Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 264: Alden island

Northwest of the island, far beyond the stone-lined roads and the budding hum of new life, nestled within the embrace of a dense, thriving forest, stood a massive estate—castle-like in scale and beauty. The building was quiet, wrapped in an aura of peace, its ivory stone walls glowing softly beneath the late morning sun. The only sounds that disturbed the stillness were the cries of seabirds, the rustling of trees, and the rhythmic crashing of waves against the nearby cliffs that framed the edge of the property.

It was a place untouched by the chaos of the world beyond. Serene. Sacred.

A narrow but well-kept stone path wound through the forest, stretching eastward for miles. It eventually met with the beginnings of a town—a blooming settlement with scaffolding and rooftops rising in every direction. It was still young, but each day it grew, houses and markets forming alongside the people who had chosen to settle here.

Alden Island, they called it now. No one knew who first used the name, but it stuck, passed from mouth to mouth, heart to heart.

It was fitting.

And that’s what it had become.

A place for rebirth. For healing. For building something new.

The boom of construction echoed through the air. Ability users worked seamlessly alongside craftsmen. Some used fire to mold metal, others shaped stone with a flick of their wrists. Earth-tamers laid foundations in seconds that would have taken weeks.

There was life here. Hope. People laughed again, built again, loved again.

But far from this newfound peace, the capital of Vitra burned—not with fire, but with scandal.

Whispers spread like wildfire, mouths barely able to contain their shock.

Duke Veyron. The iron-fisted Alpha. The ruthless noble whose name had commanded fear for decades. The man who had once strutted through courtrooms and ballrooms with arrogance soaked into every word, notorius for his lack of regard for omegas and women—had been found in a red-light district. Disoriented. Disgraced.

And worse—he had been in heat.

The tale seemed too wild to believe at first. But the details were undeniable. The rumors became stories, the stories became evidence, and the capital roared with it. It had been a scandal unlike any the court had seen in years.

Duke Veyron, unable to withstand the storm, had fled the capital in shame. He returned not to his estate in the city, but to one of his older manors, secluded and away from prying eyes. There, he locked himself away.

Days passed. Then weeks.

No one saw him.

But the whispers didn’t stop.

Inside that room, the once-mighty Duke Veyron spiraled. He summoned renowned physicians—one after another—begging, ordering, threatening them to find a cure. A way to make him ’normal’ again. To reverse whatever unnatural curse had turned him into this.

An omega.

And pregnant.

The horror of it shattered whatever pride he had left.

At first, he raged. He screamed. He fired the staff who whispered behind his back. He executed those who dared meet his eye with anything less than fear.

But even that couldn’t stop what had been set in motion.

His consorts began avoiding him, some even mocking him behind closed doors. Servants no longer rushed to obey. Nobles distanced themselves, slowly, quietly, as though he were a disease that could be caught with mere association.

He begged the physicians to remove the child. But the response was always the same.

Too dangerous.

If he insisted, he’d die along with it.

He was trapped.

Body and mind.

What he didn’t know—what he would never be allowed to know—was that the physicians he had summoned were not working for him.

They were Noelle’s.

Every word they spoke, every lie they told, had been carefully calculated. One of them had even lost a daughter to Veyron’s cruelty. For him, this wasn’t about money. This was about justice. About vengeance.

And so they watched as Veyron broke. Slowly. Painfully. His sense of control stripped from him piece by piece.

Back in the capital, Duke Remiro worked in shadows.

The king’s escape, the return of Crown Prince Tarian—none of it had been made public yet. Instead, Remiro picked apart the king’s remaining support one thread at a time. Nobles loyal to the fallen monarch were quietly removed, either persuaded into silence or dealt with by other means. Remiro was biding his time, planning the perfect moment to unveil the truth to the kingdom.

Meanwhile, the king—disgraced and desperate—vanished.

But his obsession had not.

He still wanted Noelle.

He believed, perhaps foolishly, that if he could get close, he could make the boy understand. That if he could see Mirelle’s face in his again, he could make it right.

Alden Island became his goal.

Disguised as a merchant, his clothes worn and his face hidden, the king slipped aboard a trade ship bound for the island. With so many people coming and going—workers, craftsmen, supplies—he blended in well enough. His hands trembled slightly as the coastline came into view, the soft silhouette of the castle visible even from a distance.

He had made it.

He disembarked quietly, keeping to the shadows, staying close to a group unloading wares. He had a single goal.

Reach Noelle.

But Alden Island was not like the capital.

Here, Thorne’s reach was absolute.

Every dock, every gate, every path. Eyes in the trees. Ears in the wind. Word of the unusual traveler spread before the king even made it halfway up the road.

He didn’t see Leona until it was too late.

One moment, he was walking. The next, a boot caught his ankle, a hand seized the collar of his shirt, and he was slammed against the side of a crate with enough force to shake the breath from his lungs.

"Your Majesty," Leona said, her voice cold and expressionless.

"What a pleasant surprise."

He tried to speak, to explain, but another figure appeared.

Thorne.

He walked slowly, unhurried, as though he’d known this would happen all along. His coat billowed in the ocean wind, eyes like sharpened steel.

The king swallowed hard.

Thorne didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

His eyes remained cold, focused, as he stood there, an imposing figure in the fading daylight. The king’s presence had barely fazed him, yet there was an unsettling calm that radiated from Thorne—a calm that made the king, even in his pride, feel small.

Thorne’s lips curled into a thin smile, but it was one that didn’t reach his eyes. The warmth in his smile had long since died. It was a smile that carried the weight of his power, a power that the king had once wielded but had now lost.

"Boy, am I glad to see you." Thorne’s voice was deceptively light, a mockery of pleasantness.

The king’s face contorted in rage. "You bast—"

Before he could finish his sentence, Thorne’s boot connected with his face, a harsh crack reverberating through the air. The king’s head snapped back with the force of the blow, and a couple of his teeth fell onto the ground with a sickening thud.

The king’s body hit the dirt with a heavy thump, but Thorne didn’t even flinch. He watched coldly as the king sputtered in pain, blood trickling from his mouth.

"Well, that was satisfactory," Thorne remarked dryly, as if the king’s humiliation were little more than a trivial matter.

His gaze flicked to Leona, who stood by, watching the scene unfold with an expression as impassive as her leader’s.

Thorne turned on his heel, his cloak swirling around him as he took a step toward the direction of the estate.

"Take him," he said with a detached wave of his hand, his voice hardening.

"I have plans with my husband. I can’t entertain him right now."

Some men stepped forward and dragged the king roughly to his feet, his protests muffled by the gag they shoved into his mouth. The king struggled against their grip, but he was no match for their strength, his once-proud stature now reduced to nothing more than a puppet in their hands.

As Thorne walked away, his steps measured and deliberate, the king’s muffled curses echoed in the distance.