Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 112: Sense of pride and memories

Chapter 112: Sense of pride and memories

Noelle stood at the door, glaring down at Ben as he stubbornly tried to swing his legs off the bed. The man wasn’t supposed to move, not with the extent of his injuries. Noelle’s glare deepened, and after a beat, Ben seemed to get the message, reluctantly settling back against the pillows.

Satisfied that Ben wouldn’t try again, Noelle turned and left the room, his heels clicking against the wooden floor as Doris followed silently behind. The air inside the castle was cool and refreshing, but Noelle felt the urge to be outside, to let the fading light of the setting sun brush against his skin.

The garden greeted him with a serene beauty as always, but something more amusing caught his eye. There was Mona, her back straight as she struggled to contain the wildly flapping Grape. Noelle stifled a laugh. For all the bird’s mischievous antics, Mona was the only person Grape seemed to genuinely fear. Seeing the usually cocky bird in such a state of helplessness brought a flicker of amusement to Noelle’s stern expression.

With a slight shake of his head, he redirected his thoughts. The sun was starting to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the grounds. Aware of the evening settling in, Noelle decided to spend some time in the greenhouse. A new shipment of plants had arrived earlier, and the prospect of cataloging them filled him with quiet excitement.

Inside the glass enclosure, the earthy smell of soil and the vibrant greenery surrounding him gave him a sense of calm. For the next hour or two, Noelle let himself get lost in the simple pleasure of tending to the plants, inspecting their leaves, and making careful notes about their care.

*

As Noelle made his way back to the upper floors, the familiar and potent scent of Thorne’s pheromones greeted him before he even reached the door of their bedroom. The distinctive mixture of musk and warmth signaled the General’s return.

Pushing the door open, Noelle stepped inside and found Thorne just as he imagined—dressed in his long, dark cloak, boots muddied from travel, his hands working to remove them.

"You’re back," Noelle said, crossing his arms and fixing Thorne with a half-hearted glare. "And yet, I wasn’t informed."

The general froze, boots half-off, and slowly raised his eyes to meet Noelle’s. The moment they locked gazes, Noelle’s heart skipped. Thorne’s blue eyes softened with an affection that made Noelle’s pulse quicken, and a small, almost shy smile curved the corners of his lips.

"My beloved star..." Thorne began, his voice rich with emotion, but Noelle closed the distance between them with quick strides.

"Wait, I’m filthy. I should bathe first—I’m covered in sweat and blood," Thorne warned, halting Noelle’s approach. But Noelle didn’t care. He wrapped his arms around Thorne’s waist, feeling the firm muscles beneath the thick cloak. Thorne hesitated for just a moment before wrapping his own arms around Noelle, holding him tightly.

The embrace was brief but filled with warmth. Noelle pulled away, his eyes lingering on Thorne’s disheveled form.

"Go take your bath," Noelle said, his tone lightening. "I’ll arrange for dinner to be brought up here."

"Thank you," Thorne says, his voice deep and exhausted as he removes his boot with a dull thud. His cloak falls to the floor in a heap, covered in dirt and specks of something darker—crimson. My heart clenches slightly at the sight of him, worn and battered. His pants are stained with mud and what can only be blood, and his shirt bears the same brutal marks of the day’s events.

I stand there quietly, watching as Thorne undresses with methodical movements, his muscles tense from the strain of whatever battle or confrontation he’s just come from. The clothes, heavy with grime and blood, slide off his form and drop to the floor in a heap. I gather them quickly, noting the deep stains and wondering if any of it will come out. Probably not. These clothes are beyond saving, better suited to be burned than cleaned.

But knowing Thorne... my beloved... I’m certain that the lord responsible for Mona and Ben’s suffering is no longer breathing. And if by some miracle he is, he must be clinging to life by the thinnest of threads. Thorne doesn’t leave loose ends. The mere thought brings a quiet satisfaction to my chest.

A small, twisted part of me feels a sense of justice, of pride.

***

The royal palace loomed in an unsettling silence. A week had passed since the disgraceful events at the west palace, but the lingering tension only seemed to grow thicker with each passing day. The once proud halls now felt stifling, as if the walls themselves carried the weight of shame and embarrassment. The crown prince, seated behind his ornate desk, exhaled slowly, his fingers drumming against the polished wood as he tried to steady his spiraling thoughts.

His father, the king, had taken to isolating himself in his chambers. The old man, already weakened by age and frailty, had visibly withered in the aftermath of the scandal. Gaunt and ghostly. The shame had eaten away at him, leaving a shadow of the monarch that once was. The crown prince had never seen his father so fragile, and it only stoked the fire of his own frustration.

And then there was him. He, the future of the throne, the beacon of royal dignity—humiliated. His mind kept replaying the vile events, the indignity of it all, and the sheer rage that boiled beneath his composed exterior. That guard... The mere thought of the man touching him, even under the influence of drugs, made his blood churn. He had ordered the guard’s execution swiftly, but even the act of beheading him hadn’t been enough to quell the disgust that gnawed at his insides.

But the worst part? The part that made bile rise in his throat was seeing his father and Count Raymond in that shameful state. That image—seared into his mind like a terrible nightmare—haunted him day and night. The royal family’s dignity, once an untouchable force, had been dragged through the mud, sullied beyond recognition. How could they ever recover from such humiliation?

And then there was Rolland, his brother, whose actions had only added fuel to the fire. The rumors about Rolland allowing a group of servants to... No. He couldn’t even think about it without wanting to tear the palace apart brick by brick. They had done everything to suppress the scandal—executed every servant involved, silenced witnesses—but no matter how hard they tried, he knew whispers would spread. They always did.

The crown prince pinched the bridge of his nose, a familiar tension settling between his brows as he contemplated their next move. He needed to think. Something. Anything to distract the people from the west palace disaster. His mind raced, his fingers tapping more urgently now, when an idea struck him like a lightning bolt.

He snatched up a sheet of paper and began writing feverishly, his quill scratching across the parchment with purpose. After a few moments, the letter was finished, sealed with the royal crest. He stood from his desk, holding the letter aloft.

"Deliver this to the Narcio Kingdom," he said coldly, barely glancing up as one of the royal guards stepped forward from the shadows of the office. "To the fourth prince."

The guard took the letter with a silent bow and slipped out of the room as the crown prince’s mind churned over the plan that had just unfolded. Yes, this would work.

His irritation surged again as memories of the west palace clawed their way back into his thoughts. He clenched his fist, his temper boiling over as he grabbed the glass of water on his desk and hurled it against the wall. The sharp sound of it shattering into a thousand pieces offered a fleeting release, but his anger still simmered beneath the surface.

Unable to sit still, he stormed out of his office, his footsteps echoing through the deserted halls of the palace. Maybe a breath of fresh air would clear his head. Or maybe it wouldn’t. But he had to do something before his fury consumed him entirely

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