I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

”Oh, look at them go. Busy as a squirrel on espresso.”

The world beyond the balcony glass door had, quite rudely, transformed overnight. Cherion stood there, squinting against the harsh Northern sun, clutching a cup of tea that was now just a sad, lukewarm reminder of what it once was.

Below, the Duchy’s usual peace had been replaced with a frenetic energy that could power a small city. Wagons were stacked so high with crates and barrels, they looked like they might just explode if someone sneezed too hard.

”They’re moving like they’ve all got bees in their breeches today, aren’t they?” a bright voice chirped from his elbow.

Cherion didn’t even jump. He’d already grown accustomed to Reiner’s habit of appearing out of thin air, standing there glued to the spot, vibrating the loyalty of a golden retriever puppy. The boy was leaning against the railing, looking entirely too chipper for a man witnessing a logistical nightmare.

”Is this... normal?” Cherion asked, gesturing vaguely at a group of men hauling a massive, spiked barricade that looked like it belonged in a horror novel. ”It looks like we’re preparing for the end of the world. Or at least a very aggressive neighborhood dispute.”

Reiner let out a breezy laugh. ”Oh, My Lord, this is just preparation. It’s the busiest fortnight in the North. First, you’ve got the Winter Lock. That’s when the sky decides to dump ten feet of snow. If you don’t have your grain and salt inside by then, well, hope you like the taste of leather boots.”

He pointed toward the outer walls where soldiers were meticulously oiling their armor. ”But you can’t have a lock without the Subjugation. That’s the Duke’s ’Grand Housecleaning.’ Before the snow traps us, we have to clear the migration paths. If we don’t cull the monsters now, they’ll spend the whole winter scratching at our front door like hungry cats, except these cats are the size of carriages and have way too many teeth.”

Cherion felt a very real, very cold shiver crawl down his spine. Subjugation. In most stories, that was a word used in flowery poems about knights rescuing maidens. Here, it sounded like a bloody, seasonal chore, like taking out the trash, if the trash could bite your head off.

”And His Grace... he goes out there? In the middle of all that?”

”First one out the gate!” Reiner said, his chest puffing out.

Cherion was still trying to wrap his head around the idea of a ”Monster Season” when the heavy, unmistakable thud-thud-thud of serious boots echoed on the balcony.

Flio was marching toward them. He didn’t have Reiner’s ”puppy” energy, but he had the ”tired attendant who is also a killing machine” aura. In his arms, he carried a bundle of stiff, smelly leather gear and, tucked under his arm, a hunk of dark, heavy wood that looked suspiciously like a weapon.

Flio stopped and offered a bow that was about as flexible as a frozen board. ”Lord Cherion.”

”Flio,” Cherion said, eyeing the bundle warily. ”Is that... a very large, very ugly rolling pin?”

”It is a practice sword, My Lord,” Flio replied, his face a masterpiece of stoic indifference. ”And this is a decree from His Grace. Effective immediately, your schedule has been... adjusted. You are to report to the training ground for training.”

Cherion actually laughed. It was a short, dry sound of pure disbelief. ”Training? Flio, have you seen me? I’m a Healer. The most dangerous thing I can do is blind you with a burst of light that could outshine a flashlight on a camping trip.”

Both Flio and Reiner just stared at Cherion like he’d sprouted another head. Then Flio cleared his throat, as if trying to pretend that awkward silence wasn’t hanging in the air.

He held out the leather gear, which smelled faintly of old cow and determination. ”The Duke’s orders were specific. You are to begin defensive drills. Swordsmanship, footwork, and, crucially, not getting stabbed.”

”Why?” Cherion’s voice went up a notch, clearly frustrated. ”I meant he didn’t tell me anything. Yeah, he even chased me off last night.”

Still bitter about it, of course. Not that he was itching to share a bed with the guy, but hey, it was in the contract, he had a job to do. The cursed duke needed a cure, and he was the one to fix it. Not that he didn’t appreciate Zarius’s concern, assuming that was even what it was. Either way, Cherion knew his body. He was fine.

Flio continued to shove the leather gear at Cherion like he was trying to offer him a plate of cold soup. ”Please, My Lord. His Grace was pretty shaken up after the incident. He, uh, doesn’t want you getting hurt again. Wants you to learn some basic self-defense. You know... just in case.”

Cherion stared at the leather gear, chewing on his lip. ”Yeah, well... he’s not wrong.” He grabbed the gear, shrugging. ”I guess there’s no disadvantage in knowing how to at least not get stabbed. Fine.”

Cherion took the wooden sword. Or rather, he tried to. The moment Flio let go, the weight of the bronze-tipped wood nearly dragged Cherion’s shoulder out of its socket. He stumbled, looking like a man trying to catch a falling tree.

”It’s... it’s remarkably heavy,” Cherion wheezed, adjusting his grip.

What kind of wood is this?

”It’s the weight of survival, My Lord,” Flio said, his voice steady, but a glint of amusement in his eyes. Then, he paused, as if reconsidering. ”Oh, uh... or we could always change that to a lighter one. I mean, it’s your survival, after all.”

Flio bowed and marched off, leaving Cherion standing there with a pile of smelly leather at his feet and a wooden sword that felt like it weighed as much as a small pony.

The irony was so thick he could have spread it on toast.

Last night, Zarius had looked him in the eye and basically called him fragile. He’d slammed a door in his face, acting like Cherion was a dying flower that needed to be kept under glass. And now? Now he was being ordered into the mud to learn how to hit things with a stick.

Rest? Cherion thought, his grip tightening on the rough hilt. How am I supposed to rest when you’re handing me a weapon and preparing for a monster massacre?