Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 47: Scent

Chapter 47: Scent

News of the Crimson General’s return spread swiftly through the capital, carried in hushed whispers as if even the air itself feared to speak his name aloud. In the grand estates of the nobles and the narrow streets of the markets, the tension was palpable, like a storm about to break.

"Did you hear?" a merchant murmured to his customer, eyes darting nervously. "The Crimson General—he’s back. After all these years."

"No," gasped the customer, clutching her shawl tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought he was dead."

"He showed up at the courtroom today. Right in the middle of an execution," another vendor added from behind his stall, leaning in as if afraid the walls had ears. "Stopped it dead in its tracks. They say swords flew on their own, like magic."

In the dim taverns and bustling squares, the whispers were the same—low, furtive, tinged with both fear and awe. "The prince must be furious," someone said quietly over a pint of ale, casting a glance over their shoulder. "You know he’s the reason the general was gone in the first place."

And indeed, in the royal palace, the tension boiled over.

The prince stood in his opulent chambers, his face contorted in rage. With a furious shout, he hurled a porcelain jar against the wall, watching as it shattered into jagged pieces, the sound echoing through the room. His attendants stood frozen, their heads bowed low, not daring to breathe too loudly.

"The Robbens couldn’t even do their job properly!" he spat, fists clenched at his sides. "They had one task—just one—and now look where we are. Thorne’s back, and they’re nowhere to be found!"

In the dimly lit office of the Robbens family, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The room, richly adorned with dark woods and opulent decor, seemed to close in around them as the patriarch, Duke Robbens, slammed his fist on the polished mahogany table. His face was a mask of rage and disbelief.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Duke bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls.

Sevian Robben, Thorne’s younger half-brother, slumped in his chair, a mixture of irritation and anxiety etched on his face. "How would I know?" he snapped back. His voice, though defiant, was laced with a palpable sense of inferiority.

The Duke’s piercing gaze shifted to Sevian. "Did you give it to him?" he demanded.

"Of course I did!" Sevian shot back, his frustration clear. "We all saw the state he was in!"

The Duke’s brow furrowed deeper. "This doesn’t make any sense," he muttered, his voice filled with incredulity.

Sevian’s voice raised in frustration. "How the hell could someone recover from Voidrot’s Widow’s Essence?" he exclaimed. "That poison is a death sentence! It consumes the body from within while leaving the victim fully conscious and in excruciating pain. There’s no known cure."

The Duke’s face hardened with determination. "There’s no way he could have survived unless..." His voice trailed off, and he shook his head in disbelief. "Did a god himself come down to heal him?"

Unbeknownst to the Duke, the deity rumored to have healed Thorne was currently occupied with a more mundane task. In a tranquil garden, the god, adorned with a plump bird perched on his head, tended to the plants with an air of serene indifference.

**

Finally, I have a moment to myself. I sink onto the bed, feeling the weight of solitude pressing down on me. The emptiness around me is almost as palpable as the absence of my beloved star. Thanks to Leona and her ever-watchful network of spies, we learned that the execution was hastily moved up.

The nerve of these fools. They would never dare confront me directly, yet they plot and scheme behind my back. It enrages me. Victor, ever loyal and dumb, managed to get word of their treachery but also got caught.Their initial plan was to marry me off to some unsuspecting omega. They thought that with me poisoned and on the brink of death, I’d eventually die, and they would frame the omega for my death. Victor uncovered their scheme, and in a twist of irony, they decided to accuse him and the omega of orchestrating my demise.

But their plan hit a snag. My beloved star didn’t succumb to their machinations as they had hoped. He managed to heal me, despite the poison, despite everything. Voidrot’s Widow’s Essence is a cruel and insidious toxin, designed to ravage the body while leaving the victim in unending torment. The agony I endured during those long months of despair was almost unbearable, and the memories of that suffering darken my mood.

They should be trembling in fear. I had intended to forsake vengeance and live out my days peacefully with Noelle, but now that I’m here, I find it impossible to ignore the bloodlust boiling within me. If I am to be the Crimson General once more, I will make them pay dearly. Their blood will stain the ground.

I collapse onto the bed, its plush surface a stark reminder of the comfort and peace I once had. Yet, this bed is cold and unfeeling compared to the warmth of our shared space. I pull out the small, folded cloth from my pocket and press it to my face.

The moment I inhale, a flood of memories rushes over me—memories of Noelle, of moments that now seem impossibly distant. The scent is faint but unmistakable: the delicate blend of his pheromones, mingled with the faintest hint of the herbs he uses. Each breath I take is laden with the sweetness of his presence, an intoxicating mixture of familiarity and longing.

I draw the scent deeper into my lungs, desperate to cling to the last fragments of our life together. The smell, so powerful yet so ephemeral, grips me with a fierce intensity. My eyes close, and I’m overwhelmed by a wave of emotion—grief, yearning, and a simmering rage. I can almost feel him beside me.

The cloth feels like a lifeline, tethering me to a world that now feels so far removed. I hold it tightly, feeling the fabric’s texture beneath my fingertips, and I bury my face in it, letting the scent engulf me. The memories are both a comfort and a torment, pushing me to the edge of my endurance. I can almost hear his voice, see his face, and feel his touch.

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