I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The doors to the Great Hall creaked loudly as they slowly opened. Zarius felt the vibration of the oak in his very bones, but his primary focus wasn’t on the hundreds of bearded, battle-hardened men waiting inside. It was on the heat radiating from Cherion’s palm, which was still crushed firmly against his own.

"Are you alright?" Zarius murmured under his breath, his thumb shifting slightly against Cherion’s hand. "You’re burning. Are you unwell?"

"I’m fine," Cherion said quickly, not even looking at him. His grip didn’t loosen. "Just tired. Don’t make it a thing."

Zarius frowned. "You don’t feel..."

"I said I’m fine," Cherion cut in, forcing a small smile. "Focus on the party, Your Grace. They’re waiting."

As they stepped across the threshold, the roar of the crowd died down into a respectful, expectant hum. Zarius could feel Cherion leaning into him, not the polite, distance-keeping lean of a Southern noble, but a genuine, heavy clinginess. It was as if Cherion were a vine seeking the only solid stone in a storm. Normally, Cherion was very careful about keeping up his usual bold persona, always keeping a sharp wit between them, but tonight he was soft and startlingly close.

Zarius led him up to the raised platform, his presence cutting through the room effortlessly, drawing every eye. He didn’t let go of Cherion’s hand as he turned to face the room.

"I thank you all for coming," Zarius started, his voice carrying to the furthest rafters without the need for a shout. "The North has endured a bitter season, but the subjugation was a success beyond measure. We have cleared the shadows of the past, and tonight, we breathe."

He paused, his grip on Cherion tightening just a fraction.

"This is also the first victory celebration for my fiancé, Cherion Antel," Zarius continued, his gaze sweeping across the lords in the front row. "He stood where many would have fled. He is the reason many of you are sitting here tonight instead of being buried under the frost. I trust I won’t hear a single whisper regarding his life before he reached our gates. Treat him with the honor that reality demands."

It was a subtle warning, but in the North, a subtle warning from the Duke himself was worth a thousand death warrants.

The tension in the room broke as the lords began to cheer, their mugs thumping against the long wooden tables. Zarius exhaled, finally allowing himself to lead Cherion to the high table. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Reiner and Ezek standing near a pillar not far away. Reiner was watching Cherion with a look of intense, narrowed suspicion, while Ezek remained a silent shadow, his hand never far from his sword hilt.

Further down, Marielle was already a blur of silk and laughter, making a beeline for Elios, her favorite drinking companion. Zarius could almost see the gears in her head turning, she’d likely drag them both off to find Flio soon, forming a trio clearly committed to getting drunk.

Then, the "Health Intervention" began.

Zarius expected reports or requests for land grants. Instead, he was met with a mountain of wellness.

One by one, the local lords approached, their faces solemn and genuinely pained. Lord Baelen, a man who had once wrestled a bear into submission, placed a heavy jar of thick, greyish-green sludge on the table.

"My Lord," Baelen rumbled, his voice thick with sincerity. "This is reindeer marrow tonic, distilled with mountain moss. My wife says it brings the blood back to the face. Drink it. All of it."

"And this," another lord added, piling a crate of bitter-root pills and vials of glacier-pressed oils next to the tonic. "We saw how you led the campaign. You pushed faster than any Duke in five generations. We are proud, Your Grace, but we need you alive. You’re too pale. Take the pills."

Zarius stared at the growing pile of "health" gifts in stunned silence. He wasn’t used to this. He was used to being the shield, the weapon, the untouchable leader. To have these rugged men, men who usually gifted nothing but steel, collectively fret over his "paleness" was disorienting.

Beside him, however, Cherion was a whirlwind of social grace.

Despite the way he was still clinging to Zarius’s sleeve, Cherion was greeting every single lord by their proper title. He thanked Lord Baelen for the marrow, mentioning a specific detail about Baelen’s youngest son’s recent promotion. He spoke to Lord Harek about the repairs on the Western watchtower. He didn’t miss a beat.

Zarius watched him, a strange, soaring sense of pride blooming in his chest. He hadn’t realized Cherion had memorized the very soul of the North.

"You’ve been keeping yourself informed," Zarius leaned in and whispered.

Cherion let out a low, slightly shaky breath, his eyes looking a bit unfocused as he glanced at Zarius.

"Of course I need to know them, Your Grace," Cherion murmured, his fingers twitching against Zarius’s arm. "Because... well, back where I’m from, I know what it’s like to be invisible. Getting called ’Hey you, yes you, man in fake Mike shoes, why you just sitting there playing with your phone, go fried something,’ when it’s actually my late lunch break by the new manager... it’s just not fun. It makes you feel not appreciated. Like you’re just a part of the machine that can be replaced."

Zarius blinked. He didn’t know what "fake Mike shoes" were, or a "phone," or a "manager." The words were nonsense, yet the raw hurt in Cherion’s tone was a language Zarius understood perfectly.

"I don’t want to treat people the way I was treated," Cherion continued, his voice dropping to a dizzy whisper. "Everyone wants to be seen, Your Grace. Even grumpy lords with jars of moss."

Zarius felt a fierce, protective surge hit him so hard it was a physical ache. He reached out, pulling Cherion’s chair an inch closer to his own until their thighs were touching.

"You are seen here," Zarius said firmly, his thumb brushing against Cherion’s wrist. "By everyone. Especially by me."

The party roared on. The boar was carved, the ale flowed, and the "Warrior’s Toast" began. It was the tradition for the Duke to lead the final draught to seal the victory. Zarius stood, his glass of heavy Northern wine raised high. He gave a short, powerful speech, thanking the gods for their survival and the men for their strength.

"To the North!" Zarius shouted, the room echoing the cry until the glass in the windows rattled.

Zarius raised the glass to his lips, ready to drink, but he caught a glimpse of Cherion out of the corner of his eye. Cherion wasn’t cheering. He was slumped slightly in his chair, his face a deep, alarming crimson. His glass was already bone-dry, pushed aside as if it had never contained anything at all.

Cherion let out a low, guttural groan that sounded like it came from the very bottom of his soul. He reached out, his hand trembling as he gripped Zarius’s forearm, his skin feeling like a live coal.

"Your Grace..." Cherion rasped, his eyes wide and glassy, looking up at the Duke with a desperate focus. "I’m so thirsty. Why is it so hot in here? Give me... I need..."

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he fixated on the glass in Zarius’s hand with a hunger that was terrifyingly intense.

Zarius froze, his glass halfway to his mouth. He looked at Cherion, then at the empty glasses on the table, and then back at the boy who was currently radiating enough heat to melt the castle walls. A deep, instinctual confusion clouded Zarius’s mind.

As the lords continued to cheer and drink around them, oblivious to the shift, Zarius set his glass down slowly. He looked at Cherion’s flushed face and the way the boy was practically vibrating against him, and for the first time in his life, the Iron Duke felt a cold, sharp spike of genuine fear.

"Cherion?" Zarius whispered, his voice lost in the noise of the celebration. "What’s happening to you?".