I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

At nine years old, Marielle Valtrane was a girl of absolute, unwavering convictions.

She was going to marry her big brother.

It was a simple matter of logic, really.

Peering from behind the cold marble of a massive courtyard pillar, she watched the steady flow of the training grounds. There he was. Zarius. He was fourteen, moving with a fluid, lethal grace that made the veteran knights look slow by comparison. To Marielle, he was the sun around which her entire world orbited.

Why?

He was handsome, obviously. He was funny, possessing a dry wit that he reserved only for her. He read her stories, and he never skipped the scary parts because he knew she was brave. He was smart, always top of his marks, always the one the tutors spoke of with hushed tones. And he was diligent. Oh, so diligent. She watched him now, sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead as he blocked a strike from a man twice his size.

And for so many other reasons. She could have produced a list that would have exhausted her entire supply of colorful papers.

My brother’s perfect, she thought. Why would I ever want anyone else?

"Lady Marielle? Not again. Good heavens, child, you’re going to be the death of my nerves."

The voice belonged to Gretel, her maid with hands like iron and a real talent for finding Marielle exactly where she wasn’t supposed to be. Before Marielle could protest, she felt a firm grip on her shoulder. She was being hauled away, her boots dragging across the gravel.

"Let go! I was watching!" Marielle wiggled, her small frame twisting like an eel, but Gretel didn’t budge.

"You can’t be wandering here alone, my lady. This isn’t a place for you," Gretel grumbled, her pace quickening as they neared the heavy oak doors of the East Wing.

"But my brother is there! I wanted to see him!"

"You cannot be in here," Gretel repeated, her voice dropping into a hushed, frantic tone. "If Her Grace finds you loitering near the training fields again, she’ll have my head, and yours will be stuck in that embroidery room until you’re twenty. It’s dangerous."

Marielle stopped wiggling for a second, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "Why does Mother think it’s dangerous? It’s just swordplay. Brother wouldn’t let anything happen to me."

Gretel didn’t answer. She just tightened her grip and hurried them inside. But Marielle noticed the way the maid’s eyes darted toward the high windows of her mother’s room. It wasn’t the swords her mother disliked, Marielle realized. It was the closeness. Her mother didn’t like it when she breathed the same air as her brother for too long.

Two hours later, Marielle lay on her bed, staring at the canopy. Gretel had tucked her in for a "mandatory afternoon rest" and vanished to the laundry.

But Marielle wasn’t napping. She was a girl on a mission.

Clutching her prized possession, a small wooden training sword Zarius had carved for her in secret, she slid off the bed. She moved like a shadow, creeping past the empty hallway and slipping down the back stairs. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew Zarius would be back in his rooms by now, probably washing up before the formal dinner.

She reached his room. To her surprise, they weren’t fully latched.

Marielle smiled, her hand reaching for the brass handle. She imagined jumping out and surprising him, showing him the new footwork she’d been practicing in secret. But as she pushed the door just an inch further, the smile died on her face.

A wet sound tore through the room. A cough. But it wasn’t the sound of a cold, it was the sound of something tearing.

Through the gap, she saw Zarius. He was on his knees. A silver cup lay on its side on the rug, a dark liquid spreading across the rug. Zarius’s hands were clamped over his mouth, but it was leaking through his fingers. Red. Bright, terrifying crimson.

"Brother?" The name left her throat as a broken whimper.

She shoved the door open and scrambled inside. "Brother!"

She fell to her knees beside him, her small hands hovering over his shaking shoulders, not knowing where to touch. He looked up at her, his eyes glazed with a pain so intense it made Marielle feel like she was being burned. He couldn’t speak. He just choked, more blood splashing onto his white tunic.

"Well. I can’t say I’m pleased. This is hardly proper conduct."

The voice was like a bucket of ice water. Marielle looked up, her face streaked with tears, and met their father’s cold expression. The Duke of Valtrane stood by the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at his convulsing son with the same clinical interest one might show a limping horse.

"Father! Help him!" Marielle shrieked, grabbing at the Duke’s heavy wool coat. "Call the physician!"

The Duke didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch when Marielle’s bloody hand smeared his sleeve. He merely looked at her, his gaze devoid of any warmth. "What are you doing here, Marielle? You were instructed to remain in your quarters."

"He’s bleeding!" she wailed, her voice cracking.

Before the Duke could respond, the heavy doors swung open again. The Duchess swept in, followed by a line of silent, pale-faced maids. She took in the scene, the blood on the rug, the gasping boy, the hysterical girl, and her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

"Your Grace," the Duchess said. "Just what is it you are doing?"

The Duke sighed, as if inconvenienced by her question. "He needs to build resistance to poison."

The Duchess glanced at Zarius, who had collapsed onto his side, his breath coming in shallow, wet rattles. There was no pity in her eyes. Only a flicker of annoyance. "Then you should have conducted this in the cellar. Not in the living quarters where your daughter can stumble upon it. Look at her, she’s a mess."

She stepped forward, her silk skirts hissing as she avoided the pool of blood. She crouched down, but she didn’t reach for Zarius. She reached for Marielle.

"Come, Marielle. Stand up. We are not supposed to be in here. This is... men’s work."

"No! Mother, help him! Why won’t anyone help him?" Marielle fought, her small fists thudding against her mother’s corset. She tried to reach for Zarius, whose fingers were twitching against the floor, reaching out in a blind, agonizing search for something to hold.

"He’s only going through training, child," the Duchess said, her voice chillingly calm. "Don’t be so dramatic. He’ll be fine by dinner, or he’ll be a failure. Either way, it doesn’t concern you."

The Duchess made a sharp gesture. Two maids stepped forward, their faces like stone masks. They grabbed Marielle’s arms, hoisting her off the floor.

"No! Let go! Brother! BROTHER!"

Marielle kicked, her boots striking the maids’ shins. She turned her head, trying to catch one last glimpse of her brother. She saw him try to lift his head. She saw his eyes, wide, terrified, and filled with a silent plea for her to look away.

"Brother!"

As they dragged her out of the room, her wooden sword, the one he’d carved for her, clattered onto the floor, rolling into the puddle of blood. The door began to swing shut, and the last thing Marielle saw was her father leaning down, not to help Zarius up, but to whisper something into his ear while the boy choked on his own life.