Chapter 124: The Second Chaos

Chapter 124: The Second Chaos

[Imperial Palace—Throne Room]

The air was thick with tension. Whispered rumors slithered through the knights and remaining nobles like shadows: "I heard the grand duke wiped out all the traitors."

"Yes, and now they are replacing new nobles in their place?"

"The message was clear...if you commit treason...there’s only death. No forgiveness."

Silas stood rigid beside Emperor Adrein’s throne, his crimson cloak brushing the polished floor, eyes cold and unyielding. Before them, shackled and trembling, sat the man who had dared betray the empire: Adrein’s own uncle, his chains clinking with every shallow breath. A knight held the parchment aloft, reading in a voice tight with dread.

"...he... he also shook hands with a neighboring kingdom, which led to chaos and death in the North. Children were kidnapped, sold as slaves... and yet, he showed no remorse, only arrogance. This... this ultimately sparked war."

Adrein’s eyes fixed on his uncle, glinting with icy calculation. He leaned forward, voice deliberate. "Grand Duke... what of the nobles who followed him? Those who conspired in this treachery?"

Silas’s crimson gaze swept over the room, each flicker of his eyes sending chills. "Your Majesty... they have been cleansed. Wiped from the empire. Not a single one left standing."

The court fell into stunned silence. Even the walls seemed to hold their breath.

Adrein straightened, his tone shifting to one of command, final and irrevocable. "Then... there is no use for this traitor to continue breathing. I... I hereby order... a public execution."

A collective gasp echoed through the throne room. Murmurs rose like an angry tide. No one—no one—had dared imagine that the Emperor would decree the death of his own uncle in public.

"Adrein... I... I am your uncle

Adrein’s expression remained cold, unwavering. "You should’ve thought about that... before committing treason," he said, each word deliberate, heavy, and final, like a hammer striking iron.

"Take him," Silas interrupted, voice slicing through the murmurs like a sharpened blade. "Prepare him for public execution."

Chains rattled sharply as the imperial knights advanced. The uncle’s eyes darted frantically, panic twisting his face. His voice rose, breaking, "No! Wait! Adrein... please... I beg you... mercy! Mercy for your uncle!"

But there was no mercy today. Silas stepped closer, towering over him, crimson eyes glinting with cold judgment.

"What about... my son? My child?" the uncle cried, voice cracking, tears running down his cheeks. His hands clawed at the air, reaching desperately, pleading for a miracle.

The knights tightened their grip, dragging him backward. His face turned pale, lips quivering. "Adrein... no... listen... my child... my son... ADREINNNNNNNNNNNNNN!" His scream echoed across the throne room, sharp and broken, fading as the chains carried him toward his inevitable fate.

The room fell silent, the air thick with tension, the weight of fear hanging heavier than the iron chains themselves.

Silas turned, crimson eyes locking on the boy, his jaw tight. "So...what about him?"

Adrein, rising from his throne with a calm, almost cruel indifference, waved a hand dismissively. "Do as you see fit, Grand Duke. Kill him... make him a slave... I care not. He is of no consequence to the empire."

The boy flinched, clutching at his mother, terror etched into every line of his young face.

Silas’s gaze softened slightly—just enough to seem human, though his presence still radiated power and menace. He crouched slightly, meeting the child’s wide, fearful eyes.

"They... can leave," he said, voice steady, resonant with authority. "They may live... as commoners. Nothing more, nothing less. No power, no title, no privilege. A new life... as the world intended for those who betray it."

The mother exhaled shakily, her hands shaking as she grasped her son. The child looked up, confusion and relief battling on his small face.

Adrein nodded once, sharply. "Very well. That will suffice. I am leaving." He turned, the weight of his presence leaving the throne room like a fading shadow, his cloak brushing the floor with an ominous whisper.

Silas straightened, his crimson eyes sweeping the assembled knights. "Send them south. Let them live... among the people, as commoners. Let this be a lesson—not only to traitors but to all who dare to think the empire’s order is theirs to bend."

The knights bowed deeply, fear and respect intertwining in their rigid posture.

"Yes, Grand Duke."

Silas turned back to the door, the shadows of the throne room stretching long behind him. His mind, already planning the next move, barely lingered on the whispers of fear and awe left in his wake.

Order must be restored... the empire must remain unshakable... and no traitor—no matter how close—will ever forget the wrath of Silas.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Dining Hall—Noon]

"MAMA... PUKED A LOT!!!"

Lucein groaned, hunched over a large, unfortunately positioned pot. His cheeks were pale, sweat dotting his temples, and his hands trembled as he tried—and mostly failed—to steady himself.

The chef, white as a sheet and muttering under his breath, hovered nervously. "My lord... should I prepare a... a nice, healthy chicken soup? Perhaps it will settle your stomach?"

Lucein lifted a shaking hand, waving weakly like a dying swan. "No... no... at this rate, I might puke my lungs out before the soup even touches my lips..." His voice was weak, like a ghost speaking through a grave.

Elysia, perched on a chair too tall for her small frame, looked at him with big, worried eyes. "Mama... why is my sibling troubling you so? Does... does he not love you?"

Before Lucein could answer, the moment of quiet reflection was rudely interrupted by a spectacular BLARRGHHH!!!

The chef gasped, stumbling back. Marcel, ever ready, sprinted forward with a fresh pot like a knight charging into battle. "Here! Here, my lord! Puke on a fresh

Theoran pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, exaggerated sigh, as if he were personally carrying the weight of the world’s nausea. "Your... little sibling," he said solemnly, "is merely sending a very important message. A... hint... that he is preparing for his grand entrance into the world."

Elysia’s eyes went wide. "This... this way?" She gestured at Lucein, who was wobbling like a seasick sailor.

Theoran nodded gravely. "Yes, my dear. This... is their way. The... ’I am coming soon’ signal. A... herald of chaos. A... pukey herald."

Lucein, still clutching the pot like it was a lifeboat in a stormy sea, groaned loudly, voice shaking with misery. "A... herald of chaos... my stomach... might officially file a formal complaint... and honestly, I wouldn’t blame it."

Elysia, eyes wide and cheeks puffed out with worry, leaned closer to Theoran, her tiny hands gripping his sleeve. "Grandpa... did I... did I do something like that too... when I was in Mama’s stomach?"

The room froze. Silence stretched, heavy and dramatic, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Alphanso cleared his throat, his voice shaking slightly, though with a mischievous twinkle behind it. "Yes... little miss... yes, you did. In fact... when Lord Lucein was carrying you... the estate... was never... ever... CALM!"

Marcel choked on his own gasp, while the chef wiped sweat from his brow, muttering, "Calm? Ha! There was no calm. Only... chaos, doom, and the occasional flying ladle."

Elysia’s eyes went wide. Then, slowly, in a dramatic collapse worthy of a tiny melodrama queen, she slumped, trembling from head to toe like an eggplant left in the freezer too long. "I... I was a... bad child... wasn’t I? I... troubled Mama... a lot..."

Lucein’s heart clenched at the sight of her shivering little form. With hands still shaky and body still trembling from his own nausea, he reached out to her, voice soft yet heavy with emotion.

"No, sweetheart... you... you were the most beautiful, the most precious... the most magnificent little storm I ever held in my arms... my child. Even though... yes... I admit... my moods swung like a ship in a typhoon... we... we shared moments that were... unforgettable..."

He opened his mouth to continue, maybe to console, maybe to declare love... but then—BLARRRGHHHH!!!!—

Another projectile of chaos erupted from his stomach. Lucein’s face turned a shade paler than alabaster, sweat mingling with tears of despair. He groaned dramatically, collapsing slightly against the table.

"Someone... someone please... just... kill me now! Take me away... send me to a desert... anywhere! My... my second child... they are... already... troubling me more than Elysia ever did!"

Elysia, eyes wide, whispered in awe, "Mama... second sibling... already strong... like a tiny monster..."

Theoran pinched the bridge of his nose. Alphanso muttered under his breath, "By the gods... I didn’t sign up for this many disasters at once."

Marcel, still holding a fresh pot like a lifeline, whimpered, "Should I get another fresh Pot, my lord?"

The chef waved a wooden spoon like a tiny sword. "Someone... someone get him water! Or... or holy water! Or... maybe a bucket of bravery!"

Meanwhile, Lucein, collapsing fully onto the table with the drama of a king betrayed by fate, whispered to no one in particular, "...I... I love them... I love them... but why... why must every meal be a battle of survival?!"

And in the dining hall of Rynthall Estate, chaos reigned supreme: a puking mother, a shivering toddler, an army of nervous servants, and a very, very ambitious second child sending their heralds of chaos—early, loud, and unmistakably dramatic.