Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 265: Not a kingdom

Thorne POV

Roman is saying something. Probably important, likely urgent.

But I’m not listening.

From the tall windows of my office, the sun filters in gently, casting gold across the polished floors and warming the wood panels of the room. The scent of parchment and the distant sea blends faintly in the air. But all of that blurs, fades into background noise, because what has my attention is outside.

My beloved star is walking in the garden.

Noelle’s figure glides over the path as if he owns the sunlight. The wind tosses his dark hair gently over his shoulders, and in his arms, Mirelle clings to him with sleepy grace. The two of them, bathed in gold, framed by trees and blooms, look like a vision from some forgotten myth. I swear the grass grows greener with every step Noelle takes. Flowers open just to see him pass.

He’s so perfect it aches.

"Ahem," Roman grunts pointedly.

I don’t look away. Not yet.

Only when he clicks his tongue do I drag my gaze back to the table where maps are spread out, his hands tapping irritated fingers along the edge of Alden Island’s ink-drawn outline.

"Did you hear anything I said?" he asks, voice dry.

I shrug. "Some of it."

He exhales with the weariness of someone used to being ignored. Poor Roman. I’ve spent years dodging blades and bullets. Paperwork is a crueler enemy.

"I said," he begins again, like I’m five, "we can’t just let things happen. We’re weeks away from chaos if we don’t get ahead of it."

He flattens the map with a palm. I squint, spotting a neat label in one corner. Alden Island.

"Who named it that?" I ask.

Roman raises a brow. "You didn’t?"

I roll my eyes.

"The name spread, and it stuck. Don’t ask me who started it, but the locals love it. Has a nice ring to it."

I hum in vague disagreement. It does not.

"The problem is," he says, circling a district with the end of a quill,

"your men—our men—are coming. More than five thousand already. They’re bringing families. You know how it is. You save their lives, and suddenly you’re their god."

"I’m not their general anymore," I mutter, irritated. "I’m not even in Aspen."

"Doesn’t matter. Loyalty doesn’t care about geography, Thorne." ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

I rub my temples.

Roman pushes another sheet toward me—this one is an estimate. Ten thousand more expected in the next few months. Then twenty. Forty. The numbers blur.

"Do we even have the space for them?"

"This island is massive," Roman replies. "If we plan properly, it can hold up to a million before it gets cramped."

My blood runs cold. "No. Stop. That’s too many."

He blinks. "But—"

"No," I say, sharper.

"They’ll mate, and breed, and then suddenly this is a nation. I didn’t build a kingdom, Roman. I built a home. For Noelle. For our kids. For our family."

He holds up his hands in mock surrender.

"Alright. But if we don’t establish restrictions now, people will keep arriving. The whole army thinks this is paradise."

I grind my teeth.

"Fine. Only allow former army members and those who pass strict vetting. Make it harsh. I want people to think twice before setting foot here."

Roman doesn’t argue this time. He’s quiet for a beat, then nods.

We spend the next hour in council—discussing irrigation lines, farmland zoning, coastal trade routes. All things I have no desire to care about. Yet I do. Because if I don’t, someone else will. And if someone else does, they’ll do it wrong.

Finally, Roman releases me from his clutches. I stand, stretch until my bones pop, and escape before he can pull out another chart.

*

I stretch and roll my shoulders as I leave the office, the weight of plans and numbers slipping off my back like a discarded cloak. All I wanted was a home, and somehow it’s becoming a nation.

Ridiculous.

The warm sun greets me the moment I step outside, brushing against my skin like silk. The air here smells of the ocean—clean and bright with a hint of salt. A breeze rustles through the trees, and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs adds a quiet rhythm to the world.

I let myself take a deep breath. This, at least, feels real. This is mine.

The twins are with Bishop Grace, tucked away safely in the miniature chapel we built her, surrounded by soft hymns and flickering candlelight. I trust her implicitly; she is the one person other than Noelle who could soothe my nerves. She says their birth was a blessing from Elaris, and I don’t argue.

Which leaves Mirelle.

I need to offload her.

Not because I don’t love my daughter—by Elaris’ grace, I do. She’s just like me: quiet, demanding, a force of nature in a deceptively small package.

Noelle calls her our little sovereign. She’s more than a handful. Especially when I want time alone with her other parent.

I glance around the courtyard, already considering my options.

First thought: Mona. She’s probably torturing Rhett somewhere orscamming some unfortunate souls.

Second: the Mels. Maggie won’t say no, especially if Noelle guilt-trips her with that "you’re the only one I trust" voice. That one works on me too.

I exhale, amused, and begin my walk down the gravel path that winds through the estate. My boots crunch rhythmically over the stones, a familiar sound that somehow always soothes me.

The scent of flowers floats on the breeze, carried from the greenhouse nearby, mingling with the salty tang of the ocean in the distance.

I round the path, and as expected, I spot them just beyond the arch of flowering vines that frame the entrance to the greenhouse gardens.

There they are.

Sitting by the long rectangular pond lined with lily pads, Noelle and Mirelle look like they’ve stepped out of a painting. My beloved star, in a loose, pale green shirt, his dark hair swept into a low bun, sits with Mirelle curled into his lap. They’re both leaning over the edge of the water, Noelle holding her gently around the waist as she pokes at the floating lily pads with a stick.

The light filters through the glass overhead, dancing across the surface of the pond and catching the delicate curls of Mirelle’s hair. Her little fingers splash in the water, and Noelle laughs softly at something she says—a low, melodic sound that tugs something deep in my chest. I slow my pace for a moment, just watching.

Sometimes, I still can’t believe they’re mine.

I step closer, the gravel crunching a little louder underfoot now, and Noelle glances up, instantly sensing me.

His face brightens.

"Hey," he says, his voice warm, calm.