[The Armoire Estate, Next Morning]
Morning light filtered through the silk curtains of the Armoire estate, soft and golden—but Lucien looked like death lightly dusted in rose powder.
He sat at the edge of his bed, robe half-draped, skin ghostly pale with a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. His once-impeccable hair now looked like a bird had tried to nest in it. He blinked slowly, trying to remember how to breathe through the nausea twisting his stomach into knots.
Marcel burst through the door like a man who’d just heard the estate was on fire. "My lord! You didn’t come down for morning tea! Are you—"
He stopped. His eyes took in Lucien’s pallid complexion, the hollow under his eyes, and the sickly shade of green tinting his cheeks.
"My lord...?" Marcel’s voice pitched an octave higher. "Oh dear heavens. You look like a poisoned ghost!"
Lucien groaned, cradling his forehead. "I’m fine."
"You are not fine!" Marcel wailed, rushing to his side like a windstorm in human form. "You look like a wilted daisy! My lord, your hands are ice-cold! You’re sweating through your nightshirt! Oh no—oh no no no. Is this morning sickness? Pregnancy fever? Has the baby annexed your liver?!"
Lucien coughed weakly. "Pretty sure it’s just nausea."
Marcel was already halfway to the writing desk, inkpot in one hand and quill in the other. "That’s it. I’m writing to Grand Duke Silas. This is an emergency. You are in no condition to meet anyone, much less work. He’ll understand, I’m sure—he’s practically your—"
"No," Lucien rasped.
Marcel paused. "No?"
Lucien straightened up with the dramatic flair of someone preparing to recite their final soliloquy. "The letter said it was urgent. From the Grand Duke himself. He summoned me. That means it’s important."
"But you can barely sit upright!"
"My face will always look like this in the upcoming morning, for nine months," Lucien said with the elegance of a practiced sinner. "This will be normal. Pale and tragic."
"You’re going to throw up every hour?"
"Yes, and I call it... dramatic digestion." He attempted to toss his robe but only managed a weak flop.
Marcel clutched the table for support. "My lord, you are with child. You are carrying the rarest pregnancy known to man—and you’re going to a formal meeting while looking like you were just exorcised?!"
Lucien stood up slowly, swaying like a tree in a hurricane. "If I die, tell the baby I tried."
"My lord!"
Lucien grabbed his coat. "No time. Summon the carriage."
"But—!"
"I am the head of House Armoire," Lucien declared, shoulders straightening as if summoned by sheer will. "And this baby in my stomach is already ruining my wardrobe. At the very least, I refuse to let it ruin my political influence."
Marcel, utterly undone, wrung his hands. "This is madness. MADNESS, I say!"
From down the hall, Faelan’s voice echoed in: "Please don’t forget his snacks and water bottle. Pregnant stomachs are dramatic."
Lucien, pale and shaking, marched out like a prince going to war.
***
[The journey to Rynthall Estate]
Lucien stood before the carriage as though it were his execution scaffold. The wind rustled his cloak dramatically—too dramatically, in fact, because he was already sweating and pale.
He pointed a trembling finger at the vehicle. "Do... do I need to get on this carriage?"
"Yes, my lord," Marcel said patiently from his side.
Lucien looked at him, horrified. "What if... my 0.000025-inch baby pops out?!"
Marcel blinked. "You... you know the size of the to-be-young-lord, my lord?"
"IS THAT WHAT MATTERS RIGHT NOW?" Lucien’s voice went a full octave higher. "I am worried about my BABY, Marcel! What if... what if—"
"Nothing will happen, my lord." Marcel sighed with the air of a man already tired of today’s nonsense. "I will be accompanying you."
Lucien was quiet for a moment. He inhaled deeply like a brave soldier before war. Then, without warning, he collapsed onto the cushioned seat of the carriage like a dying swan, one arm flung over his face, the other clutching his belly.
"If this carriage so much as touches a pebble," he hissed through clenched teeth, "I swear this baby will rocket out of me like a cannonball. Out. Of. My. Butt."
The driver hadn’t even touched the reins yet.
Marcel sat across from him, already regretting his life choices. "My lord, that’s... not how birth works."
"You don’t know that, Marcel!" Lucien snapped, eyes wild and glittering. "There’s no manual for rare male omega pregnancies! For all we know, the baby could come out of my nose!"
Marcel opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed his temples. "That’s not biologically—" He stopped because, honestly, he wasn’t sure anymore.
Outside, the carriage finally creaked forward, beginning its slow roll of doom.
"My lord!" a voice rang out suddenly.
Lucien blinked.
Faelan popped into view, opening the little carriage door with the grace of someone entirely unbothered by the panic inside. "Did you forget his crackers?" he chirped. "What about the dried apricots? Pregnant stomachs demand sustenance."
He tossed a small satchel into Marcel’s lap. "Also! He might cry and panic randomly. That’s normal. Don’t worry if he starts shouting about betrayal, death, or forbidden legacies."
"I AM ALREADY PANICKING!" Lucien wailed, flinging himself back onto the velvet cushions like a prince in mourning.
"I meant louder and more," Faelan grinned. "Good luck!" And like an unhelpful forest spirit, he vanished into the morning fog.
Marcel stared down at the satchel, then at Lucien, who had one hand dramatically draped across his forehead like an opera heroine.
"Would you... like a cracker, my lord?"
Lucien sniffled. "Only if you feed it to me gently."
Marcel leaned forward, placing it gently in his mouth. "You’re going to be fine. Just breathe."
Lucien chewed slowly. "If I die, name the baby... something absurd. Like Cornelius. Or Brimstone. Something they’ll regret writing on school forms."
"You’re not dying."
"I am emotionally perishing."
Then the carriage hit a slight bump.
Lucien shrieked again, grabbing both sides of the door. "I SWEAR I JUST FELT THE BABY MOVE!"
"You’re probably just bloated—"
"HOW DARE YOU."
Thus began the journey to Rynthall: one terrified new-rare-male-omega, one calm yet traumatized servant, and a driver who had no idea what he’d just gotten into.