I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

They didn’t call it a feast. To call it a feast would imply a celebration, and there’s a specific kind of superstition in the North that says if you laugh too loudly before a subjugation, the mountains will hear you and find a way to silence the noise. Instead, it was simply ”The Night of the High Fire.”

It wasn’t just a tradition. It served as a final, defiant stand against the encroaching shadow of the Subjugation before the gates were thrown open and the soldiers marched into the mouth of the storm.

It was the ”Last Call” for comfort. The vibe was strange, not exactly a party, but not quite a funeral either. It was more like a collective deep breath. Everyone was soaking in the light, trying to memorize the feeling of a warm chair and a full belly.

The Great Hall of the Valtrane fortress smelled of woodsmoke, wet wool, and the kind of heavy, heart-stopping stew that was meant to stick to a man’s ribs for three days. Two days remained before the march began.

Cherion stood at the edge of the hall, clutching a woven basket that felt heavier than it actually was, while Reiner bounced beside him, all golden hair and cheer, radiating enough energy to power a small city.

”Do you think they’ll think it’s stupid?” Cherion whispered, his voice barely audible over the low, rhythmic thumping of wooden mugs against the tables. He felt like a total amateur, an intruder in this world. A Southern boy with soft hands, trying to hand out ”luck” to guys who probably chew iron bars for breakfast.

”Stupid?” Reiner’s eyes widened, his expression going from bubbly to fiercely protective in a heartbeat. ”Lord Cherion, you’ve spent hours sweating over these. You’ve put prayers, and probably some of your sanity into these. If they don’t appreciate it, I’ll personally make sure their laundry comes back damp for a month.”

Cherion snorted. He couldn’t help it. Reiner was the only thing in this castle that didn’t feel like it was made of frozen granite.

Together, they began to move through the rows of tables. It was an awkward dance at first. Cherion would approach a grizzled soldier, someone who looked like they’d survived ten winters and at least three bear attacks, and offer a small, braided charm.

”It’s... it’s a lucky charm,” Cherion explained for the fiftieth time, his face a constant shade of pink. ”Every knot was tied with a wish for your safety. If the cold gets too deep or you feel like you can’t go another step, just hold onto it. It’s a reminder that home is waiting for you to come back. We’re... we’re counting on you.”

The reactions weren’t what he expected. There was no mocking. No laughter. The soldiers would take the charms with hands that were scarred and calloused, their eyes shifting from the little braids to Cherion with a look of sudden, profound respect.

”Thank you, My Lord,” a veteran whispered, his voice like gravel grinding together. He tucked the charm into a hidden pocket near his heart.

By the time the basket was empty, Cherion’s legs felt like jelly.

Cherion leaned against a stone pillar, watching Reiner weave through the remaining tables like a golden-haired tornado, dropping charms into open palms with a laugh or a cheeky wink that seemed to physically lighten the grim atmosphere. He chatted easily with the veterans about their favorite stews and teased the recruits about their untidy collars, making the looming march feel less like a death sentence and more like a difficult chore.

Seeing Reiner’s effortless warmth, Cherion felt a small, genuine smile tug at his lips. He then looked toward the high table, where Zarius sat.

The Duke hadn’t touched his food. He sat like a shadow carved from the mountain itself, his black armor reflecting the flickering orange light of the hearth. He looked older tonight. Not in years, but in the sheer weight of the command he held. These men weren’t just soldiers to him; they were his responsibility. His burden.

Suddenly, the hall went quiet. It wasn’t a forced silence, but the kind of stillness that happens when a predator enters the room. Zarius stood up.

He didn’t have a goblet in his hand. He didn’t offer a toast to ”glory” or ”the gods.” He didn’t even raise his voice. He just looked at them, every single one of them.

”Those monsters are hungrier than usual this year,” Zarius began, his voice slicing through the silence like a hot knife through... something dramatic. ”The dark mana’s all over the place, and the monsters are desperate.”

A few younger soldiers swallowed hard. Cherion felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft from the door.

”My orders remain the same as they have always been,” Zarius continued, looking like he’d happily glared at someone into obedience. ”Watch the man to your left. Guard the man to your right. Do not be a hero. Do not seek a poet’s death. You are Valtrane men. Your duty is not to die for your Duke, your duty is to survive for your families. Stay alive. That is my only command.”

For a heartbeat, the hall was so silent you could hear the embers popping in the hearth. Then, the tension snapped.

It started with a single, heavy thud. A veteran knight at the front table slammed his armored fist against the wood. Then another followed. And another.

”FOR THE NORTH!” the first one roared, standing up.

”FOR THE NORTH!” hundred voices answered in a thunderous, rhythmic shout that made the plates on the table rattle.

The cheering wasn’t subtle, they all thumped their chests, leather and metal clanging together like one massive, ominous heartbeat. Happiness was not included.

Cherion watched them, his breath catching in his throat. He looked at Zarius, who simply gave a singular, sharp nod before sitting back down. But for a split second, Cherion thought he saw the Duke’s shoulders drop just a fraction, as if the weight of those five hundred lives was a little easier to carry when they shouted back.

The hall began to empty soon after. Men needed sleep. They needed to sharpen swords and write letters they hoped wouldn’t be delivered. Cherion found himself wandering away from the noise, his feet leading him toward the high balcony that overlooked the courtyard and the jagged peaks beyond.

The wind up here was brutal, screaming through the stone arches and dragging the smell of snow right along with it.

Zarius was already there.