I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

”I find myself hoping, perhaps selfishly, that the North remains as steadfast as ever.”

King Alderon and Zarius were seated across from one another, a low table of white marble between them laden with delicate porcelain. Zarius watched the steam curl from his cup. He had arrived only hours ago, barely having time to shake the dust of the road from his traveling cloak before the summons came.

”The North is as it has always been, Your Majesty,” Zarius replied, his voice a low, gravelly contrast to the melodic chirping of the palace songbirds. He took a sip of the tea. ”Frost, stone, and silence. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Alderon peered over the rim of his spectacles, his eyes clouded by age but still possessing a terrifyingly sharp clarity. ”Is that so? The North might be holding its breath, but the man leading it is certainly struggling to draw his own.”

Zarius didn’t flinch. He was used to the scrutiny of monarchs. He set the cup down slowly. ”You worry too much. It is merely fatigue from the journey. The heat here is... a different beast than I am accustomed to.”

”Fatigue,” the King repeated, the word tasting like a lie on his tongue. He didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked like a man watching a magnificent structure begin to develop cracks in its foundation. ”It looks like a great deal more than tired bones, Zarius. Your complexion is that of a man who has forgotten the taste of a full night’s sleep. If you would permit it, my royal physicians are quite skilled in...”

”I thank you, but I must decline,” Zarius interrupted. It was a polite refusal, but it carried the finality of a slamming portcullis. ”A few days of rest and a return to the mountain air will suffice.”

The King sighed, a long, weary sound that seemed to deflate his regal posture. ”I won’t force your hand, Duke. But should you change your mind, the physicians are at your beck and call. It would be a tragedy to lose the Shield of the North to something as mundane as ’fatigue.’”

A silence settled between them, broken only by the rustle of the wind through the palms. Zarius felt a bead of sweat trek down his spine, a cold reminder of his failing strength.

”The journey must have been grueling,” Alderon said eventually, shifting the topic. ”You didn’t need to come personally, you know. An envoy would have sufficed to fetch Cherion. Not that I am ungrateful for your presence, but it seems a heavy price to pay if your health is as precarious as I fear.”

”It was no hardship,” Zarius lied smoothly. He leaned back, masking the way his muscles wanted to seize. ”As I said, I am not so far gone that I cannot collect my own fiancé. It would have been an insult to you to do otherwise.”

The King’s expression shifted, a flicker of something, guilt, perhaps, crossing his face. He leaned back, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the table. ”Speaking of Cherion... What is your honest opinion of him?”

Zarius paused. His mind flickered back to the brief, chaotic interaction in the garden earlier. Cherion had been... unexpected. The boy had tried to help him, his eyes wide with a frantic, earnest concern that didn’t fit the rumors of a pampered, spoiled noble. But then there was the shadow of Yerel.

Zarius thought of the way Cherion had looked at him. There was a desperate kind of dignity in the boy’s eyes, even as he was being traded away like a piece of disputed territory.

”My opinion matters very little, Your Majesty,” Zarius replied. ”The rumors suggested the boy is entirely infatuated with His Highness. A man who followed your heir like a shadow. I was surprised he accepted the match at all. Most in his position would have fled to a monastery or... worse. Whether he has truly changed his heart, or if he is simply playing a role to survive, I cannot say.”

King Alderon smiled, but there was no joy in it. ”It surprised me as well. I expected a tantrum. But he accepted. I think... Perhaps Cherion realized that holding onto Yerel was like clutching a handful of thorns. Eventually, the pain makes you let go, regardless of how much you think you love the flower.”

”Perhaps,” Zarius conceded.

”Zarius,” the King called. ”Please. I know the reputation of your house. I know you are a man of iron. But I ask you... treat him with some measure of kindness. Don’t do to him what my son has done.”

”He will be treated with the respect his station demands. I have no interest in the petty cruelties your court seems to favor.”

”That is all I can ask,” the King whispered.

They spoke for a while longer, dry, political talk about trade routes and grain shipments, before Zarius finally excused himself. He needed the shade. He needed to be away from the King’s pity.

He walked back from the garden, his boots clicking on the polished tiles of the long, arched hallway. His vision flickered once, a dark spot dancing in the corner of his eye. The sun was truly a curse today. He gripped the hilt of his sword, using it as a subtle cane to steady his gait.

He was halfway to the guest wing when a voice, oily and dripping with a charm, sliced through the quiet.

”Oh, isn’t it the mighty Duke of the North? I thought I smelled the scent of old snow and desperation.”

Zarius stopped. He didn’t even need to turn to know who it was. The air around him curdled, turning sharp and acidic. He slowly turned around, his face settling into a mask of cold, unyielding stone.

Standing at the end of the corridor, framed by a gilded archway, was Crown Prince Yerel. His blonde hair caught the light perfectly, and his smile was a jagged thing, hidden behind a mask of royal grace.

”Long time no see, Duke Valtrane.”