I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Empty. The dining hall was entirely devoid of any broody Alphas. Cherion stood at the threshold, his footsteps sounding suspiciously loud on the polished floor, like a drumbeat in a tomb. He’d half-expected to see Zarius at the head of the table, perhaps nursing a cup of tea and looking vaguely murderous at the morning light. Instead, there was just a spread of bread, salted meats, and silence.

”Where is the Duke?” Cherion asked, not bothering to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He glanced over his shoulder at Soren, who was standing respectful, yet somehow suffocating, distance away.

”The Duke’s health has been... precarious of late, My Lord,” Soren replied, his voice as smooth as silk and twice as cold. ”He typically takes his morning meal in his private chambers.”

Cherion nodded, picking at a piece of crusty bread. Routine. Right. In the novel, Zarius was basically a ghost in his own castle, a man waiting for his heart to stop or his mind to snap, whichever came first.

”Once you have finished, Lord Cherion,” Soren continued, clasping his hands behind his back, ”I have been instructed to provide you with a tour. It would be a tragedy for the future Consort to lose his way in his own home, wouldn’t it?”

Cherion swallowed a mouthful of bread that suddenly felt like sawdust. ”Sure.”

The next few hours were a blurred marathon of stone, paintings, and Soren’s monotonous drone. Cherion tried his absolute best to pay attention. He mentally labeled every corridor, every winding staircase, and every suspicious door.

He needed to know this layout like the back of his hand. If things went south, he didn’t want to be the idiot caught in a dead-end hallway.

By noon, his legs were beginning to ache, a dull throb that reminded him he was no longer a twenty-something fast-food worker used to standing for eight hours, he was in a body that felt significantly more delicate. But then, they turned a final corner on the third floor, and Cherion’s annoyance evaporated.

”Holy...” He cut himself off before he could swear.

The library wasn’t just a room. It was a cathedral of paper. It spanned three massive floors, with winding iron staircases and shelves that reached so high they disappeared into the shadows of the vaulted ceiling. He wasn’t being hyperbolic when he thought there were thousands of books. It was as big as the supermarket near his old apartment, but infinitely more majestic.

Cherion hadn’t been much of a ”thick book” guy, actually. He preferred the instant gratification of online novels, scrolling through Chapters on his phone during his breaks at Taco Hell.

But this... this could help him. This was the Google of the 1700s or 1800s

The answers have to be in here somewhere. The curse, his weird-ass healing hands, it was all hidden in this forest of ink.

He started to wander down the first aisle, his fingers itching to pull a volume at random.

”The Duke’s collection is quite extensive,” Soren noted, appearing at his elbow like a persistent itch. ”Though I doubt many of these would interest a noble of your... sensibilities. Most are quite dry.”

”You’d be surprised what I find interesting,” Cherion shot back.

As he walked further back into the shadows of the first floor, he came across a door that looked different from the others. It was narrower, reinforced with iron bands, and looked like it hadn’t been opened in a decade. Naturally, his curiosity won out. He reached for the handle, giving it a firm tug.

Clack. Locked.

”Lord Cherion!”

The sharpness in Soren’s voice made Cherion jump. He spun around to find the attendant standing a few paces back.

”That is a forbidden section,” Soren stated, his eyes narrowing.

Cherion raised an eyebrow, his hand still lingering near the cold iron of the handle. ”Forbidden?”

”I was told it contains only old, rotting parchment and rare volumes that are far too fragile for general handling. It is set aside for their preservation. The Duke does not allow anyone inside without permission.”

”Fragile, huh?” Cherion muttered, glancing back at the door.

”We should continue,” Soren said, gesturing toward the exit. ”There is still much to see.”

Cherion followed, but his mind stayed locked behind that iron-banded door. He kept glancing back over his shoulder until they crossed the threshold of the library, the image of the forbidden room burned into his memory.

The rest of the tour was grueling. Soren seemed to have a personal vendetta against the concept of sitting down. They moved through the armory, the servants’ quarters, and by the time they reached the gardens, Cherion felt like his feet were made of lead.

He let out a long, dramatic sigh and collapsed onto a stone bench inside a small, weathered gazebo. ”I’m done. My legs have officially resigned. Tell the Duke I died doing what I loved, walking in circles.”

Soren stood at the entrance of the gazebo, looking entirely too refreshed. ”We are nearly finished, My Lord. If you rest now, we shall never complete it before sundown.”

”Then we won’t finish,” Cherion huffed, fanning himself with the hem of his tunic. ”What is your problem? Do you think I’m going to take a two-hour nap every thousand steps? I’m an Omega, not a marathon runner. Give me five minutes.”

Soren’s expression flickered, a brief flash of genuine irritation that made Cherion feel a tiny spark of victory. The attendant eventually nodded and stepped back, allowing Cherion a moment of peace.

Cherion leaned back, looking out over the garden. It was... disappointing. Like everything else in the North, it felt rugged and half-starved. The plants were hardy, grey-green things that looked like they survived on spite alone.

He looked up at the castle’s grey stone facade, tracing the rows of dark, narrow windows. His eyes stopped on a set of windows on the second floor, the Duke’s wing.

A movement caught his eye.

A shadow was standing there, framed by the heavy velvet curtains. It was tall, imposing, and even from this distance, Cherion could feel the weight of a gaze fixed directly on him. The silhouette stood perfectly still for a heartbeat, watching the small, exhausted figure in the gazebo.

But as soon as the name left his lips, the shadow vanished. The curtain twitched, falling back into place, leaving only the reflection of the Northern sky on the glass.

Was that Zarius?