I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The incense in the Grand Throne Room was particularly disgusting today, a mix of sandalwood and something sickly sweet that stuck to the back of Yerel’s throat. He stood where he always stood, a half-step behind and to the right of the King, the perfect shadow of a devoted son. His posture was a masterclass in calculated grace, hands folded loosely before him, a faint, humble smile playing on his lips. To the sea of nobles gathered below the dais, he was the picture of princely stability.

But beneath that silk doublet, Yerel’s heart was drumming a restless rhythm. It had been days. Days of going over his coded messages, of sifting through mundane reports for a specific, coded ink-blot from Philia.

He’d been expecting a very very different kind of news. A "tragic complication" in the North. News that the Duke had at last collapsed from his worsening condition, caught in a wave of beasts that should have been impossible to overcome. Or something close to that.

But none.

Instead, the King announced that Zarius had sent a word. the North had been secured. The subjugation was complete. The source of the beasts had been destroyed.

He felt his mask crack. It was only for a millisecond, a twitch of the eyelid, a hardening of the jaw, but it felt like his skin was peeling back. How? The question screamed in his mind. Zarius was supposed to be a corpse. He was supposed to be coughing up his soul in a frozen bed while the ’gift’ Yerel had so carefully sent tore them apart. To finish a subjugation of this scale in such a timeframe wasn’t just impressive, it was impossible.

The cheers of the nobles felt like physical blows to his ego. Each ’Long live the Duke!’ was a slap to his face. He stood there, forced to nod, forced to mirror his father’s joy, while a cold, viscous bile rose in his throat. He looked down at the nobles, the same ones who had been whispering about Zarius’s "imminent demise" just last week, and saw them now weeping with relief. Fickle, useless sheep.

The transition from the roar of the throne room to the absolute, suffocating quiet of his private study was almost painful.

Yerel didn’t scream or send the wine bottle crashing to the floor. That was for lesser men. Instead, he stood by the tall, narrow window, his hands clasped so tightly behind his back that his knuckles were bone-white.

Outside, in the courtyard, he could see the palace servants already scurrying about, dragging out the heavy, azure and silver banners of victory. They looked like ants to him. Busy, mindless ants celebrating a miracle he had tried so hard to prevent.

His reflection in the window glass was ghostly, his eyes looking back at him like two dark pits in a face that was far too pale.

"Karson."

The stillness broke as Karson stepped forward, his face set and quiet. He didn’t speak, fully aware Yerel wouldn’t tolerate meaningless comfort.

"Tell me again," Yerel said, his voice a terrifying, low-level rasp that barely carried across the room. "Tell me about the delivery. I want to hear it one more time. The shipment. The ’gift’."

"It was delivered, Your Highness," Karson replied, his voice flat, devoid of the hesitation that usually marks a lie. "I saw the movement myself. There is no possibility that it missed its mark. I would swear it upon my very life."

What came next was a long, uncomfortable silence. Yerel watched a servant below struggle with a particularly large banner.

So that was how it would be.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. For a brief moment, he let the truth settle in. He had relied too much on the gift. Too much on the certainty that numbers alone would crush a man who could barely stand. It had been... efficient. Predictable. Clean.

And wrong.

His jaw tightened, but the reaction passed as quickly as it came. Mistakes happened. Miscalculations were part of any game worth playing. What mattered was not the error itself, but how quickly one adjusted.

Yerel straightened slightly, his shoulders easing as his thoughts began to align. He had not come this far by placing everything in a single move. The gift had never been the whole plan, it had simply been the easiest path to the outcome he wanted. If it failed, then the path changed. That was all.

Zarius had survived. More than that, he had turned the situation into a victory grand enough to shake the entire capital. Impressive. Annoying. But not untouchable.

No one was.

"He shouldn’t have been able to stand," Yerel whispered to the glass. "Much less lead a charge. What is he? A man or a ghost?"

Karson didn’t hesitate. "He is the Duke, Your Highness," he said evenly, stepping a little closer. "Valtrane blood has never been known to break easily. They endure what others cannot. Strength like his... it’s not something illness alone can take away."

Yerel’s gaze flicked to him, sharp but quiet.

Karson lowered his voice just slightly. "Men like him don’t fall the way others do. Not without a fight."

The words hung there, Not praise or doubt, just a fact.

And somehow, that made it worse.

He thought back to the King’s earlier words, how the Duke had sent word that he wanted Philia to return to the Palace as soon as possible. He didn’t seem comfortable with Philia staying in the North.

Well, that was something they both agreed on.

Philia was his. His lover, his partner, his bridge to the Northern secrets. And now Philia was silent. Not a single letter had arrived through their private channel since he arrived in the North.

A sharp, restless resolve began to build in Yerel’s chest. He couldn’t stay here, listening to bells ringing for a man who was supposed to be lying helpless. If the ’gift’ hadn’t worked, then the game had changed.

He turned away from the window, his eyes dark and fixed on Karson.

"The King is waiting for them to arrive," Yerel said, his voice regaining its sharp, commanding edge. "He’s planning a banquet. He’s planning a parade. But I believe I’ve been a neglectful friend, and a very distant lover."

He pulled the gloves on, the leather creaking in the silence.

"I cannot simply sit here and wait," Yerel continued. "I sent Philia to that frozen wasteland all alone. I was a poor fiancé then, Karson, and I would be an even worse one now if I let him navigate that long road back home without me at his side. Not when the Duke has been so blatant about his... dislike... for his presence."

He tightened the strap at his wrist, his gaze drifting toward the horizon.

"If the North won’t send me the truth, Karson, then I suppose I shall have to go and fetch it myself. I want to see this miracle. I want to see the man who survived my ’gift’."