Midnight Reports

Lucius POV 

Lucius sat in his study, eyes flicking across a stack of documents, but none of the words truly sank in. His hand hovered near the ink quill, unmoving, as his thoughts drifted back to the silver-haired omega locked beneath his roof. Nael. Or… whatever the boy had become.

Captain Varrick stood across from him, arms behind his back, eyes alert and ready.

"Have you found out who helped that omega escape?" Lucius asked quietly, the calmness in his tone strained. Too still. Too sharp around the edges.

"No, sir," Varrick replied, his voice steady. "Not yet. But my men are still investigating. We've narrowed down movement in the east corridor."

Lucius nodded once, fingers tapping against the arm of the chair.

"That omega… he's cursed. That much we know." His eyes drifted to the faint embers glowing in the fireplace. "But when those rogues attacked him, they let him go. They fled. And yet when I stand near him, his scent—"

He paused, brow tightening slightly.

"It doesn't repel me. It's the opposite. Addictive, almost."

Varrick shifted his stance slightly. "I don't have an answer for that yet, Your Grace. But I can go to the outer archives—see if the temple records say anything about unstable scent profiles or… mixed soul bonds."

Lucius gave a tight nod. "Do it. I want to know what I brought into this fortress."

Just then, the door flew open. A maid rushed in, pale and breathless, eyes wide with fear.

"Your Grace," she gasped. "It's Nael. The omega—he isn't responding."

Lucius shot to his feet, the papers forgotten.

"What do you mean, he's not responding?" His voice dropped, low and sharp, like thunder before the crack.

"He was just brought up from the warding hold. The guards said he collapsed—he won't open his eyes, and his skin was… burning."

Lucius didn't wait for another word. He left the study, cloak flaring behind him as he strode into the hall. His boots hit the stone floor hard, echoing off the tall walls. His heartbeat pounded against his ribs, faster than it should have.

Just outside the main corridor, one of the guards staggered toward him with Nael in his arms. The boy looked small. Too small. Pale skin, soaked hair, lashes dark against flushed cheeks. He wasn't moving.

"Give him to me," Lucius ordered, already stepping forward to take him.

The guard hesitated, but Lucius didn't wait. He gathered Nael into his own arms, shocked by how hot the boy's body was against him. Fever. Sweat. His breathing was shallow.

Without a word, Lucius turned and carried him through the fortress, back toward his private chambers. The halls blurred past him. He ignored the stares of servants, the questions Varrick tried to ask—none of it mattered right now.

He pushed into his room, moved straight to the bed, and laid Nael down gently.

The boy didn't stir.

"Get me a healer," Lucius barked over his shoulder. "Now."

When he looked back, Nael still hadn't moved.

Lucius knelt beside the bed, brushing wet strands of hair from his forehead. His fingertips lingered for just a second longer than necessary.

He leaned closer, listening.

Breathing—barely there, but steady.

Heartbeat—faint, but present.

Still, it wasn't enough. Not for Lucius.

"Nael," he said softly, tapping his cheek once. "Wake up."

There was no response.

His jaw clenched. He'd seen soldiers on deathbeds with that same look in their eyes—glassy, far away, like the soul was slipping between worlds.

Lucius stared down at the boy. He didn't know what he expected to feel. Frustration, perhaps. Annoyance. Even contempt.

But what he felt, quietly simmering beneath it all… was dread.

The three healers worked in tense silence, spreading salve over the crimson welts on Nael's thighs, whispering runes that glowed briefly before sinking into skin. Lucius stood back, arms crossed, shoulder pressing into the bedpost—masking concern behind stillness.

When they finished binding the last wound, the eldest healer turned to him, eyes sharp as flint.

"Do you truly know nothing of the Ruin‑born curse, Your Grace? Or do you mean to doom us all by ignoring its laws?"

Lucius's jaw tightened. "Speak plainly."

The second healer—silver‑haired, meek outside the workroom but fierce in her craft—recited in a low voice that made the candle flames shiver:

" 'When the ruined soul rises, the bond shall shatter, and the moon will bleed war upon the land.' "

The third healer adjusted Nael's blankets, then glanced back at Lucius with a chilling finality. "Continue this recklessness and you will regret it, Alpha King."

The eldest finished the warning with a verse Lucius knew only in fragments:

" 'If the Oracle's child finds love untainted by fate, the curse will break.

If he is claimed by force… the world will burn before the next eclipse.' "

They left the room before Lucius could form a reply, their footsteps fading down the corridor like a judgment already rendered.

For a long moment he stood, staring at the closed door, anger prickling beneath his skin—not at their audacity, but at the truth he heard in their fear.

They exaggerate, he told himself. Old texts, old superstitions. Nothing more.

Yet when he turned back to the bed, the words clung to him like smoke.

Nael lay still, brow damp, lashes fanned against fever‑flushed cheeks. The sight shouldn't have stirred anything but annoyance; instead a quiet pull in Lucius's chest tightened, insistent and unbidden.

He moved closer, candlelight gilding the sleeping omega's silver hair. Carefully—almost against his own logic—he reached out and cupped Nael's cheek. The boy's skin was warm, softer than he expected. A faint vibration—like restrained power or a half‑remembered song—seemed to hum beneath the surface, coaxing him nearer.

"You aren't even as pretty as a moon‑flower," Lucius whispered, thumb brushing a stray strand from Nael's forehead. "Yet you cause more wreckage than a rampaging giant." He studied the relaxed lines of Nael's face, the tiny scar near the temple, the vulnerable curve of parted lips. "Who exactly are you, Nael? What have I dragged into my house?"

A heartbeat passed—then another.

Without thinking, he leaned down, closing the scant space between them until his lips brushed Nael's.

A kiss softer than a sigh. Quick as a spark. The taste of salt and fever lingered, and something else—something like the whisper of summer rain just before it falls.