CHAPTER 90: FATHER-IN-LAW

[Rynthall Estate, Next Morning]

Lucein sat unnaturally still on the velvet chaise, draped in soft blue silks like a porcelain statue that had given up on life. His eyes were glassy, staring into the void of motherhood while little Elysia suckled her pacifier like it was a divine duty passed down through their bloodlines.

She didn’t blink. Just kept staring at Lucein with that same mildly concerned expression—half "Where’s my milk?" and half "Mother, are you okay?"

Meanwhile, the estate was descending into absolute madness.

Servants darted from one end of the hall to the other, tripping over rugs and screaming at each other in polite, aristocratic panic. Footmen polished doorknobs like their souls depended on it. Someone threw a vase. No one questioned it.

And then—

A maid shrieked from the front foyer like she’d seen the Second Coming.

"THE CARRIAGE HAS ARRIVED!!!"

Instantly, the entire manor went dead silent. Like someone had slapped God in the face.

Within seconds, everyone was marching out in a line so rigid and synchronized you’d think it was a military funeral. Silas stood at the front, tall and perfectly composed in his ceremonial black and silver coat, hands behind his back like he was about to duel someone for breathing wrong.

Lucein, still slightly traumatized by life, was dragged into formation behind him, carrying the tiny Empress of Chaos herself—Elysia, who waved her foot regally.

And then...

Click.

Click.

Click.

The sound of boots echoed across the marble like the slow, inevitable approach of judgment itself. Each step was precise. Sharp. Unforgiving.

Like a metronome forged in hell and tuned to disappointment.

And then he appeared.

Theoran Rynthall.

Former Grand Duke. Former ruler of six provinces. Former hope of the realm. Permanent nightmare of every etiquette tutor in the kingdom.

He looked like Silas—but older, meaner, and as if he flossed with laws and chewed cigars for breakfast. His hair was slicked back like he’d personally invented time. His face was carved from the same stone used for statues of old gods who demanded blood sacrifices.

Everyone bowed so fast, it looked like synchronized drowning.

"WELCOME BACK, YOUR GRACE, THEORAN!" they boomed in unison.

Silas didn’t flinch. He simply raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"Ah. I thought you were dead."His voice rang with polite disrespect. "But look at that—you’re alive. How... charming."

Theoran stared. And then—

WHACK!

A heavy hand came crashing down on Silas’s head with the force of twenty disappointed ancestors.

"I see my son still hasn’t learned basic manners." Theoran’s tone was colder than the Northern Glacier. "Not even a proper bow?"

Silas rubbed his head with a scowl. "You disappeared! Do you know how much I cried?!"

Theoran blinked. "You... cried?"

"Yes."

A beat of silence.

"Well," Theoran said, blinking again, "that is... disturbingly unexpected."

Then his gaze drifted past Silas.

"What’s that? Behind you?"

His tone shifted. Sharp. Curious. Suspicious. "Is that... a gift? Did my emotionally stunted son prepare something for me? A bribe for forgiveness? A sculpture of himself, perhaps?"

Silas rolled his eyes. "It’s not a gift, it’s—"

PEEK.

From behind Silas’s towering form, Lucein leaned out cautiously like a squirrel checking for predators.

And then—

POP.

A tiny hand shot out. Elysia peeked out too, pacifier still firmly in her mouth, and waved with the serene energy of a benevolent queen greeting her mildly annoying subjects.

Theoran stared.

Lucein, gathering every last fragment of his dignity, stepped forward, lowered his head in a flawless bow, and said with the calm of someone seconds away from passing out:

"Greetings, father-in-law."

Theoran... froze.

Fully.

Completely.

Like someone had unplugged him and removed the batteries.

His eye twitched. His fingers flexed. He made a small noise in his throat—somewhere between a sneeze and a demon being exorcised.

"...What in the seven hells is that?"

"That," Silas said cheerfully, "is my husband and daughter."

"YOU... YOU HAVE A HUSBAND?? AND—AND A WHOLE CHILD??"

"Yes. Isn’t she cute?"

Elysia gave a happy squawk and threw her pacifier at Theoran with perfect aim.

It hit him in the chest. The pacifier fell to the floor. Theoran looked down at it like it was a declaration of war.

Lucein picked it up with shaking hands. "She likes you."

Theoran’s lips parted.

And then, quietly:

"...I have questions."

"We have tea," Silas said, smiling far too innocently.

"And wine?"

"An entire cellar."

"...Lead the way."

***

[Living Room, Later]

Silas sat opposite his father, Theoran Rynthall—the ex-Grand Duke whose presence was as warm as an ice sculpture in a blizzard.

Theoran’s piercing eyes hadn’t moved once from Lucein and baby Elysia, who were seated far too cozily beside Silas for Theoran’s comfort. Meanwhile, Alphonso, Marcel, and Callen stood rigidly behind their respective lord, like a trio of extremely anxious statues.

The maids came in with a silver tea set, placed it down like they were defusing a bomb, and promptly fled the room without making eye contact.

The silence dragged.

Then, Theoran finally spoke, voice cold and clipped:"Are you an omega?"

Lucein nodded politely. "Yes."

Theoran’s eyebrows twitched. "I have never heard of a male omega before."

Callen stepped forward proudly, hands behind his back like a royal herald. "Lord Lucein is the only documented male omega in the Empire, Your Grace. Possibly on the continent. We’re still waiting for confirmation from the Eastern archives—"

Theoran raised one gloved hand, and Callen went silent mid-sentence.

He then shifted his stare toward the child cradled in Lucein’s arms."When did you deliver the child?"

"Three months ago," Lucein replied calmly.

"Boy or girl?"

"It’s a girl. Her name is Elysia."

Theoran didn’t react. For a moment, he just stared. Then—without a word—he rose from his seat in one graceful, terrifying movement.

Everyone flinched.

Alphonso’s shoulders tightened like he was about to dive in front of Lucein. Marcel subtly adjusted his grip on something beneath his coat. Callen held his breath so hard his cheeks puffed.

But Theoran simply extended his arms toward Lucein, eyes gleaming with something wild and ancient.

"GIVE ME."

Lucein blinked. "...Pardon?"

"MY GRANDCHILD." Theoran’s voice rose several decibels. "GIVE. HER. TO ME. NOW."

Without hesitation—because disobeying Theoran wasn’t something anyone did without being turned into a cold case—Lucien gently placed baby Elysia into Theoran’s arms.

And then...

Theoran Rynthall—the coldest man to ever lead a dynasty—stared down at the tiny baby like she was a divine relic.

His eyes shimmered.

"After... so many generations... we finally..."

And before anyone could react, Theoran lifted Elysia high above his head like she was the crown jewel of the kingdom.

"WE HAVE A GIRL IN OUR FAMILY!!" he proclaimed, voice booming like a royal decree. "SHE HAS CHEEKS! LOOK AT HER CHEEKS! THIS IS HISTORY!"

Baby Elysia giggled, waving her tiny fingers. She was clearly enchanted by this towering man with a rigid jawline and surprisingly long arms.

Silas buried his face in one hand and muttered, "Should I be happy that he accepted her or concerned that my child is being waved around like a victory flag?"

Lucein whispered back through a tight smile, "Both. Definitely both."

Theoran turned around mid-celebration and barked at the nearest servant, who happened to be sneaking by the hallway.

"BRING THE PORCELAIN SET. THE ROYAL ONE. WE ARE HAVING CAKE!"

"...Cake?" Silas repeated slowly.

"GRANDDAUGHTER. GIRL. CAKE. NOW." Theoran was already heading toward the dining room with Elysia perched on one arm like a majestic baby falcon. "And call the family painter. I want a portrait. No—three portraits. One for each hallway."

"...This is spiraling," Lucein murmured.

"That’s my father," Silas sighed.

"Oh... my baby girl..." came a dramatically emotional voice from the doorway, shaking the air like thunder. "Look at you... You look like a melon."

Elysia let out a high-pitched giggle as Theoran Rynthall swooped in like an ancient hawk. He kissed her cheeks thrice, murmured something about royal bone structure, then gently placed her on his lap like she was the crown jewel of the empire.

And then he looked up.

Right at Lucien.

The room went still, as if the temperature collectively dropped to "icy disdain."

"What is your name, my blessed child?" Theoran asked, voice polite but with the sharp edge of a sword hidden in the velvet.

"Lucein," came the calm reply.

Theoran nodded sagely, stroking his beard like a philosopher king about to deliver a TED Talk. "Such a nice name," he said.

And then, without warning, he turned dramatically to his son, lifted a gloved finger, and pointed it like he was delivering a courtroom accusation.

"But I have a question."

Everyone tensed.

Theoran narrowed his eyes.

"...How did you fall for that thing?" he asked with genuine confusion.

Lucein blinked. "WHAT?!"

"Did he blackmail you? Kidnap you? Tell me, my child. I will punish him."

Silas looked somewhere between offended and delighted. "That thing?" he mouthed silently.

"Are you sure you’re my father?" Silas asked, massaging his temples.

"Well... did I say something wrong?" Theoran replied earnestly, genuinely baffled at the growing chaos around him.

Lucein finally chuckled and spoke. "We had a one-night stand."

Theoran blinked. His brain short-circuited.

Silence.

Dead silence.

Then a mutter: "...I see. That’s how he tricked you."

Elysia sneezed from his lap and clapped her hands. Silas looked like he was ready to walk into the ocean.