Fallen General's Omega (BL)-Chapter 231: A glimpse of the past 5

My sweet girl is broken.

The light in her eyes—the spark that once made her leap from trees, debate historical facts, and dream of true mates and small villages—is gone. What remains is a hollow emptiness that twists my heart into knots. I no longer see the vivacious, mischievous girl who once climbed trees and talked about running away to live in a quiet village by the sea.

Now, she sits still, too still, like a porcelain doll left to gather dust on a forgotten shelf. Her emerald eyes, once filled with curiosity and mischief, are dull and distant. The bruises on her skin will fade, but the ones on her soul... I fear those are permanent.

The small bag of coins in my palm feels heavier than it should as I hand it to the hooded woman standing in the shadows of the marble pillar. The physician takes it wordlessly, her face hidden beneath the fabric. I don’t ask her name. I don’t want to know. All I needed from her was confirmation—a truth we can no longer ignore.

Mirelle is pregnant.

The woman disappears into the night, leaving me standing alone beneath the cold moonlight. My hands tremble as I walk back toward the princess’s chambers. Each step echoes in the silent corridors, the oppressive cold of the marble floors seeping into my bones.

I reach her door and hesitate. I close my eyes and take a deep breath before pushing it open.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth. Mirelle sits on the bed, knees drawn up slightly, her hands resting on her stomach as she traces small circles through the silk of her nightgown. Her head is bowed, her lips moving in silent whispers. Her face, so young, looks pale and hollow.

She doesn’t react to the door closing.

I walk toward her, the plush carpet muting my footsteps. When I sit beside her, she doesn’t lift her head. I reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face, my heart aching at how thin and brittle it feels beneath my fingers.

"You should eat something, sweetheart," I whisper, stroking her temple gently. "You need your strength."

She doesn’t respond, just keeps rubbing those circles on her belly like she’s trying to comfort the tiny life growing there. The silence stretches unbearably until, without warning, she throws herself into my arms.

"Joan," she whispers against my shoulder. "I’m having a baby."

The words steal my breath.

I pull back slightly to look at her. Tears cling to her lashes, and for the first time in weeks, there’s something raw in her gaze—fear, yes, but something else. Fragility. Vulnerability. She’s still just a child herself.

"You’re sure?" I ask softly.

She nods. "The physician confirmed it." Her voice breaks. "I’m pregnant, Joan."

The emotions hit me in waves—shock, sadness, protectiveness, and, somewhere deep beneath the fear, a flicker of joy for the life growing within her. But this is no time for happiness. Not here. Not now.

She grips my wrists with ice-cold fingers. "What am I going to do?" Her voice cracks, panic surging. "I can’t raise a baby here. I can’t let them have my child. They’ll break them the way they broke me."

I wrap my arms around her trembling frame and press a kiss to her hair. "Shh. We’ll figure it out," I promise. "I swear on my life, we’ll find a way."

Her sobs shatter me, but I hold her until they fade into exhausted silence.

Then she pulls back, her eyes flickering with desperation. "We have to leave," she says suddenly. "We can run away. Just like we always talked about. We can go to a small village, and I’ll be a healer, and... and we’ll be safe."

The hope in her voice is fragile. Reckless. But it’s the first sign of life I’ve seen in her in days.

"Okay," I say softly. "Okay, sweetheart. We’ll run."

---

A Week Later

Smoke billows into the night sky, thick and choking. The flames crackle, devouring the outer walls of Concubine Danielle’s estate. The fire spreads fast, licking greedily at the decorative arches and curtains visible through the windows.

Mirelle stands beside me, gripping a torch with both hands. The orange glow illuminates her face—her cheeks hollow, her eyes sharp. I watch her throw the torch onto the dry trail of oil we laid hours earlier.

The flames roar to life, racing along the path toward the palace. The fire reflects in her eyes, and what I see there chills me.

Hatred.

Pure, unfiltered hatred.

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. "Come on," I whisper. "We have to go."

She doesn’t move at first. She stands there, watching the fire consume the place where she lost her childhood, her innocence, and her sense of safety. Then she squeezes my hand back, hard, and turns away.

We run toward the servants’ quarters, slipping through the hidden passageways I memorized long ago. Smoke stings my throat, and my heart pounds in my chest as we duck through narrow corridors and push past panicked servants. No one notices us. They’re too busy screaming about the fire.

Once we reach the edge of the estate, we duck into the shadows. I grab a handful of dirt from the ground and smear it across Mirelle’s face. The grime dulls her sharp features and conceals the natural glow of her skin, but it can’t disguise the quiet dignity in her posture.

"You look like a peasant now," I say softly. "Almost."

She huffs a laugh, then wipes her eyes. "Almost."

We reach the waiting carriage and climb inside. The horses lurch forward, the wheels rattling over cobblestones. We switch carriages twice within the city, and at every major town, I pay pairs of travelers with similar builds to ride in the opposite direction, leaving behind false trails.

We zigzag across the countryside, never staying in one place for long. We sleep in barns and abandoned cottages. We eat bread so stale it cracks when we bite into it. Mirelle never complains.

Her hand rarely leaves her stomach.

After nearly two weeks of running in circles, we finally reach the port. The salty air stings my eyes as I help her out of the carriage. Ships creak in the distance, their sails fluttering like ghosts against the moonlit sky.

"Come with me," Mirelle whispers, gripping my hand so tightly it hurts.

I swallow the lump in my throat. "I can’t, sweetheart. I need to throw them off the trail."

Tears well in her eyes. "Haven’t we done enough?"

"Maybe," I say, cupping her face. "Maybe not. I’m not willing to risk it. If they do catch on, I’ll be here to lead them the wrong way."

Her chin wobbles. "Joan..."

I press my forehead to hers. "Hush, baby. You can’t be a child anymore. You’re having a baby of your own now."

"I can’t do it, Joan," she sobs. "I can’t be a mother."

"Yes, you can. And you’ll be an amazing one. You’ll love that baby with everything you have, just like you dreamed."

"I’ll try," she whispers. "But I don’t think I’ll be very good at it."

I smile through my tears. "Trying is enough, sweetheart. That’s already enough."

The ship’s horn sounds. I kiss her forehead one last time. "Now go."

Her hands cling to me for one more second before she forces herself to step away. I watch her walk up the gangplank, turning back once, her face streaked with tears. Then she disappears into the ship’s shadow.

I board a different vessel headed in the opposite direction.

Once the ship pulls away from the dock, I sit alone on the deck, clutching the small flowerpot in my hands—the first gift Mirelle ever gave me. The fragile blue blossoms tremble in the night air as the reality of her absence crashes over me.

I press my forehead against the pot, tears soaking the cool clay.

"Please," I whisper to the stars. "Please, Elaris, watch over my girl and her child. Keep them safe. Let her find peace."

The ship sails onward, and I cry until the sun rises.