I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

"Look at that footwork...truly, he’s the North’s greatest prodigy."

"He’s a natural-born Alpha, isn’t he? Look at the way he holds the line."

"Number one in the Academy for three years running, and now he’s outperforming the senior knights. A genius of the blade."

"A perfect heir for a perfect line. The Duke must be so proud."

Zarius didn’t blink as he blocked a heavy blow from a knight twice his age, his wrist flicking with a precision that sent the man’s weapon clattering across the stone. He heard the words, he always heard them, but they felt like ash in his mouth. To him, it wasn’t praise. It was a running tab of obligations he hadn’t signed up for but was still expected to settle. To the world, he was a god in the making. To himself, he was just a boy trying to outrun a shadow that grew longer with every victory.

He used to thrive on it. When he was seven, he thought that if he just hit the target enough times, his father would look at him. When he was ten, he thought that being top of the class would make his mother smile. Now, at nearly fifteen, he understood the cruel mathematics of the Valtrane household: praise was a currency used by outsiders, but inside, the only language spoken was silence.

He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling just a fraction. It was a subtle tremor, one no one else would notice, but to Zarius, it felt like a landslide.

It’s just the training, he told himself. Just the weight of the sword.

He dismissed the knights with a nod, ignoring the bows they offered. He didn’t want their respect. He wanted a moment where he didn’t have to be "The North’s Pride." But that was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Rumors had been trickling through the barracks about war brewing on the border. A skirmish that promised to turn into a bloodbath. Zarius felt a spark of something almost like hope. War was a place where a "tool" could finally be useful. Where he could prove, once and for all, that he was worth the air he breathed.

He didn’t even bother changing. Just turned and headed straight for his father’s study, knocked a few times, and let himself in without waiting.

Lario didn’t look up from his maps. "I saw you finished your drills early," Lario said, his voice a low rumble. "I trust you didn’t sacrifice form for speed."

"I didn’t, Father," Zarius said, standing at perfect attention. "The knights are fine. But they can’t push me anymore."

Lario finally looked up. His eyes were like flint, cold, sharp, and entirely unimpressed by the boy standing before him.

Zarius swallowed hard. "The rumors about the border, Father. Is it true? Are we marching?"

Lario’s gaze returned to the maps. "The King has called for the vanguard. The North will answer, as it always does. I leave in three days."

"I want to go with you," Zarius said, the words spilling out with a desperation he hated. "I’m ready. You’ve seen me. You’ve seen my ability. I can lead a squad. I can be the shield you need."

The silence that followed was deafening. Lario slowly set down his quill. There was no flash of anger, just a slow, almost lazy blink, as though Zarius had said something mildly inconvenient at best.

"No."

"Father, please. I’ve mastered the shift. I’m faster than any man in your guard. I can..."

"You are a boy," Lario interrupted, his voice turning into a serrated edge. "And more than that, you are a Valtrane who hasn’t learned the most basic lesson: obedience is the only thing that keeps your blood from becoming a liability. You stay here. You guard the manor. You do not leave the North."

"But I can do more! If you would just give me the chance to show you..."

"You know what happens when you keep forcing your way, Zarius," Lario said. "Don’t make me remind you, your worth begins and ends with your usefulness. And right now, you are most useful when you are silent."

Zarius felt the air leave his lungs. He wanted to scream, to flip the table, to prove he was a man by force. But he knew his father was right. He was a weapon, and weapons didn’t get to choose who they fought.

He bowed, and backed out of the room. The door shut with a finality that felt like a coffin lid.

He wandered the halls, his mind a chaotic mess of rage and grief. He found himself standing outside his mother’s quarters. Nerissa’s health had been declining for months, a slow, wilting rot that matched the atmosphere of the house.

He pushed the door open softly. The room hit him with a mix of incense and medicinal herbs, a scent that always made his stomach churn.

"Mother?" he whispered.

The room was in disarray. A glass of water had shattered near the nightstand, and the heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the sun. Then he saw her.

Nerissa was on the floor, her nightgown a tangled mess around her thin, frail legs. She had clearly tried to reach for the bell and fallen from the bed. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a frantic, feverish light.

"Mother!" Zarius rushed forward, his instinct to protect override his fear of her. He reached out to scoop her up, his hands trembling with genuine worry. "Let me help you. You’re cold, I’ll get the..."

"Don’t!"

The scream was so sharp, so filled with pure disgust, that Zarius froze. Nerissa scrambled backward, her fingernails clawing at the carpet to get away from him.

"Don’t you touch me!" she hissed, her voice a ragged wheeze. "Get away! Call the maids! Call someone else!"

"I’m just trying to help you," Zarius said, his voice cracking. "You’re hurt, Mother. Please, just let me..."

"I said don’t!" She was shaking now, her eyes fixed on his hands as if they were covered in filth. "I won’t have you laying your hands on me."

She began to scream for her head maid, a high, piercing sound that cut through Zarius like a hot needle. He stood there, his arms still outstretched, feeling the immense weight of her rejection. It wasn’t just that she didn’t love him, she was terrified of him.

A flurry of maids burst into the room, pushing past him as if he wasn’t even there. They swarmed around Nerissa, cooing and lifting her back to the bed. None of them looked at Zarius.

He backed out of the room, his heart a cold, dead thing in his chest.

The hallway went on and on, almost suffocating in its silence. Every step felt like he was walking through water. The praise of the knights from earlier rang in his head, a mocking echo.

The most talented. The perfect heir. The pride of the North.

What a joke.

Suddenly, a sharp, familiar heat bloomed in the center of his chest. It started as a tickle, then grew into a searing pain that made his vision swim. He lurched to the side, his shoulder hitting the stone wall with a dull thud.

He coughed. It was a deep, racking sound that felt like it was tearing his throat apart. He’d been testing a new variant of the Duke’s "lessons", a concentrated extract he’d found in the library that was supposed to build resistance to poison. He’d taken it that morning, thinking he could handle the dose. He was a genius, wasn’t he? He was the perfect Alpha.

Another cough, more violent this time. He felt a warm, metallic liquid fill his mouth. He leaned his head against the cold stone, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

When he finally caught his breath, he pulled his hand away from his mouth. His palm was covered in dark blood.

It doesn’t matter, he thought. None of it matters.

He wiped the corner of his mouth, making sure no trace of his weakness remained.

"Don’t worry," he whispered to the empty, echoing hallway, his voice a dry, hollow rasp. "This, too, will fade."