The Omega Who Wasn't Supposed to Exist-Chapter 23: The Tidal Prophecy

[Lucien in his dreamland...]

"Ugh... not the bright light again," Lucien groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes like a noble maiden fainting in a tragic opera.

The sky above him was blindingly blue, aggressively cloudless, and unnecessarily vast—as if it had something to prove. The air smelled like salt, sun, and mild betrayal.

Whoosh. Crash. Splash.

The unmistakable sound of ocean waves.

Lucien blinked, sand clinging to his lashes, his cheek, his hair, and possibly his soul. He pushed himself upright with the grace of a cat woken mid-nap.

"...Am I on a beach?" freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

He looked to the left. He looked to the right. He looked down at his outfit.

White shirt. Chest scandalously exposed. Shorts so short they were practically a suggestion.

Lucien’s eyes went wide.

He shot to his feet, sand exploding around him like dramatic confetti, and spun in a panicked circle like a debutante at a masquerade unmasking.

"THIS—THIS LOOKS SUSPICIOUSLY LIKE A KIDNAPPING!!"

His arms flailed. He flailed. A nearby seagull screamed in agreement. Possibly traumatized.

"AAGGHHH! I HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED BY THAT CREEPY KILLER!!"

Lucien stomped down the beach, furious, flustered, and filled with a vengeance that did not appreciate being sunburnt.

"Who kidnaps someone and then leaves them on a luxury seaside trauma retreat?! What kind of romantic sadist—?"

A glint. A shimmer. A golden gleam near the shoreline, nestled in the sand like destiny’s shiny mistake.

Lucien squinted. Shuffled closer.

Gasp.

"Wait... is this another one of those mystical-dream-pregnancy-visions?!"

The golden egg pulsed gently, like a sleepy heartbeat. Lucien’s face lit up, joy blooming across his features faster than court gossip.

"IS THAT MY WOBBLEBEAN IN THERE?!"

He beamed, hands fluttering to his chest.

"My darling precious babygem, my little cosmic squishball, are you in there?!" he whispered, teetering forward.

But something was wrong.

He couldn’t move.

His foot lifted... but landed in the exact same spot.

"...Huh?"

He tried again. This time a big step.

Same result.

Lucien looked down, panicked, and tried to run.

He was moonwalking. In place like a cursed pop star.

"WHAT IS THIS DREAM-LEVEL CRUELTY?! I’M TOO YOUNG TO BE STUCK IN A NIGHTMARE FLASHDANCE!"

No matter how hard he fought, the egg stayed just out of reach—glimmering innocently like it wasn’t emotionally torturing him.

Then he heard it.

The rumble.

Deep. Distant. Dreadful. Like thunder—or a very angry ocean god waking from a nap. Lucien turned toward the horizon.

And froze.

A wave was rising. A big wave. A wave too dramatic for a dream. A wave that looked like it could slap an entire kingdom.

His heart dropped.

The egg. The wobblebean. His wobblebean.

It sat there. Vulnerable. Alone. Right in the path of doom.

Lucien’s voice cracked as he screamed, "NO—NO NO NO NO—MY WOBBLEBEAN—RUN! ROLL AWAY, SWEETIE!"

The egg shimmered, unaware. Or maybe just vibing.

"SWEETIE, DON’T JUST VIBE—EVACUATE!!"

But it didn’t move.

The wave rose, an indigo wall of doom, roaring with the wrath of a thousand unpaid babysitters.

"YOU CAN’T TAKE MY BABYYYYY!" Lucien wailed, tears streaking down his cheeks. "I HAVEN’T EVEN KNIT YOU A BLANKET YETTTTT!!"

The wave crashed down.

Lucien lunged forward, arms outstretched, the world bending, sound collapsing, sky turning black— "WOBBLEBEAAA—"

GASP.

Lucien’s eyes flew open. Sweat-soaked. Gasping. Frozen mid-scream.

"...bean," he finished weakly.

He blinked.

No beach. No sand. No death wave.

Just bedsheets. A ceiling. Silence.

And a whole lot of emotional damage.

Lucien lay there for a breathless moment, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin. His wide eyes flicked around the room—ornate walls, velvet curtains, a flickering chandelier. Familiar. Too familiar.

He was in Silas’s chamber.

Alone.

But the image of his poor wobblebean getting swallowed by a monstrous tidal wave refused to leave him. It clung to his mind with cruel persistence.

"Pregnancy visions are supposed to be good," he muttered, voice trembling. "Beautiful. Whimsical. A glowing meadow and maybe a harp. Not—NOT COSMIC INFANT DROWNING!"

His hands shot to his hair. "What does it mean?! Why would I see that?! What if—what if the egg’s in danger? What if something’s wrong?!"

Panic slammed into him like the very wave from his dream.

He flung the blanket off like it had personally betrayed him and scrambled out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor.

"Silas—Silas—I need Silas—!" he gasped, stumbling toward the door with wide, terrified eyes.

He wrenched it open—

And nearly crashed into Alphanso, the butler, who startled visibly at the sight of the disheveled baron.

"Oh! Lord Lucien, you—"

Lucien grabbed Alphanso’s arm with both hands, fingers cold and desperate. His voice cracked. "Call Faylen. Or Frederick. Or—anyone! Something’s wrong. Something happened to my wobblebean!"

***

[Silas’s Chamber, Later...]

Faylen’s hands hovered with practiced grace, checking Lucien’s pulse and womb-stabilization charm with quiet intensity.

Lucien sat stiffly on the bed, ghost-pale, lips parted like he was mid-gasp but forgot how to inhale. His fingers curled into Silas’s sleeve—white-knuckled and trembling—like if he let go, he’d fall off the edge of reality.

Silas stood beside him like a loyal husband-to-be with a storm cloud for a brow. He kept glancing down at Lucien, brow furrowed, clearly torn between brushing the hair from Lucien’s sweaty forehead or setting the entire ocean on fire out of spite.

Finally, Faylen leaned back, exhaling slowly.

"Is everything good?" Silas asked, voice low.

Faylen nodded slowly, though the weight of the room made the gesture feel heavier than it should have."Everything is going well, my lord. The child seems stable."

A normal response. A reassuring one.

But Lucien flinched like he’d been slapped with a wet fish.

"Stable?" he echoed, eyes wide and haunted. "But—I saw the wave."

His grip on Silas’s sleeve tightened, pulling the fabric taut."It was like the ocean itself decided to commit a hate crime!" he gasped. "My cosmic squishball—my celestial yolk muffin—was RIGHT there in the path of a monster tsunami with delusions of grandeur! And I couldn’t move! I was moonwalking in place like a cursed puppet in a budget opera production!"

His voice cracked, eyes glossy with unshed panic."It was real. I could feel it. Something’s wrong. I know it."

The room went quiet.

Faylen’s mouth parted slightly, as if to offer a logical explanation, but he caught Silas’s subtle glance—the kind that said I’ll handle it. Silas then shifted his gaze to Alphanso and Elize, who were hovering nearby, concern writ plainly on their faces.

A soft nod from Silas.

They understood. Quietly, they exited, leaving the chamber filled only with the muffled fluttering of curtains and Lucien’s uneven breathing.

Silas turned fully to face him, eyes gentle. He reached out and took Lucien’s hand—still cold, still trembling—and laced their fingers together.

"Lucien," he said, voice softer than usual, almost reverent. "It was just a nightmare."

Lucien stared at him, lower lip wobbling. "But... what if it wasn’t? What if it was a prophecy? A divine premonition of doom wrapped in metaphors and soggy sand? What if my wobblebean is sending me distress signals like some psychic fetus with a flair for drama?!"

Silas sighed—long and deep—but not out of exasperation. More like he was steadying himself for the emotional roller coaster that was Lucien at full emotional combustion.

He reached up, brushing back Lucien’s sweat-dampened hair with surprising gentleness. Then, with an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, he said:

"Lucien. My love. My dramatized thundercloud."

Lucien blinked.

"Your wobblebean," Silas continued with almost suspicious seriousness, "is not being hunted by Poseidon. There is no oceanic conspiracy against your uterus."

Lucien sniffled. "You don’t know that."

"I do." Silas squeezed his hand. "Because if a god were after our baby, I assure you—Faylen would have already smacked them with an herbal poultice and a restraining order."

Lucien gave a wet little laugh at that, though it cracked halfway through like a broken kettle.

Silas leaned in, resting their foreheads together.

"You’re safe. The baby’s safe. And if anything does happen—even the tiniest thing—we’ll fight it together. I’ll march into the ocean myself and punch a prophetic wave right in its foamy face. I swear it."

Lucien gave him a teary smile. "You’d punch a god for me?"

"I’d punch a sharknado for you."

Silas cupped Lucien’s cheek gently, his thumb brushing away a tear that clung stubbornly to pale skin.

"Everything will be fine, my love," he murmured, voice low and reassuring.

Lucien nodded slowly... then suddenly froze. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Wait—hold on. Since when did I become your ’love’?"

Silas blinked. "Since you’re carrying my child and going to marry me. That makes you legally and emotionally my love."

Lucien’s mouth dropped open. "Since when am I—"

But before he could spiral into another monologue, Silas wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close.

"Shush," he whispered, lips brushing Lucien’s ear. "It’s going to happen. You, me, a baby with your dramatic flair and my incredible patience—we’re going to raise our child together."

Lucien opened his mouth to protest. He really did. There was a comeback right there, ready to be fired. But it... fizzled out somewhere between Silas’s heartbeat and the warmth of his embrace. The weight in his chest loosened. His eyes fluttered shut.

Silas felt it too—the way Lucien’s shoulders finally dropped from their high-strung perch. He smiled to himself, pressing a kiss to Lucien’s temple and hugging him tighter. Protective. Fierce. Soft.

After a few peaceful beats, he gently pulled back. "Are you feeling better now?"

Lucien gave a quiet little nod, still clinging like a sleepy koala.

Then he lifted his head, eyes glinting like a mischievous cat just discovering the kitchen counter."You said I’m your love, right?"

Silas blinked. A smile tugged at his lips. "I did."

Lucien’s grin widened—slow and cunning. "Then... why don’t you do my work to prove your love?"

There was a pause.

Silas blinked.

Lucien blinked back.

Then Silas’s gaze slid—painfully, dramatically—to the towering bundle of scrolls and documents piled on the nearby table. The paperwork of noble duties. The arch-nemesis of romantic mornings.

He stood up abruptly, brushing imaginary dust off his robe. "Ah—yes. About that. I just remembered—I have an urgent meeting with the King. Very royal. Very time-sensitive. Kingdom’s future depends on it. Can’t be late!"

Lucien shot up in bed, a pillow already in hand. "You liar! You absolute—I KNEW IT, YOU BASTARD!"

The pillow soared through the air like a fluffy missile, but Silas had already fled through the door, cape fluttering behind him like a dramatic escapee from responsibility.

Lucien flopped back onto the bed with a huff, arms crossed and nose high in the air.

But despite himself, he was smiling.

Warmth lingered in the room, soft and golden.

Even if the paperwork remained.