage did not. He moved with the kind of quiet fury only mothers possessed.

Seraphina, meanwhile, was in full war regalia: pink lace gloves, seven hairpins shaped like daggers, and an embroidered fan that was less about cooling and more about threatening.

And the Empress? She was smiling. That alone was dangerous.

"Good morning, Your Most Unholy," Seraphina chirped, fluttering her fan open with a snap. "Slept well? Or did the rats keep stealing your pillow?"

Caldric coughed. "You... can’t do this. I am—"

"Oh, we know," Lucien interrupted, sitting—very slowly and with a grimace—on the chair brought by guards. "You’re the Voice of the Gods. Shame your gods seem to have laryngitis these days."

Seraphina smirked. "Or maybe they’re ignoring your calls. You know, too much holy prayers from an unholy guy."

Lucien folded his hands on his lap.

"I came here for two reasons," he said softly. "To ask you a question... and then, depending on your answer, maybe give you something."

Caldric swallowed. "What question?"

Lucien’s voice dropped.

"Why, my child?"

Caldric blinked. "She... she was born under the omen. The prophecy—"

"There are always prophecies," Lucien snapped. "Every noble child in this empire has been born under a bloody comet, or while a magical pigeon sang, or during a solar sneeze."

The Empress choked back a laugh.

Lucien leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"But none of those children were born to me. And none of their parents dared to break into my house. So why, my child, Caldric?"

Silence.

Then, a whisper.

"Because she’s yours," he said bitterly. "And his."

Lucien’s jaw tightened.

Seraphina stepped forward, her heels clicking like a countdown to divine retribution. "Oh? You wanted the child because she’s powerful, beautiful, and royal... and also has two fathers? What, did you want to convert her? Turn her into a glorified symbol while you prance around with holy robes and fake humility?"

Caldric’s mask of sanctity cracked. His lips curled into something darker, uglier.

"No," he snarled. "I wanted to show the world... that I control the child of a rare male omega. Do you understand what that means?! A child born of that unnatural bond—that impossibility—raised within the Temple? That would’ve erased the gossip. Silenced the scandal. The nobles would grovel. The masses would kneel."

His voice grew unhinged.

"They wouldn’t talk about the omega prince who dared marry an alpha. No—they would talk about my blessed miracle. The girl was born under prophecy. They would worship her. And in doing so..."

He looked up, eyes gleaming with feverish pride.

"They would worship me."

For a moment, silence.

Then—

THUD.

Lucien moved faster than anyone expected. One step forward, and he slammed his foot—hard—into Caldric’s chest.

The high priest choked and crashed to the dungeon floor like a fallen idol, winded and wide-eyed.

Seraphina and the Empress blinked—

—and burst into applause.

"Ohhhh, clean hit!" the Empress gasped, clapping like she was at the opera.

"Told you," Seraphina said smugly. "Lucien is dangerous when pissed. Absolutely divine when violent."

Caldric groaned on the floor, clutching his side.

"How dare you..." he growled. "Do you know who I am? I am the Voice of the Go—"

CRACK.

Another kick.

Lucien’s foot collided with his shoulder this time, knocking him flat again. The chains on his wrists rattled like applause.

Lucien stood over him, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed with fury and exhaustion and something far more ancient.

Something primordial.

A mother’s wrath.

"Say one holy word," Lucien hissed, low and venomous. "Say one more sanctimonious syllable—I dare you. I will personally make sure you never speak again."

Caldric tried to rise, wheezing. Lucien crouched down to meet his eyes—those once soft, ocean-colored eyes now stormy and sharp like shattered glass.

"You’re nothing now," he whispered. "No robes. No crown. No gilded words to hide behind."

"You’re not holy. You’re not righteous. You’re not a prophet."

Lucien’s voice trembled—not from weakness, but from fury held just beneath the surface.

"You’re a monster. A walking sin cloaked in gold. And monsters don’t get redemption. They don’t get mercy. They crawl, they beg, they rot."

He leaned closer.

"And monsters like you... don’t deserve legs that walk. Because all you’ve ever done is trample the innocent with them."

Caldric’s lip trembled.

Lucien stood tall again, brushing invisible dust from his sleeves.

Caldric’s lip trembled.

Lucien slowly rose to his full height, calm as a tide just before the storm. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves with the elegance of a man who had just committed a holy act of violence—and wasn’t nearly done.

His voice, when it came, was soft.

Deadly soft.

"You dared," Lucien murmured, "to use my precious daughter... the child I carried for nine months—through backaches, breathlessness, mood swings that terrified armies, cravings that made chefs cry, and kicks so violent I thought she was trying to escape through my ribcage—"

He took a step forward. Caldric shrank.

"—all of that. Just so you could stitch your crumbling reputation back together with my child’s blood and legacy?"

Caldric’s mouth opened—

—but no sound came out.

Because what could he possibly say?

Lucien’s eyes narrowed.

"Thought so."

From the folds of his coat, Lucien drew a long, thick scroll that Seraphina brought.

Seraphina’s eyes lit up. "Is that the list I prepared?"

Lucien nodded.

A smile like a guillotine.

Caldric flinched like the parchment itself had teeth.

The empress stepped forward then—slow, graceful, and predatory. Her gown rustled like warning bells before a storm. She leaned down, so close her jeweled earring brushed against his trembling shoulder.

"Today," she whispered, lips curved with ice, "we’re going to take turns reading this list to you."

Lucien gave a delicate, devastating smile. "And for every single sin you committed—oh, every falsified blessing, every orphan you robbed, every poor soul you buried—we’ll match it."

"With a punishment," the Empress purred.

"Poetic ones," Seraphina chirped, like she was picking tea flavors. "Seasonal. Inspired."

Caldric’s breath caught. "No... no, you can’t—this isn’t law, this is torture—!"

"Shhhh," Lucien said, raising one finger to his lips and leaning down so their faces were just inches apart. "The grownups are talking."

Caldric stared, wide-eyed, as Lucien turned to his sister.

"I’ll take embezzlement and miracle frauds. You can handle the human trafficking section, yes, Sera?"

Seraphina was already adjusting her gloves. "With absolute pleasure."

The empress cracked her knuckles with a ladylike smile. "I’ll take the ritual sacrifices, the blackmail, and—oh!—treason. That one’s my favorite."

Lucien unrolled the scroll with an elegant flick.

It hit the floor with a heavy thud, rolling across the stone like a sentence being pronounced.

He looked up. "Shall we begin?"

Seraphina pulled out a velvet-bound notebook. "I brought color-coded ink pens."

The Empress pulled out a chair. "I brought snacks."

Lucien exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, and smiled so sweetly it could rot iron.

"Caldric of the Holy Temple," he said softly, "this is going to be the longest sermon of your life."

And somewhere deep in the imperial dungeon, beneath golden halls and sacred marble walls—

A scream echoed.

High. Piercing. Desperate.

No one tried to stop it.

Because no one dared to interrupt what was happening below.

Up above, in the Emperor’s garden—bathed in soft sunlight and the scent of blooming royal tea roses—a completely different scene played out.

Peaceful.

Almost unnaturally peaceful.

Silas sat on a velvet garden chair, sipping jasmine tea like a man who didn’t just storm a holy temple the night before. Emperor Adrien lounged beside him, robe loose, a cookie half-dunked in his cup. And Callen, had both hands clasped dramatically near his heart as he gazed dreamily toward the dungeon entrance.

"Ohhh..." Callen sighed, sparkling like a lovesick schoolgirl. "They’ve started. My Sera has begun her divine torment..."

He clasped his hands tighter, nearly swooning. "She’s so radiant when she’s furious. Her vocabulary becomes absolutely lethal. I saw her pull out a thesaurus once just to insult a man in twelve different ways—"

Silas and Adrien just... stared.

In synchronized silence.

"Right," Adrien muttered, raising an eyebrow. "He’s definitely lost it."

Silas nodded solemnly, sipping his tea. "Completely feral for her. Honestly, it’s impressive."

Callen just hummed and sighed and shimmered with undying devotion.

Silas leaned back, looking toward the estate. "I just hope they wrap it up soon. I miss my daughter."

Adrien chuckled, then sipped his tea and leaned closer.

"Hey... speaking of your little frowny princess," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief, "I had an idea—"

"No," Silas said instantly.

Adrien blinked. "I didn’t even say it yet!"

"You were going to suggest your son marry my daughter."

The Emperor gasped. "HOW did you—?!"

Silas calmly raised an eyebrow. "Because when a man becomes the father of a daughter... the gods give him certain gifts."

"What gifts?"

Silas smiled.

"Mind-reading. Sixth sense. And the ability to smell a teenage boy’s intentions from five miles away."

Adrien stared at him.

Silas took another sip and added, "Also, the ability to bury bodies in flowerbeds without leaving evidence."

Callen clapped softly. "So romantic."

Adrien leaned back with a defeated sigh.

"You know," he muttered, "you’re going to be that dad, aren’t you?"

Silas didn’t deny it.

He just took a cookie. Bit it. Smiled.