I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Dust and ink, that was usually the sum of Zarius’s world. It was the one room that always made sense to him, a quiet place to focus, to think, and to keep everything under control. Today, however, the air felt different. Zarius wrote on, the soft scrape of the nib against paper almost routine, but his focus was elsewhere. It was drifting toward the north wing.

In the dance hall, Cherion was dancing.

The thought alone should have been absurd. A few months ago, the "Cold Duke" would’ve rather hosted a pack of frost-wolves for dinner than spare a second thinking about dance lessons. Yet, here he was, staring at his study door, his mind playing back the way Cherion had looked at breakfast, vibrant, giddy, almost shimmering with the prospect of Philia’s departure.

It was a strange, itchy sort of feeling in Zarius’s chest. He’d purposely instructed Flio to hunt down a female instructor, someone stern but capable, to handle the boy. Why? He didn’t care to examine the possessive streak that had dictated that particular choice. He just knew he didn’t want another man’s hands on Cherion’s waist, even for something as harmless as a dance.

The North was changing. Or perhaps it was just him. With Philia leaving soon, the house would finally belong to them again. It was a victory more satisfying than any battlefield conquest.

The peace lasted exactly until the door to the study burst open.

It was a frantic, uncoordinated intrusion. Elios stumbled in, his chest heaving as if he’d run the entire length of the estate without stopping once for oxygen.

Zarius didn’t move, though his grip on the quill tightened until the wood groaned. "Elios. Unless the whole castle is on fire or the beasts have learned to pick locks, I suggest you find your breath."

"Your Grace," Elios wheezed, clutching the edge of the desk. He didn’t even look at the ledgers. He just pointed vaguely toward the window, his eyes wide and vacant. "The carriage... it’s at the gate. But you... you need to see this. Please."

He pushed back his chair, and got to his feet. A flicker of irritation crossed his brow. What could possibly be so urgent about a carriage? Had the horses collapsed? Had they managed to crash into the grand fountain out of sheer incompetence? Or perhaps they’d been followed by a stray beast from the border? He’d seen all manner of disasters in his time, but Elios looked more than just worried, he looked terrified.

"Move," Zarius commanded, sweeping past the man.

He walked fast through the halls, the sound of his steps filling the silence. He pushed through the doors and stepped outside. The cold air brushed past him, but he didn’t care. His attention was on the carriage waiting ahead.

Oh, but it wasn’t the carriage that caught his attention, but the figure moving toward him.

The Crown Prince.

Okay, this was way worse than a carriage crashing into the fountain or being chased by a beast.

The Crown Prince paused to adjust his cuffs, taking his time with it. He looked up, his gaze finding Zarius, and a smile spread across his face.

"Your Highness," Zarius said, his voice low enough to make the nearby guards stiffen. He didn’t bow. He barely nodded.

"Duke Valtrane," Yerel replied, his tone smooth as spilled oil. "You look... recovered. A bit worse for wear around the edges, perhaps, but still standing. I suppose the rumors of your demise were, as they say, greatly exaggerated."

They moved into the reception room, a space usually reserved for the most formal of guests. The fire in the hearth was roaring, yet the room felt like a tomb. They sat across from one another, separated by a low tea table that felt like a barricade.

"To what do I owe this... honor?" Zarius asked, leaning back, his arms crossed over his chest.

Yerel tilted his head, a lock of perfectly groomed hair falling over his brow. "You seem displeased, Duke. One would think a visit from the Crown Prince would be celebrated. Are my manners so lacking, or is the Northern hospitality as frozen as its rivers?"

"You can assume whatever you like about my mood," Zarius said, his eyes narrowing. "But I’m a man of few words. Why are you here? The letter said an escort. It didn’t mention the future King playing driver."

Yerel laughed, a musical, hollow sound. "We received the letter, Zarius. The reports of your success subjugation, the complaints about my dear Philia... it was all quite riveting. I decided that a standard escort wouldn’t suffice for such a delicate retrieval. I wanted to see the hero of the North with my own eyes. Offer my congratulations. See if the beast tide left enough of you to actually function."

He leaned forward, a faint glint in his eyes. "The subjugation. I hear it was a bloodbath. Truly impressive that you survived, given the... condition you were in."

"I’m still here," Zarius replied shortly. "And the beasts are not. That is all the King needs to know."

"Oh, he was absolutely thrilled," Yerel purred. "But I must wonder... at what cost? You look tired, Zarius. A man in your state shouldn’t be burdened with guests."

"If you’re here for fiancé, let’s cut this short," Zarius replied. He looked toward Flio, who was standing by the door. "Flio. Bring his things. And bring the man himself. I believe he’s more than ready to depart."

"Actually," Yerel interrupted, raising a hand. "If I might... I’d like to find him myself. A surprise, don’t you think? It’s been so long since we’ve seen one another. I’d hate for our reunion to be so... formal."

Zarius stared at him. The logic was thin, but in the world of royal protocol, refusing such a request from the Crown Prince was a headache he didn’t need, not when the goal was to get the man out of his house as fast as humanly possible.

"Flio," Zarius said, his jaw tight. "Lead His Highness to the guest wing. Ensure he finds whatever he is looking for."

Flio bowed, keeping his expression neutral. "This way, Your Highness."

Yerel rose and straightened his doublet. His gaze stayed on Zarius for a moment longer than it should have before he turned and followed Flio.

Zarius remained seated. He listened to the retreating footsteps, the silence of the room settling back over him like a suffocating blanket. Something was wrong. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, a primitive instinct screaming that the wolf had let the snake into the henhouse.

He thought about Philia. The boy was probably in his room, sulking over his things.

And then he thought about the north wing.

The practice hall.

Cherion.

Zarius stood up abruptly, the tea table rattling as he moved. He didn’t know why, but a sudden, paralyzing image of Yerel’s "surprises" flashed through his mind.

He simply moved, his pace quickening as he exited the reception room and turned toward the dancing hall. He needed to see Cherion, to see that the boy was still dancing, still smiling, safe and unharmed.

He needed to warn him about Yerel.