Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 149: Jolt of sadness

Chapter 149: Jolt of sadness

We rush toward the town, spurring our horses faster as the urgency grips me. The teenage girl’s words echo in my mind—those men in guard attire had come, dragged Noelle, Mona, and Ben away without mercy, tearing them from the life they had built here. The villagers were threatened into silence, their fear palpable, and my blood boils at the thought of it. Who could do something so vile, so cold-hearted?

I have a suspicion. I can feel it in my gut—the person behind this is the same one who burned down the Church of Elaris, wasting my time and my efforts for over a year. It all points back to them. I don’t know who they are, not yet.

The fury builds within me, and all I can think about is finding this bastard, this coward who hides behind guards and shadows. I won’t rest until I do. They’ve taken too much already. Noelle, Mona, and Ben—none of them deserve this, and neither will I.

I don’t know who you are, I think, clenching my jaw. But I’m going to find you.

***

I look at myself in the mirror after the servants finish with my makeup, their hands working meticulously to transform me. I chose a dull brown color scheme today—bland, unflattering, but it’s the only rebellion I can manage. It’s the smallest form of defiance, and it’s all I’ve got.

I hate the reflection staring back at me. The jewels adorning my body, claimed by the king as belonging to my mother, feel like shackles. Mother, did you feel suffocated by these too? I think to myself, the question bitter and unanswerable. Maybe that’s why you left. It’s hard to swallow the truth, but I can’t deny it anymore. My daughter and I, we’ve ended up in the same cage you once fled from. It’s tragic irony.

My hand brushes the star pinned to my collar, the jewel calms me. The king tried, of course to remove the collar from my neck, but it clings to me stubbornly, like the bond I share with Thorne, Bishop Grace did say the strength of the collar is a reflection of the bond of the couple, a comforting thought that not a soul would remove Thorne’s claim on me.

I breathe deeply, pushing my emotions down and gathering the strength I’ll need to face what’s next. The tightness in my chest doesn’t loosen, but I suppress it. One more step. Just one more.

I make my way to the room where Mona’s playing with Mirelle. My heart softens at the sight of my little girl. I kneel beside them and smile.

"Hi, Mimi," I say softly, lifting her up into my arms. She babbles happily, all wide eyes and joy.

"Uh-huh," I reply, agreeing to whatever she’s saying. I can’t help but smile at her innocent nonsense. After a moment, I carefully place her back in her crib, my heart tugging just a little.

"I’ll be back," I promise, my hand brushing Mona’s hair teasingly. She squeals in response, and the sound makes me laugh.

"Noelle!" Mona protests, her voice a high-pitched whine, and I can’t help but chuckle at her reaction.

"I’ll be fine," I reassure her, standing up and heading for the door.

The guards and servants are already waiting for me, their presence suffocating as I walk through the halls. The king’s paranoia is clear—he’s afraid I’ll escape. But I would never do that, not with Mirelle here. No matter how much I despise this place, my daughter’s safety comes first. I wouldn’t risk her for anything.

I find myself led through the labyrinthine halls of the palace, my mind still heavy with the oppressive atmosphere that surrounds me. Eventually, I’m brought into a drawing room, where a woman in her forties stands waiting. Her fiery red hair catches the light, and her green eyes gleam with authority. From the regal crown atop her head, it’s clear who she is—the queen. She’s flanked by three others—two men and a woman. One of the men has raven-black hair and green eyes, the other man shares the same raven hair, but his brown eyes set him apart. The woman, too, shares the red hair, though her eyes are brown, not green.

I force myself into a shallow bow, though every muscle in my body wants to stiffen in resistance.

"You must be Noelle," the queen says, stepping forward with an outstretched arm. She attempts to embrace me, but I don’t return the hug. My posture remains rigid, and I don’t speak.

She steps back, eyeing me with interest. "Oh my, it’s like Mirelle gave birth to herself," she comments, her voice light and somewhat playful.

I give a reluctant, dry smile. "I hear that a lot. I am my mother’s son," I respond, my words clipped, my tone far less warm than her’s.

Her expression falters for a brief second before she quickly recovers. "It’s unfortunate that Mirelle left us so early, but I’m glad you’re here with family," she says, her voice softer, almost compassionate.

I don’t mean to, but my tongue slips before I can stop myself. "Well, I don’t think my mother would be very glad about that." The words hang in the air, and I see her flinch.

She doesn’t address the comment, though; instead, she introduces me to her children, my so-called cousins. I’m barely paying attention to their names or their faces. They’re just people, more royalty, more constraints on my existence. I nod when spoken to, my mind already wandering to the thoughts that always accompany these kinds of meetings. How many of them know the truth about the king’s hold on me? I don’t doubt it.

Before long, the king enters, and we’re all led down the grand hallway to the banquet venue. The palace is more extravagant than Aspen—larger, more imposing, its architecture an obvious testament to Vitra’s superior wealth, history, and power. It’s in every detail, from the grand marble columns to the gilded decorations that scream opulence.

But I’m not really paying attention. The banquet becomes a blur of faces, shallow compliments, empty pleasantries. Everyone knows I’ve been here for half a year, and this is my first public appearance. They all must know that I’m little more than a captive, but none of them will speak it aloud. He’s the king, after all.

People approach with their questions, their smiles, their words of congratulations, but I can’t make myself care. That is, until the inevitable moment arrives: someone expresses interest in me, curious about the son of the infamous Mirelle. The conversation dies eventually due to my curt responses, people’s interest swiftly fading away, and the novelty of being Mirelle’s son wears off.

I make my escape, quietly slipping away from the hall. The guards are there, as they always are, but I’m used to it by now. It’s not as though I can go anywhere without them.

I wander through the palace, trying to escape the suffocating luxury, until I find myself before a portrait. It’s an old one—likely depicting the former royal family of Vitra. The man in his fifties with the green eyes, the blonde woman beside him who must have been the former queen, and then, of course, the king. The other man is unfamiliar to me, and my gaze lingers on him for a moment, but my focus snaps back to the woman in the portrait.

My mother.

I feel a flutter in my chest, a mix of nostalgia and bitterness. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her face, and here she is, captured forever in this painting. I study her image, trying to remember the details of her face. People had always spoken of her with a mix of awe and disdain, of the notorious pranks she pulled, the stories of her climbing palace walls, and her unladylike behavior. They said she was wild, untamable, that she didn’t fit the role of a princess, it’s fitting really I remember running around the village with her playing.

The memory brings me a sudden jolt of sadness.