[Three Months Later—Empire-Wide Chaos / Rynthall Estate, Late Morning]
It had been three months since Silas Rynthall nearly declared war on the temple.
Three months since Lucien made a wish under a shooting star, the kind of wish only fools and lovers believed in.
And in that time, peace had held.
Mostly.
That is—if you didn’t count the fact that the ENTIRE EMPIRE had collectively lost its mind. Because somewhere between tea time and morning gossip, a certain secret slipped out.
There was a rare male omega.
He was pregnant.
And he was married to the most terrifying man in the country.
In short—the world lost its entire damn mind.
Newspaper Headlines Across the Empire, they’re much more dramatic than our pregnant Lucien.
THE ROYAL ROAR – "DUCHESS WITH A D*CK?!" Empire Confirms Existence of Rare Male Omega at Rynthall Estate. Public Faints. Scholars Cry.
THE EMPIRE TIMES – "PREGNANT. POWERFUL. PETTY."Grand Duke’s Spouse Spotted Arguing with a Cabbage at the Market. Witnesses Call It ’Majestic.’ (Well...nothing like that happened.)
THE DAILY FANGIRL – "WE STAN A FERTILE KING."Lucien Rynthall Spotted in Lavender Robes and Judging Clouds. Baby Bump = Royalty Confirmed.
PALACE PEEP WEEKLY – "DOUBLE TROUBLE!"In Shocking Twist: EMPRESS Also Pregnant! Empire Asks, "Is There Something in the Water?!" Economists Panic.
HOLY & HORMONAL HERALD – "TWO WOMB-BEARERS, ONE EMPIRE. WHO WILL POP FIRST?!"Clerics Demand Celibacy. No One Listens.
The Empire was a mess.
Reporters camped outside every gate.
Scrolls were flying in from every corner of the realm.
One journalist literally tried to swim the moat surrounding Rynthall estate just to ask Lucien what his "third trimester skincare routine" was.
(He was pulled out by the knights. Twice.)
Lucien, meanwhile?
He had never been more dramatic, radiant, and unbothered in his entire life.
He was six months pregnant. His belly was officially "majestically round," his moods fluctuated like weather, and he was living for every second of it.
Wrapped in flowy silk robes that trailed behind him like a bridal train, he’d been spotted strolling through the courtyard, eating a peach, sipping pomegranate juice, and pretending not to notice the screaming headlines about him.
The only thing more scandalous than his very existence—
Was the fact that the Empress was also confirmed pregnant.
At the same time.
It was too much.
The empire hadn’t recovered from the first announcement, and now it had a second bombshell.
Two powerful, pregnant royals. One throne. And not a single nation with a brain cell left.
Historians were screaming. Astrologers were fighting. Scholars were foaming at the mouth trying to divine which baby was going to inherit the divine right to be fabulous.
But none of that mattered.
Because meanwhile—
Lucien Rynthall was in the garden.Wrapped in a silk robe the color of smug nobility, his feet propped on a velvet stool, a delicate porcelain teacup hovered near his lips like he was auditioning for a perfume ad called "Scandal."
Except... he wasn’t drinking the tea.
He was pretending to sip it. With the solemn grace of a theater major on a stage no one asked for.
From a distance, he looked serene. Angelic, even. A glowing, six-months-pregnant portrait of divine femininity trapped in a man who had never known peace.
But nearby—Marcel stood like a statue forged from judgment and trauma.
His arms were crossed.
His eyes: unblinking.
His soul: done.
Lucien exhaled softly and tilted his head. "Marcel... darling. I’m just drinking tea."
"You’re not drinking anything," Marcel said without blinking. "You’ve been holding that cup for twenty-six minutes and pretending to sip."
Lucien’s eye twitched. "It’s a performance. Aesthetic. Pregnant beauty captured in time."
"It’s suspicious," Marcel said grimly.
Lucien rolled his eyes. "Honestly, you can go now. I’m not eating anything."
"You’re not eating anything yet." Marcel’s voice was flat. "But I know that look. That’s the pre-mud gaze. That’s the gaze you gave before the... incident."
Lucien froze. "It wasn’t an incident. It was... a textural exploration."
"You were eating dirt, my lord."
"I was exploring my roots. Spiritually."
"You were digging with your hands like a mole on a personal quest for calcium."
Lucien gasped—offended to his very soul. "That’s rude, Marcel. I used a spoon. A silver one, thank you very much. I have standards."
Marcel blinked. Once. Slowly. Like his brain was buffering through emotional trauma. "...A spoon."
Lucien nodded proudly. "Sterling silver. Monogrammed. I’m not some dirt commoner, Marcel."
Marcel stared at him, completely hollow. "That’s exactly the moment Lord Silas fainted. Right there. On the spot."
Lucien winced. His proud smile faltered. "...Right. That."
Marcel folded his arms. "You were squatting in the greenhouse, pregnant, eating soil off fine cutlery. He walked in. Locked eyes with you. Dropped his scroll like it was cursed. And fainted like a Victorian bride."
Lucien laughed nervously. "Yeah... I remember. He hit the dirt faster than I did."
"Because you were already eating the dirt."
Lucien scratched his head. "In my defense, I told him I was getting minerals for the baby."
"You told him you were ’reconnecting with the earth’s womb.’"
Lucien clutched his belly. "Well... it sounded poetic at the time."
"You had to drag a full-grown, unconscious grand duke back into the estate while six months pregnant."
"I waddled nobly," Lucien said proudly. "Heroically, even. It was very dramatic. I deserve a statue."
Marcel stared at him like he was a fever dream with good hair. "You deserve a muzzle."
Lucien gasped—hand flying to his chest like he’d just been struck by a scandal. "How dare—! Forget it." He waved a hand dismissively. "I am serious now. Completely. Entirely. Monastically. You can leave. Silas already blocked the greenhouse and covered it with guards and salt. I won’t eat anything weird again."
Marcel didn’t budge.
And then the air shifted. A cold breeze slithered through the garden doors. Bootsteps—calm, slow, heavy as judgment—echoed against the stone.
Lucien didn’t need to turn.
He knew that sound.
Silas Rynthall had arrived.
Tall. Severe. Dressed in crisp formal black with silver embroidery coiling like storm lightning along the hem. His long silver hair fell over his shoulder like threads of moonlight stitched into war.
His expression?
Somewhere between I’ve walked through hellfire and I’m about to walk back in if this nonsense continues.
Lucien blinked. Caught mid-mischief.
Then smiled.
Innocently.
Like an angel caught chewing a scroll.
"Oh. Hi, darling," he chirped, voice bright and guilty. "We were just... chatting."
Silas didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just leveled him with that royal, soul-deep stare—the one that could silence an army or part a sea. Then he turned his head very slightly toward Marcel, without even looking away from Lucien.
"Did he mention mud again?"
Lucien gasped, wounded. "I never did, darling. Not even once. How could you say such a thing—after everything we’ve shared?"
Silas squinted. The subtle kind of squint that carried decades of internal screaming.
Lucien fluttered his lashes and cradled his belly dramatically. "This belly holds a future heir, Silas. And you dare question me—a vessel of life?"
Silas sighed. A deep, tired, war-weary sigh.
The kind of sigh that said, ’Why did I fall in love with a beautiful, melodramatic goblin.’
"You can leave, Marcel."
Marcel didn’t argue.
He turned and bowed low. "Yes, my lord."
And with that ominous line of trauma-born prophecy, Marcel left. Silas watched him go, then finally stepped into the garden fully, his boots whispering against the stone path.
Lucien glanced up at him, all wide-eyed innocence and poorly hidden guilt. "Are you mad at me?"
Silas said nothing.
He just walked over slowly.
Lucien’s grin faded slightly.
"Silas...?"
Silas stopped just inches away, reached out—gently—and tucked a strand of hair behind Lucien’s ear.
Then leaned in.
And whispered, "If you so much as sniff the flowerbeds tonight..."
Lucien gulped.
"...I will drag you back into the estate, wash your tongue with mint, and chain the greenhouse with divine wards myself."
Lucien blinked. "That’s a little extreme."
"I found you licking a rock, Lucien."
Lucien’s lower lip trembled. His head dropped like a wilting flower.
"...It was pregnancy cravings."
Lucien sniffled. "And it all happened because of you."
Silas looked up sharply. "Me?"
Lucien nodded mournfully, like a betrayed empress. "Yes, you. Because of you, I’m pregnant. And because I’m pregnant, I now crave the taste of gravel. Gravel, Silas. I cried yesterday because I couldn’t eat dirt from the east wing because it looked too dry."
Silas opened his mouth—then closed it.
Lucien’s voice dropped, wet and tragic. "It’s all because of you... and then... and then you—yelled at me."
Silas froze.
Lucien’s eyes welled like rain in a broken porcelain bowl. "You yelled at your pregnant, suffering, starving-for-soil husband."
"I didn’t yell—"
"YOU ABSOLUTELY DID." Lucien wailed, wiping his face on the blanket still draped around him. "I was vulnerable. I was mourning a flowerbed. And you roared at me like a barbarian!"
Silas panicked. Instantly. Like a commander who just realized he’d stepped into enemy fire barefoot.
"Wait—wait, no, no—my love—" He slid down beside Lucien in a graceful, full-body apology maneuver, dropping to one knee like a knight swearing fealty to his emotionally unstable sovereign.
He cupped Lucien’s cheeks gently. "I’m sorry."
Lucien blinked at him with watery eyes. "You’re sorry for real?"
Silas nodded with the solemnity of a man repenting for sins he didn’t commit. "Yes. I’m sorry. For real. For everything. For yelling. For the mint threat. For the divine wards. Even for the anti-dirt guards."
Lucien sniffled. "Even the greenhouse blockade?"
Silas hesitated.
Lucien’s eyes narrowed.
"Yes," Silas blurted. "Even that. I shall... consider dismantling it."
Lucien stared at him a moment longer.
Then gave the tiniest of nods.
"...I forgive you," he whispered, voice barely a breath.
Silas exhaled in relief—then leaned forward and pulled Lucien into a careful, reverent hug, arms curling protectively around his smaller frame.
Lucien leaned into him like he’d just won an argument with the universe itself.
Everyone—maids, footmen, knights, gardeners—witnessed with open affection and silent awe, as if witnessing a royal decree of peace after a great civil war.
And so, between cravings and chaos, with a blanket around his shoulders and a stone-free tongue in his mouth, Lucien finally smiled.
And the Grand Duke, future father, and one-time anti-dirt crusader... held his entire world in his arms.