Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 279: Life goes on

Chapter 279 – Life Goes On

Aspen – Three Years Later

In a modest house nestled at the edge of a sleepy town in Aspen, Prince Rolland sits at a small kitchen table, watching his son with eyes that are far too intense for such a serene scene.

The boy, barely seven, obediently eats his breakfast as his father speaks.

"Remember," Rolland says, voice low and reverent, "you are of royal blood. Of the golden sun. Blessed by the God of Light himself. Never forget that."

His words are obsessive, almost feverish, as if speaking them aloud might make them true.

In the adjoining room, behind a cracked door, another child sits on the floor. Silent. Watching.

He is the same age.

The same frame.

But where the prince’s son is dressed neatly, bathed and polished, this child is a shadow.

His golden hair catches the light like sunlight incarnate. His eyes—unmistakably royal—shimmer like molten amber. He’s the very image of what the God of Light’s heir might look like. And yet, his clothes are too small, his hands are smudged with dust, and his knees are bruised from the rough floor. He does not move. He barely breathes.

He has learned how to disappear.

This is the child of a night—one moment of weakness, cruelty, or whim. A boy born to a royal concubine after the former crown prince’s downfall.

A boy with no name on paper, no title, no protection. Just a face that could shake nations, if anyone in the capital still cared.

On the nearby settee, the concubine—the boy’s mother—lounges in a cloud of smoke.

Her legs are curled up beneath her as she exhales, the pipe between her fingers barely held in place. She doesn’t look at her son.

She never does.

She doesn’t speak to the golden child unless it’s to snap at him for breathing too loudly or standing too close. And even then, it’s with the indifference of someone swatting a fly.

The boy on the floor doesn’t cry.

He never does anymore.

---

Raymond County – Aspen

Countess Elira walks across the stone floor with measured grace, a blanket folded neatly over one arm. Her eyes drift toward the rocking chair where her husband sits, unmoving.

Count Raymond stares forward, his eyes vacant. A man hollowed out from the inside.

Elira places the blanket around his shoulders, more out of routine than care.

"I should feel something," she murmurs, stepping back.

Her tone is calm. Detached.

"I should mourn the man you once were. But how can I? You were never truly mine. Not when you had them. The other children. The other lovers."

Her lip curls slightly.

"Even when he died, even then—you only cried for him. Never for me. Never for the children we lost. Never for what you did."

She stares at him a moment longer.

Raymond doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. He hasn’t spoken in over a year.

"You deserve this," she says simply, and walks away, leaving the ruined man to his silence.

----

Dukedom of Veyron – Far Eastern Estate

"Keep it away from me!" Duke Veyron shrieks, his voice hoarse and cracking.

The scream pierces through the thick velvet drapes of the eastern manor. It echoes off the marble, wild and primal—more beast than man.

There’s a fevered gleam in his eyes—panic, disbelief, hatred.

Across the room, the Duchess stands in a pool of soft morning light, her posture regal, her expression unreadable. In her arms, she cradles a sleeping toddler swaddled in lace and velvet. The child stirs softly, unaware of the chaos into which he was born.

"Your Grace," she says, the title heavy with mockery, her tone maddeningly calm, "whether you like it or not, this child is yours. You bore him. He needs you."

Veyron recoils as if struck, his lips curling in disgust. "Don’t call me that. I’m not— I’m not—" He chokes on the word. "I’m an Alpha."

"Not anymore," she murmurs, eyes glinting with something sharp and cold. "You’re an omega now. And not just any omega—but a mother."

The word mother lands like a curse, and Veyron lurches forward as if to strike her, but his knees give out before he can rise.

He collapses onto the rug, panting.

"You lie. This is all some sick scheme. I’ll—I’ll have you all executed! Stripped and hung for treason!"

The Duchess merely sighs.

She adjusts the child in her arms and raises one delicate hand.

A single clap.

The echo carries like thunder.

Two guards enter. Not ordinary men—tall, silent, thick with muscle and colder than steel. They do not speak. They do not bow. They stand flanking the door, waiting.

"No," Veyron breathes, scrambling backward, his back hitting the cold stone wall.

"Your heat is almost here again," the duchess says softly, almost with pity.

"You’ve been stubborn, even foolish, but nature will win. It always does. It’s what you always said isn’t it. ’Omegas can never fight against the baser needs’ and you my dear duke prove yourself right everytime."

"No—" he whispers again, curling in on himself.

"Don’t—don’t let them near me. I’ll kill them—"

"Don’t be dramatic," she says. "They’ll keep you company until your body remembers what it is now. And what it needs."

One of the guards steps forward, reaching into the folds of his coat to retrieve a small vial. The Duchess nods in approval. Suppressants—weak ones. Temporary. Not nearly enough.

"We were generous, you know," she continues, turning her gaze toward the large stained-glass window where sunlight dapples the floor in fractured rainbows.

"We could have let the public see what you’ve become. Paraded you through the streets like the broken tyrant you are. But we kept you hidden. Dignified."

"You’re mad!" he spits.

"No." She looks back at him. "I’m merciful."

The child in her arms stirs again, whimpering softly. She hums to soothe him, a lullaby that she never sang for her own children, never thought herself capable of. But this boy—this cursed, miraculous child—was born from the monster who ruined so many lives. And yet, he was blameless. Soft. Precious. Definitely not because he is the source of torment for the duke.

She brushes a strand of dark hair from his brow.

Karma tastes sweet.

--

Royal Palace – Vitra

Within the glittering halls of the Vitra palace, peace reigns—or so it seems.

King Tarian, calm and composed, works behind his desk, papers in neat stacks beside him. The silver circlet on his head gleams under the warm light. He has spent the last three years tirelessly restoring the monarchy’s reputation, reversing the damage done by the one who came before.

The people adore him. And they should.

Every decree he signs brings food, stability, and protection. Every word he speaks is calculated, precise. With the support of Duke Remiro, the master of political theater, Tarian has become the golden king.

The queen enters quietly, her expression demure, her tray of tea perfectly balanced.

"Your Majesty," she says, voice as sweet as honey. "A moment of rest."

He offers a smile, takes the cup, and nods.

"Thank you."

She lingers, watching him with soft eyes, then walks behind the desk, her intentions clear. She has been persistent—subtle touches, glances, carefully chosen words.

She wants a child. Her own child with him. A royal heir.

In the far corner of the room, silent as a shadow, stands a figure draped in black robes and an iron mask. A eunuch. A servant. Always present. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

No one speaks to him.

No one dares.

But they all know he’s there.

What they don’t know—is who he is.

Behind the mask, beneath the heavy fabric, is the true face of the former king.

Maimed. Tongueless. Unrecognizable.

Noelle’s suggestion. Thorne’s execution.

He tried to escape. He tried to speak. He tried to reclaim what was his.

But every attempt ended in the dungeon, and Leona’s talents sometimes Felix.

Now, he watches as his brother rules. Watches as his queen pours tea for another man. Watches his children call someone else father.

And every day, Duke Remiro passes by and offers him a nod, a cruel smirk, and a whisper too quiet for anyone else to hear.

"Enjoying the show your majesty?"

This is his prison now.

A living death.

And the world? The world continues on, unaware.

---