Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 197: Discontent

Inside the carriage sits an older man, his posture rigid and his expression painted with fear. There’s something vaguely familiar about him—his features bear a striking resemblance to Noelle’s, though time and hardship have carved lines into his face. His green eyes dart around the space nervously, his dark raven hair cropped short but unkempt. His attire is disheveled, as if he’s been through an ordeal that left him shaken and stripped of his dignity.

The moment his eyes land on me, he flinches, his gaze sharp and wary like a cornered animal. I step into the carriage, closing the door behind me, the small space amplifying the tension between us.

"Good afternoon, Your Majesty," I say, my tone calm but edged with a cool authority.

He startles at the title, his suspicion deepening. His eyes narrow as they flick over me, searching for any sign of deceit. The fear and uncertainty etched across his face are palpable, and it’s clear he’s trying to piece together who I am and what I want.

"Don’t worry," I continue, letting a smirk tug at the corner of my lips. "I haven’t been sent by your brother."

The mention of his brother only seems to make him more uneasy, his shoulders tensing as he leans back slightly, putting as much distance as he can between us in the confines of the carriage. His suspicion is reasonable, of course. If I were in his position—likely kidnapped, dragged from wherever he was hiding, and thrown into an unknown situation—I’d be just as wary.

But his reaction also amuses me. "You’ve nothing to fear from me," I add, keeping my voice steady and measured. "Though I can see why you’d think otherwise, given the circumstances."

His silence speaks volumes, and I can tell he’s sizing me up, trying to determine whether I’m friend or foe.

"Who are you?" the man asks, his voice cautious but laced with the grit of someone trying to hold onto some semblance of control.

I lean back against the cushioned seat, allowing a slow, deliberate smile to spread across my face. "Those are minor details," I reply, my tone smooth and unbothered, as though his question doesn’t carry the weight he intended. I let the moment hang, watching the way his green eyes narrow slightly, his jaw tightening as his suspicion grows.

"What matters," I continue, leaning forward now, resting my elbows on my knees and fixing him with a pointed gaze, "is what you can do for me."

***

The tension in the meeting room of the Remiro estate was palpable, the air charged with unease. Around the massive circular table, a dozen retainers clamored for the Duke’s attention, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of complaints and concerns.

"Duke, the king’s been pressuring us relentlessly!" one retainer exclaimed, his voice tight with frustration.

"Yes! And now merchants are pulling out of deals because of fear. My entire trade route has been disrupted!" another added, slamming his fist on the table for emphasis.

As more voices joined the fray, the noise swelled to a deafening crescendo. Each retainer spoke louder in a desperate bid to be heard, their anxieties spilling into the room like a dam broken.

At the head of the table sat Duke Remiro, an imposing figure draped in a cloak of quiet authority. His dark eyes remained fixed on the polished wood of the table, his tan fingers tapping against it in a steady, rhythmic cadence. His face betrayed nothing—an impassive mask that only sharpened the sense of dread creeping through the room.

The more the retainers bickered, the tighter his expression became. A scowl began to carve its way across his features, deepening with every passing second. The atmosphere in the room shifted subtly at first—a faint chill creeping into the edges of the space.

But as the din grew louder, the temperature plummeted. The retainers began to notice, their complaints faltering as visible frost formed on the edges of the ornate table and the walls. Snowflakes materialized out of the air, settling lightly on shoulders and papers alike. The freezing cold seeped into their bones, forcing them into a reluctant silence.

Duke Remiro’s icy magic was well known among his retainers, a manifestation of his wrath that few dared to provoke. The room fell utterly still, save for the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the table. The Duke’s scowl remained etched on his face, but he made no move to address the group. The silence stretched on, a tangible weight pressing down on the retainers, who now sat rigid in their chairs, visibly trembling—not just from the cold, but from fear.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Duke sighed, the sound breaking through the frigid stillness like a crack of thunder. The temperature in the room stabilized, though the frost remained. freёweɓnovel.com

"I understand your worries," he said, his voice low but commanding, each word imbued with authority that brooked no argument. His gaze swept across the room, locking eyes with each retainer in turn, silencing any lingering thoughts of dissent.

The retainers sat motionless, the cold and the weight of the Duke’s displeasure rendering them mute. Whatever grievances they had brought into the room, they knew better than to push further. Duke Remiro’s word was law, and his patience was clearly not infinite.

"But what can I do?" the Duke of Remiro began, his tone dripping with an exaggerated sadness that was almost theatrical. "He is Celia’s son, and that makes him my son. Yet here he is, at odds with the king."

The room fell into a deafening silence at the mention of Celia. No one dared to breathe a word. The Duchess Celia was a sacred name within the Remiro Duchy—a subject the Duke handled with unyielding reverence. Stories circulated of those who had dared to speak ill of her or even broach her name carelessly, only to lose their heads for their folly.

The retainers shifted uncomfortably in their seats, avoiding eye contact with their liege as the chill from earlier still lingered in the air.

Duke Remiro’s fingers stopped their rhythmic tapping as he leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the table. His voice softened, but the dangerous edge remained.

"That aside," he said, the weight of his words pressing down on the room, "when have I ever put this duchy in a threatening position?"

The question hung in the air, rhetorical but powerful. The retainers exchanged hesitant glances, none bold enough to challenge the truth in his statement.

"Trust me," the Duke continued, his tone gentler now, almost coaxing, "as you all have these many years. I have not failed you yet."

His words carried the gravitas of years of unwavering leadership, the kind that had seen the Remiro Duchy rise to unprecedented heights under his rule. Slowly, one by one, the retainers nodded in agreement, their earlier doubts quelled by the Duke’s undeniable authority and logic.

"Understood, Your Grace," one of them finally said, the others echoing the sentiment in unison.

Duke Remiro leaned back in his chair, satisfied, the corners of his mouth curling into the faintest shadow of a smile. His gaze swept across the room, lingering just long enough to remind them all who held the power.

"Good," he said simply, and with that, the meeting was concluded.