Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 257: Two rats

Thorne POV

This is the most terrifying moment of my life.

I have been through war. I have seen battlefields littered with corpses, witnessed the horror of men torn apart by steel and fire. I have fought, bled, and survived things that should have killed me a hundred times over.

But nothing—nothing—has ever made me feel this kind of fear.

Noelle lies on the bed, pale, his long raven-black hair spread across the pillows. His body is completely still except for the faint rise and fall of his chest. His delicate hands rest at his sides, fingers twitching even in unconsciousness. The sight of him so still feels wrong, unsettling.

I shouldn’t have let them sedate him.

There was an argument before this.

Noelle had refused to be put under. He had fought them, fought me. He insisted he didn’t need it—he hadn’t been sedated when Mirelle was born. He wanted to be awake, to see our children the second they entered this world.

His eyes, filled with stubborn determination, had stared me down, daring me to back him up.

But I couldn’t.

Not this time.

I had taken his hand, pressing my forehead against his, my voice low, steady.

"Noelle, please. Let them do this. I will be here—I won’t leave your side. I will make sure nothing happens to the babies. I swear it."

For a long moment, he hadn’t answered. Then, reluctantly, his fingers had tightened around mine, his green eyes searching my face, reading me like he always did.

Finally, he had exhaled, surrendering.

Now, I stand like a sentry beside his unconscious body, my entire being coiled so tight I feel like I might snap at any moment.

Bishop Grace and the priests of Elaris’ move around him in practiced harmony, their murmured prayers blending with the rhythmic sounds of their instruments. They are the best. The most skilled. The most trusted.

I know this.

And yet, the sight of their hands—gloved, steady, sharp silver scalpel poised against my husband’s skin—makes my vision darken at the edges.

I shouldn’t be here.

I should turn away.

But I can’t.

The first incision is made.

A clean, practiced cut along the lower abdomen. The sacred silver blade parts flesh with clinical ease, and blood wells up in its wake, stark against Noelle’s pale skin. The scent of iron fills the air, mixing with the earthy aroma of healing salves and the faintest trace of incense from the candles burning around the room.

I grip my own arms to stop myself from reacting, my nails digging into my biceps.

I have never feared blood before.

But this—this is Noelle’s blood.

A priest shifts beside me, hesitant.

"You should sit."

I snap my gaze to him, and he immediately looks away.

Good.

I am not leaving.

Every muscle in my body is tight, every nerve on edge as I watch, waiting, silently daring something to go wrong.

The murmured voices of the priests shift in tone—urgent, focused.

Something is happening.

I see it.

A glimpse of something impossibly small, slick with blood and fluid, lifted gently from Noelle’s body.

Bishop Grace’s hands move with expert precision, cradling the fragile form as she severs the cord with a swift, practiced motion.

I stare.

And then I squint.

The tiny, wriggling creature in her hands looks—strange. Squashed. Wrinkled.

Like a wet rat.

Are all babies supposed to look like that?

Bishop Grace hands the newborn off to another priest, already preparing to go in for the second child.

My breath catches.

Another shift. Another soft, wet sound.

And then—

Another tiny form is lifted into the candlelight.

The second baby.

Another boy. freewёbnoνel.com

Another wrinkly rat.

Before my mind can fully process it, the first sharp cry rings through the room. A wail, high-pitched and angry, echoing in the air like a battle horn.

My body moves before I can think, drawn toward the sound.

A priest is washing him, gently wiping away the fluids, revealing damp, dark hair.

Noelle’s hair.

Something tightens in my chest, a pressure so fierce, so unfamiliar, I don’t know how to contain it.

The priest turns to me, his voice soft, reverent.

"Your son."

And then—

They place him in my arms.

My son.

He is so small.

Warm, fragile, his tiny hands clenching into fists, his scrunched-up face filled with rage at having been so rudely pulled into the world.

Then—another priest approaches, carrying the second newborn.

Another wail, just as loud as his brother’s.

My other son.

Twins.

I still can’t believe it.

Bishop Grace, unbothered by my moment of existential crisis, moves to finish the procedure. My eyes flicker back to Noelle’s body—his open stomach, his too-pale skin.

She moves with calm efficiency, her hands glowing with a faint, golden-green light as she seals his wound. The sacred magic of Elaris’, ancient and powerful, weaves his body back together like it had never been torn apart.

Within moments, his stomach is smooth again. Perfect. Whole.

They ask me to lift him.

I hesitate for only a second before using my ability, lifting Noelle effortlessly into the air.

The priests move with efficiency, replacing the bloodied sheets, cleaning the space, ensuring everything is as it should be.

I should be watching them.

I should be overseeing everything.

But I don’t.

All I can see is the fragile weight in my arms, the two tiny faces, the two lives we created.

I knew I would love them.

I tear my gaze away, looking toward Noelle.

Still unconscious, still too pale—but alive.

The room is quieter now. The tension that had once gripped the air has faded, leaving behind only the faint, steady hum of flickering candlelight.

Bishop Grace steps forward, her weathered hands holding a small vial filled with something amber-colored. She uncorks it with a soft pop, tilting the vial to allow a few drops to drip onto Noelle’s lips.

I watch closely, barely breathing.

For a long, excruciating moment, nothing happens.

Then—

A small twitch. A slow, deep inhale. The faint flutter of dark lashes against pale skin.

And then—his green eyes blink open.