CHAPTER 84: THE EMPIRE BOWS TO A MOTHER

The storm had passed.

Well... not exactly passed.

It was currently rotting in the imperial dungeon—shackled, starving, and being punished in alphabetical order by Lucien, the Empress, and Seraphina. Turn by turn. Shift by shift. With color-coded torture plans and scheduled snack breaks.

Somewhere deep underground, Caldric was probably weeping in a bowl of cold lentils right now. And honestly?

Good.

Because just as Lucien had promised—oh, sweet heavens, he delivered.

Standing before the charred ruins of the once "Holy Temple of Light," Lucien had dramatically removed his mourning cloak, raised one hand, and declared—loudly, proudly, and with fire in his veins—

"This was never a temple. It was a gilded cage built by liars and draped in incense. We will rebuild—not a shrine to fear, but a sanctuary of truth."

Then he turned, tossed a lit match over his shoulder — and walked away as the remaining cursed walls exploded behind him.

Silas had to shield three children and a donkey from the debris.

But the moment? Iconic.

Meanwhile... in public?

Oh, it was CHAOS.

Screaming aunties. Crying nobles. Conspiracy theorists in embroidered hats. Someone tried to revive Caldric’s face from burnt toast.

The empire hadn’t been this shaken since the royal kitchens ran out of butter in 839 AE.

Because no one—and I repeat, no one—wanted to believe it.

High Priest Caldric? Corrupt?

The man who kissed babies and sprinkled glitter on blessings?

YES.

And the newspapers?

They had a field day.

One bold headline read:

"HOLY HELL: HIGH PRIEST OR HIGHWAY ROBBER?" (Full report on page 3. Graphic crimes on 4. His wig tax fraud on 5.)

Even after editing, condensing, cross-referencing, and censoring four quotes where he referred to himself as "God’s sexiest vessel"—

It still took two full pages. Front and back. In small font.

Lucien was thrilled. He clipped every copy and sent them as party favors to nobles who used to bow too deeply to Caldric.

And the people?

Well... belief in the temple crumbled faster than stale communion bread.

Prayers shifted.

The masses stopped looking at gold-spired towers and started looking toward marble balconies—balconies where the imperial family stood tall, bruised, battle-worn, and blazing with truth.

For the first time in centuries...the empire bowed to no priest.

It bowed to a mother who burned temples for her daughter. To a father who split marble with his boots. To sisters who carried war in their heels and glitter bombs in their handbags, and the Imperial Family now held the heart of the nation.

And the temples?

Well, they now held... bake sales.

(And trust issues.)

[Rynthall Estate – Silas’s and Lucein’s Chamber | Afternoon]

...And meanwhile, at the Rynthall Estate...

Warm sunlight poured through the crystal-paned windows of Silas and Lucien’s private chambers, casting golden patterns across marble floors and embroidered carpets. The faint scent of blooming roses drifted in from the gardens, mingling with the soft rustle of silk and lullaby breezes.

And in the center of it all—

Lucien sat on the edge of their bed.

Pale. Tired. Glowing like a divine relic from a holy painting—but with significantly more attitude and fewer patience points.

His arms cradled a bundle of everything he had bled for.

Their daughter.

Tiny. Peaceful. Wrapped in clouds of soft cotton and imperial silk stitched with spells of protection and little rabbits in gold thread. A single curl of black hair peeked out from under her cap—defiant already. Her cheeks were round and pink, puffing softly as she dreamed about... whatever holy war babies dream about.

Across the room, Silas stood frozen, like a man watching the sunrise for the first time. Like if he blinked, they’d both vanish.

"She’s..." he whispered, voice reverent, "so quiet."

Lucien glanced up at him, eyes deadpan.

"That’s because she just drank an entire meal and sucked my soul

out of my left nipple."

Silas’s mouth dropped slightly. He looked at Lucien. Then at the baby. Then... slowly... at Lucien’s chest.

Lucien narrowed his eyes.

"Don’t."

Silas blinked innocently. "I wasn’t—"

Lucien raised one brow.

"... Can I just... taste the milk once?"

THWACK.

Lucien slapped the back of his head with a pillow.

"I am already ninety percent dead, eighty percent leaking, and fifty percent certain you’re going to hell for that question."

Silas pouted, rubbing his head. "That’s more than a hundred percent—"

"I am not a math teacher, Silas. I am a lactating parent with rage in my veins."

From the safety of her swaddle, the baby made a soft snuffling noise.

Both parents froze.

As if the fate of the empire—and their mortal souls—depended on her next breath. Lucien held still, one hand gently supporting her head. Then slowly—gently—he brushed a knuckle along her flushed, chubby cheek.

She exhaled a sleepy sigh.

Lucien melted just a bit.

"...I can’t believe I gave birth to this," he whispered. "To her. To this tiny, perfect, terrifyingly beautiful little thing."

Silas knelt beside the bed, gaze locked on the child like she was his whole universe wrapped in seven layers of cotton.

"She looks like you," he said softly.

Lucien smiled.

"She better. I didn’t grow ankles like sausages and barf into my own shoes for her to come out looking like your grumpy jawline."

"She’s going to grow up strong," Silas murmured, eyes shining. "She’ll probably set things on fire like you."

Lucien sniffed proudly. "We can only hope."

The baby stretched a hand, tiny fingers curling around Lucien’s sleeve.

Silas and Lucien both went very, very still.

Lucien’s eyes filled with something too deep for words.

"...She’s going to rule the world one day," he whispered.

Silas grinned. "Or burn it down."

"Either way," Lucien said, brushing a kiss against her temple, "we’re going to love every second."

There was a brief, peaceful silence.

Then Lucien blinked. "Oh. Right. What about her naming ceremony?"

Silas, still gazing at their daughter like she was a tiny, soft miracle, tilted his head. "Mmm... How about the day after tomorrow?"

Lucien thought for a moment, then nodded. "Good. That gives me one full day to recover and at least pretend I’m not walking like a cursed gremlin."

Silas leaned in and whispered, "You’re the most beautiful gremlin I’ve ever seen."

Lucien smacked his arm without looking. "Flirt later. Ceremony now. Is everything prepared?"

"I already summoned the court mages, the decorators, the chefs, the florists, and Adrien. Mostly because he keeps threatening that he will not let me take a leave if I don’t let him co-host."

Lucien groaned. "Of course he did. Did he offer his son’s hand in marriage again?"

Silas sipped from a nearby teacup. "Not this morning. He’s getting lazy."

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "Remind me to set fire to his rosebushes later."

Silas chuckled. "Consider it done. Also, Callen sent five scrolls full of baby outfit sketches."

Lucien blinked. "Five?"

"He titled them ’Royal Bean Couture: Volume One.’"

Lucien took a slow, measured breath. "If I see a single feather boa on my daughter’s tiny body, I’m disowning someone."

There was a tiny snuffle from the bundle in Lucien’s arms. A soft yawn. Then she curled deeper into her silks and let out a very tiny, very elegant fart.

Both parents paused.

Lucien raised one brow.

"She’s yours," he said.

Silas placed a hand to his chest, beaming. "My girl."

Lucien sighed fondly. "We’ll name her the day after tomorrow. But tonight? We’re just going to sit here, hold our little empress of chaos, and pray she sleeps for more than forty-five minutes."

Silas nodded. "And maybe order snacks."

Lucien leaned back on the pillows. "Snack first. Then nap. Then world domination."

"Spoken like a true Rynthall," Silas said proudly, and kissed his husband’s temple.

Lucien was happy. Genuinely happy. The naming ceremony was scheduled. The empire was stable. For once, he dared to hope peace—

"That’s it! I’M NAMING MY NIECE!" Seraphina announced, glaring at Silas.

Lucien blinked.

Silas looked up from adjusting the ceremonial flowers and deadpanned, "You? Hah. I’m the father. I’ll be naming our daughter, not her eccentric aunt with a fan addiction."

Seraphina snapped open said fan with a lethal FWAP.

"I am the aunt. The child is already displaying chaotic energy. She’s clearly mine by soul-bond. I get naming rights!"

Across the courtyard, Callen nearly fainted. Sparkles surrounded him like he’d been kissed by divinity. "Oh my gods... she’s so strong... she’s challenging the Grand Duke... I can’t take this—I keep falling deeper in love..."

Meanwhile, Lucien sat on a velvet stool, holding his daughter and blinking slowly.

Silas and Seraphina were already circling each other like cats in couture.

"Fine," Silas growled. "Let’s settle this like civilized lunatics. A duel."

"A duel?" Lucien echoed, horrified.

"A duel," Seraphina agreed with deadly cheer. "Winner names the child. Loser isn’t allowed to hold her for one week."

Callen audibly gasped. "Such a cruel punishment. So dramatic. So poetic."

Lucien gaped. "Are you two seriously going to fistfight over a baby name?!"

Seraphina tossed her earrings to Callen. "Hold these."

Silas started unbuttoning his sleeves. "Darling, fetch me my duel gloves."

"No one’s fetching anything!" Lucien snapped.

But neither of them listened. They were too far gone.

Seraphina cracked her knuckles. "Hope you’re ready to cry into your golden pillows, Duke Daddy."

Silas narrowed his eyes. "Hope you like being banned from baby snuggles while I teach her her first word—’Victory.’"

Lucien clutched his child tighter and buried his face into his daughter’s blanket and muttered, "This was supposed to be peaceful."

And somewhere in the garden, a ceremonial bell rang for no reason at all—as if the universe itself was too entertained to interfere.