The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 21: Silas’s Double Crisis

[Rynthall Infirmary]

The scent of antiseptic and dried blood clung heavily to the air, thick as smoke. Moonlight filtered through the tall glass windows of the Rynthall infirmary, casting elongated shadows on the walls. At the center of it all, on a wide cushioned bed stained with sweat and pain, lay a woman.

She was deathly pale, her skin like parchment stretched too thin. Her long black hair was matted against her clammy forehead, her body trembling under the weight of agony. A faint breath rattled past her cracked lips.

She was still conscious—barely.

Silas stood by her bedside, his crimson gaze hard, jaw tight as he took in the sight before him.

"She’s lost a lot of blood," he said at last, voice low, almost a growl. "Too much."

Elize, standing at the foot of the bed, nodded grimly. "We were lucky," she said, her usually calm tone laced with urgency. "If the scout had arrived even an hour later... she would’ve ended up like the others. Slaughtered."

Silas’s expression darkened further at that word. Slaughtered. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He’d seen what had been left of the other victims.

He turned then, slowly, to face Frederick. He stood just beyond the glow of the lantern, arms folded tightly across his chest as if bracing himself for what he was about to say.

"What about the child?" Silas asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Fredrick exhaled, long and tired, rubbing his forehead. "Not good, my lord," he said finally, each word weighted with careful honesty. "She’s supposed to be in her eighth trimester, but the trauma... the wounds..." He shook his head, eyes flickering to the unconscious woman. "Her body is shutting down. We may not have a choice."

Silas’s eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

Fredrick met his gaze. "We’ll have to take the child out. Tonight. Before it’s too late."

The silence that followed was so complete it rang in their ears.

Elize stepped forward abruptly, her composure cracking. "What? You can’t be serious." Her voice, usually calm and composed, now trembled with disbelief. "That could kill her. And the child."

Fredrick’s lips pressed into a thin line. "I know that. But doing nothing guarantees they both die." He looked at her directly, his voice firm despite the sorrow beneath it. "The hemorrhaging won’t stop on its own. Her organs are failing. She doesn’t have hours. She has minutes."

"No," Elize whispered, stepping toward the bed. "There has to be another way. Induce the labor naturally, stabilize her—something—"

"There isn’t time!" Fredrick snapped, then immediately regretted it. He sighed again, softer now. "Which is why I’ve already called in the priests. Two of them. Sacred channelers. They’re the only ones who might be able to keep her soul tethered long enough... and protect the child during extraction."

Silas’s eyes shifted back to the woman. Her face, slack with unconsciousness, twitched slightly as if in pain even in her dreams. His heart clenched. He’d seen dozens of battlefield wounds in his life—split torsos, crushed ribs, men screaming for death to end their pain.

But this? This was worse.

She was just a civilian. A pregnant omega. She wasn’t meant for this. She hadn’t been prepared for this.

"Will she survive?" Silas asked quietly.

Fredrick didn’t answer.

"Fredrick," Silas repeated, his voice harder now.

"I don’t know," he admitted softly, the truth heavy in his tone. "It all depends on how much strength she has left... and how quickly the priests can act."

Silas exhaled slowly, his jaw tense. He looked back at the woman on the bed, then turned as if preparing to stay.

"I’ll remain here. She—"

"No, my lord," Fredrick interjected, more forcefully than usual.

Silas froze, his brows furrowing at the uncharacteristic interruption. Fredrick bowed his head immediately, his voice steady but urgent. "Forgive my tone, but you can’t stay here, my lord. The Baron needs you."

Silas’s expression darkened. "Lucien?"

"Yes, my lord."

Silas’s expression wavered for a moment. "He’s only one month along. That’s too early for—"

"That’s exactly why it’s dangerous," Frederick said. "His body is still adjusting. A Beta who’s just begun transitioning to Omega... pregnant... it’s unprecedented. His condition is unstable and unpredictable. He may look healthy now...but we can’t predict the future."

Silas’s gaze darkened. Fredrick pressed on.

"Even minor stress could lead to a rejection of the embryo. And only your pheromones can regulate him right now. He needs your presence to keep his body calm—he needs you, my lord."

Silas closed his eyes briefly, the weight of two lives hanging in the balance—one lying broken in front of him, the other beginning to grow within Lucien.

Elize stepped forward, her voice steady. "I’ll remain here, my lord. We’ve summoned the temple priests—they’re already preparing purification wards and healing rites. I’ll send word the moment anything changes."

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair.

"...Alright," he muttered, voice tight. "Make sure you keep her and the child alive."

Frederick bowed. "We’ll do everything we can."

Silas nodded once, then turned on his heel and strode toward the doors, his long coat sweeping behind him like the shadow of responsibility that never left.

***

[Rynthall Estate, Later...]

The carriage came to a smooth halt before the grand gates of the estate, its wheels crunching softly against the gravel path. The door opened with a creak, and Silas stepped out, his silver hair catching the light of the full moon above. It shimmered like stardust, casting a faint glow against the night’s cool darkness.

He paused for a breath, lifting his gaze toward the looming silhouette of his mansion. Despite the quiet elegance of the evening, his face was drawn with exhaustion. Worry still lingered in the corners of his eyes, the weight of the day’s events pressing heavily on his shoulders.

The butler, an aging yet sharp-eyed man named Alphonse, was already waiting by the entrance, bowing low as Silas approached.

"Welcome home, my lord," Alphonse said gently, straightening. "Shall I have dinner served now?"

Silas didn’t answer immediately. He halted at the bottom step, glancing up at the estate’s towering facade. Then, in a low voice, he asked, "Has Lucien eaten?"

Alphonse hesitated briefly before shaking his head. "Not yet, my lord. He’s been working in your chamber since this afternoon. He insisted he would dine only once you returned."

At that, Silas’s hardened features softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips—worn, but unmistakably there.

"I see," he murmured. "Then serve dinner."

Alphonse nodded dutifully, but as Silas ascended the stairs, he couldn’t help but watch the faint smile that lingered on his master’s face. A warmth that had not existed months ago now peeked through the cracks of a man once carved from ice.

The old butler’s eyes crinkled faintly as he whispered under his breath, almost in disbelief, "He smiles a lot these days..."

And then, with a small chuckle, he turned toward the kitchen to prepare the meal.

***

[Silas Chamber...]

The chamber was a battlefield. Not one of swords and shields—no, something far more terrifying.

Paperwork.

Stacks of documents teetered like drunkards on desks, scrolls had unraveled like the intestines of a wounded beast, and quills lay strewn about as if they had tried to flee the carnage and failed. It looked as though a tornado had passed through, screamed "responsibilities!", and then exploded.

And at the center of this bureaucratic apocalypse... was Lucien.

He was sprawled on his massive canopy bed like a lifeless starfish, limbs extended in defeat, a crumpled scroll stuck to his cheek, his once-pristine robe now looking like it had lost the will to be worn properly.

Lucien stared blankly at the ceiling with the dead eyes of someone who had seen the abyss and found it full of tax records.

He let out a moan so tragic it could have summoned a ghost.

"Whyyyy am I livingggggg...?" he wailed, his voice cracking like a poorly tuned violin. "Whyyyy am I a nobleee?! Why—" he flipped dramatically onto his side "—why am I even HUMANNNN?!"

Then he sat up—well, attempted to—then just flopped back down again like a sad pancake.

"They should..." he whispered hoarsely, eyes wide, "...they should declare me as a robot."

There was a pause.

And then he screamed into the heavens (or maybe the ceiling):"DECLARE ME AS A ROBOOOOOOOT!!!"

Somewhere, a paper fluttered down from the ceiling like a snowflake of doom and landed on his forehead.

Lucien groaned. "I just... I just skipped one month. One. Singular. Uno. Because I was emotionally unavailable! I was busy! I was busy turning into a hormonal bread oven!!! I was—" he sniffled "—I was going through changes! I was ADAPTING! I was VOMITING! I was CRAVING PICKLES AND CHALK!"

He threw an empty inkwell at the wall. It bounced off harmlessly and rolled under the dresser like it, too, had given up.

Lucien flailed one hand weakly in the air. "And this is what I come back to? A room possessed by the spirit of angry administration?!"

Just then, the chamber door creaked open again.

Silas stepped in.

And stopped.

Dead.

His silver hair glinted under the golden lamplight, his sharp gaze sweeping across the disaster zone that was once his chamber. Papers were draped like garlands over furniture.

Silas blinked. Hard.

He glanced at the hallway behind him, then back at the room, mildly wondering if he’d stepped into someone else’s personal tornado by mistake.

Lucien, still flat on the bed like a broken marionette, turned his head. His eyes, void of light and hope, locked onto Silas with the intensity of a war widow seeing the man who forgot to die in the war.

"Oh..." Lucien croaked, voice dry as the Sahara and twice as bitter, "Welcome back... Great Lord. Father of my child. Reason for my doom."

Silas blinked again.

Then, rubbing a hand down his face, he exhaled a deep, exhausted sigh.

"...And he’s just one month pregnant," he muttered.

He glanced around the room again—and then back at lucien, who was currently lying on the bed like a dramatic ghost bride, whispering something to the ceiling about needing diplomatic immunity.

A single thought passed through Silas’s mind, clear as day and just as terrifying:

If this is one month...

He swallowed.

How the hell am I going to survive the next eight?