Fallen General's Omega (BL)
Chapter 97: Conversation

Chapter 97: Conversation

The king’s request for my presence felt more like a command, as most things do in his court. I would have much preferred spending my time with Noelle, who fills my days with warmth, but the duty of playing the royal game beckons. As the carriage rolls to a stop in front of the royal palace, I step out, adjusting the stiff collar of my coat, already anticipating the tedium that awaits me.

I enter the grand hall, all marble and opulence, servants bowing in succession as I make my way towards the balcony where the king awaits. The soft murmur of the palace staff fades into the background as I climb the final set of stairs, a servant opening the doors to the sunlit balcony. There, the king sits with his tea, his hands clasped delicately around the cup, already watching me with that familiar smile – the one that barely hides the calculating glint in his eyes.

"Ah, General Thorne, my crimson warrior," he says, his voice all joviality. "Come, join me. It has been far too long since we last spoke."

"Your Majesty," I respond with a short bow, keeping my posture straight but relaxed, the way he expects a man of my rank to be. I take a seat across from him, silently accepting the tea a servant places before me. I raise the delicate cup to my lips, though I barely register the taste.

The king leans forward, his smile widening, and here it begins—the dance of conversation.

"How I miss the old days, the glory of your battlefield victories. What a sight you were, leading my armies to triumph. They still speak of the way you cut down enemy ranks like wheat before a scythe." His words are heavy with false nostalgia, the kind meant to flatter.

I suppress a sigh, focusing on the thin rim of the cup as I set it down gently. "Yes, Your Majesty," I say, knowing better than to contradict him. To him, the battlefield was a distant tale of glory. To me, it was murder and blood, death choking the air, and the weight of too many lives lost. But it’s not worth the effort to explain. He wouldn’t understand, nor would he care.

"I imagine you miss the thrill of it," he continues, his eyes sharp, watching for a reaction. "Such days of valor are behind us, it seems."

"I find little to miss in violence, Your Majesty," I reply, my tone even, devoid of emotion. "Though I serve the kingdom as I always have."

A slight silence falls between us, just long enough to border on uncomfortable. The king shifts, picking up his cup again, swirling the tea before sipping.

"Of course, of course," he murmurs. "We are at peace now, thanks in part to your efforts."

Before the conversation can turn into more tedious reminiscing, Count Raymond joins us, his entrance punctuated by the usual flurry of servants making sure his chair is positioned just right, his tea served promptly. The count’s sharp eyes sweep over me as he takes his seat.

"Thorne." The count says, his voice cutting through the room with an air of familiarity that makes my skin itch. I raise an eyebrow, my gaze sharp.

He quickly corrects himself. "I suppose it’s General Thorne now."

I don’t bother to hide my distaste, but I nod curtly. "It’s great to see you’re still healthy, Master."

"As cold as ever," the count says with a laugh that holds no warmth. His eyes gleam, studying me as if we’re still playing the old game of mentor and pupil. But I am no longer the young man seeking his approval, and he knows it.

I remain silent, my expression unreadable as I take a slow sip of the tea offered to me. The bitter taste lingers on my tongue, matching the bitterness of this conversation.

"How stiff," the king muses from across the room, reclining lazily in his chair.

"One wouldn’t think you’re master and disciple with that attitude." He eyes us both with amusement, his wrinkled face betraying nothing more than idle curiosity. To him, this is just entertainment.

"Don’t worry about it, Your Majesty," the count waves dismissively, leaning back as if he owns the room.

"This guy here has always been this way." His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The atmosphere tightens, a silent tension hanging between us.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, though internally, it’s a different story. My attention wanes as the king and Count Raymond fall into their usual conversation, drifting into the same old, tired subject.

What?

"What?" I ask, incredulous, wondering if I’d just misheard.

"We were thinking about you taking on an extra spouse," the king says, his tone light, as if he’s discussing something as simple as dinner plans.

Do these people never get tired?

"The last time you brought this up, you said you had no desire to marry," he continues, "but now you’re married, so I believe it’s fair we revisit the conversation."

No, no it definitely does not mean that.

"I’m afraid my answer is still the same," I reply, my voice cool, my patience thinning.

The king and Count Raymond exchange a look, the kind of look that sets my teeth on edge. It’s as if they’ve already decided my life for me. Count Raymond leans in, genuinely puzzled. "Why?"

The question irks me more than it should, but I maintain my composure. I know why they’re pushing this; to them, I’m nothing more than a prized stallion, an Alpha they want to breed with their sons. I often feel like nothing more than a valuable asset when I’m around these two.

"I’m quite content with my marriage," I answer, forcing my voice to stay level.

At that, they laugh—actually laugh—as if I’ve told the most absurd joke. My grip tightens on my cane, knuckles white with the effort to maintain my composure. Remember, Thorne, one of them is the king.

I release a slow breath, steadying myself. "I know it may sound far-fetched, but Noelle is my true mate. Just like the tales. I honestly need no other."

The king’s laughter only deepens, and Count Raymond raises an eyebrow, amused. "True mate?" he scoffs, the disbelief dripping from his tone. My jaw clenches. I know it sounds ridiculous to them, but this is my truth.

I try again. "Our marriage was officiated by the Church of Elaris, and we all know the Church doesn’t take lightly to matters concerning omegas. They wouldn’t have bound us if it weren’t—"

"A true mate?" the count interrupts, mocking. My eye twitches, but I hold my temper, though it takes every ounce of willpower not to snap.

The king chimes in, dismissive as always. "It’s probably just the honeymoon phase, Thorne. Besides, there’s no mating mark."

And there it is—the sore spot, the one place they know to hit me where it hurts.

"If you were truly mates, Noelle would have the mark," the count adds smugly.

My hands tighten around the cane, the wood creaking under my grip. The mating mark—the one thing Noelle and I want more than anything, and the one thing we can’t achieve. Not yet. Not with how things are. The poison I survived years ago... it’s wreaked havoc on my body. I haven’t had a rut in years. Noelle’s heats are irregular, some months he burns with them, other times they’re absent for long stretches. Without those two things aligning, there’s no chance for a mating mark.

I want to tell them that. I want to scream at them, but what’s the point? They wouldn’t understand. They’d only laugh more.

"Excuse me," I say, standing abruptly. "This conversation is over."

Without waiting for their response, I bow curtly, turn on my heel, and leave the room before my temper snaps.

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