I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Cherion’s first thought wasn’t panic. It was disgust. The place reeked, rotting hay, horse crap, and straw that had seen better centuries. Not exactly the sandalwood-scented, icy-clean air of Zarius’s halls.

The rumble hit next. Thump-thump-thump, wooden wheels tearing through mud.

Cherion tried to move, but his brain felt like it had been pureed in a blender. Every heartbeat sent a tiny army marching across his temples. He was lying flat, cramped, and wrapped in something that felt like a giant, scratchy potato sack.

Wow. Soren really went full villain. Does he have a musical number prepared, or are we skipping the choreography and going straight to the cliff-pushing?

He wiggled, feeling remarkably like an oversized, grumpy caterpillar. His limbs were heavy, limp, and entirely uncooperative. The sedative Soren had used was no joke. With a frustrated huff that sent a puff of dust straight up his nose, he wriggled his way out of the scratchy sack.

He sat up, or at least tried to, before the ceiling of the wagon reminded him that he was currently in a very small, very dirty box.

”Great,” he muttered, his voice sounding like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel. ”Just great. I finally secure the bag, get the Duke to sign a literal magical contract of protection, and minutes later, I’m being kidnapped by the obsessive servant. If I survive this, I am leaving a one-star review for Valtrane’s security.”

Panic tried to claw at his chest, but Cherion shoved it down like he was used to dealing with life’s nonsense, bad landlords, terrible roommates, and endless disappointment.. He looked around the cramped interior of the supply wagon. It was a mess of crates and barrels, half-hidden in the gloom.

This was the problem with Soren. He wasn’t just ”toxic” in that slightly-annoying way anymore. He had officially unsubscribed from reality. He’d cancelled his membership to Sanity and was now fully committed to the ”I’m-burning-down-everything-because-I’m-doomed-either-way” lifestyle.

”You’re a real piece of work, Soren,” Cherion whispered, his eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight filtering through a tiny, barred opening at the top of the wagon.

He began to crawl through the clutter, his hands fumbling over rough wood and cold metal. He needed a weapon. Or a way out. Or, ideally, a teleportation spell. Yeah, dream on, that wasn’t exactly his specialty.

He found a crate of rock salt, meant for curing meat, likely. Then, a small, tin lantern half-filled with cheap lamp oil. Behind that, nestled in some straw, was a bottle of strong alcohol that smelled strong enough to burn your nose hairs..

Cherion sat back, a memory flickering in the back of his mind. He’d lived alone in a city that wasn’t always friendly. He’d been a bit paranoid, one of those people who stayed up until 3:00 AM watching TooTube tutorials on ”What to do if you’re shoved in a car trunk” or ”How to escape a zip-tie with a shoelace.”

Of course, those videos were significantly less helpful when the vehicle was a wooden wagon.

Okay, rethink, he told himself. Think back to that random TooTube binge about ’Basic Chemistry for Survival.’ The one with the guy who had the weirdly loud beard.

He looked at the salt, the oil, and the alcohol. He didn’t have the tools for a bomb, but he had the ingredients for a localized disaster. He grabbed a small, empty spice jar that was rolling in the corner, still carrying a residue of... probably ground black pepper.

”Don’t fail me now,” he muttered, his fingers shaking as he carefully poured the high-proof alcohol into the jar. It wasn’t even clever. It was just alcohol, pepper, and salt thrown together in the desperate hope that it would blind someone long enough for him to run. It wasn’t exactly a smoke bomb, but if he could get it in someone’s eyes? It would be a bad day for them. A very, very bad day.

Suddenly, the wagon began to slow. The thump-thump of the wheels transitioned into a crunching halt.

Cherion froze, his stomach jumping into his throat. A shadow slid across the tiny window above, and there was Soren, bathed in moonlight, looking like someone had carved a mask from bone. His eyes darted everywhere, like he was arguing with his invisible friends.

Cherion pressed himself against the side of the wagon, holding his breath. He could hear voices, muffled, but audible. Soren wasn’t alone.

”...can’t keep him!” a gruff voice was saying. ”The Duke will have our heads on pikes before the week is out if we linger near the border.”

Another voice chimed in, this one sounded younger, nervous. ”Why not just kill him now? Dump him in the ravine and be done with it. A dead man can’t talk.”

”No,” Soren snapped. ”I want him to suffer. Sell him to the Grey Traders. Let him end up in a slave caravan headed for the desert, or a brothel in the South where he can use that pretty face to earn his keep. He won’t be able to run away from there.”

”He’s a noble, Soren. Or at least he looks like one,” the gruff voice countered. ”The traders will be wary. But... fine. If the price is right, they won’t care who he is.”

Cherion felt a wave of pure rage he hadn’t felt in ages. It successfully smothered his fear for a moment. Slavery? A brothel? Their mouths really ran wild, didn’t they?

”Not happening,” Cherion whispered to himself.

The heavy wooden bar on the wagon door groaned as it was lifted. Cherion didn’t wait. He scrambled toward the door, gripping his jar of chemical misery in one hand and a heavy, fist-sized hunk of rock salt in the other.

The doors swung open, letting in a rush of freezing air. Soren stood there, flanked by two men who looked like they’d been recruited from the nearest gutter.

”Surprise, asshole!” Cherion yelled.

He aimed for the face. He hurled the contents of the jar directly at the trio. The mix of alcohol, salt, and pepper hit them in the face, making them jerk back.

A split second later, the screaming started.