I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The arrival at the first waypoint was less of a majestic military maneuver and more of a gritty, desperate scramble against a sun that was dropping faster than a lead weight. The North didn’t offer hospitality; it merely permitted survival if you were fast enough with a hammer and a tent peg.

Zarius was supposed to be listening to Elios who was currently shouting something about scout rotations and the narrowing bottlenecks ahead where the beast tide usually funneled through, his finger tracing a jagged line across a tactical map that was fighting to take flight in the biting wind. It was serious business that usually demanded Zarius’s absolute, undivided attention.

Even the Duke’s attention was slipping, which was unusual, he normally didn’t miss a thing.

His gaze kept drifting away from the ink-stained parchment to a specific, frantic smudge of color near the supply wagons. Cherion hadn’t even waited for the carriage to come to a full, dignified halt before he’d practically tumbled out the door. Instead of heading straight for the fire, Cherion was neck-deep in the messy, cold grunt work.

”My Lord! Please, we have people for this!” one of the younger soldiers squeaked, nearly dropping a roll of heavy canvas as Cherion reached out to grab the other end.

”Nonsense,” Cherion grunted, his breath hitching in a silver puff. ”I have two free hands and a distinct lack of frostbite. Let’s get this up.”

Every few seconds, his eyes would dart away from the map to track a specific, frantic smudge of color across the camp. He watched Cherion wrestle with a crate of winter blankets, his jaw tightening as the little Omega nearly toppled over.

”You know, he’s actually doing a decent job,” Elios remarked, not even looking up from the map but sensing his commander’s distraction with terrifying accuracy. ”For a Southerner, he’s got the stubbornness of a mule. It’s almost impressive. Though, I think your heart might actually stop if he scratches a finger, wouldn’t it?”

Zarius didn’t dignify that with a response. He just shifted his weight, his hand resting almost unconsciously on the hilt of his sword, right where the lumpy, sapphire-blue charm was tied. He looked like he wanted to go over there and physically carry Cherion into the tent, but he knew better.

”Just... keep an eye on him,” Zarius muttered, his voice low and raspy. ”He doesn’t know when to quit.”

”Ah, the pot calls the kettle out,” Elios said with a grin.

By the time the camp was fully established and a hot dinner had been distributed among the men, the moon was up, giving the rows of tents a faint, ghostly shimmer. The meeting had sucked the life out of him, and by the time he got up to leave, even his armor felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He walked toward his own tent, the largest one, positioned at the heart of the camp, each step feeling heavier than the last. He expected to find Cherion still awake, perhaps fussing over a kettle of tea or organizing his medical kits. He’d rehearsed a few words in his head, something about how Cherion shouldn’t push himself so hard with the manual labor.

But when he pulled back the heavy canvas flap, the tent was silent.

Inside, the Heart Stone was already burning in the corner, lighting the room with a warm, soft glow. And there, sprawled across the center of the bed, was Cherion.

He hadn’t even managed to get his cloak off. He’d kicked off his boots, they were sitting lopsided by the bed, but otherwise, he was just... gone. Deeply, utterly asleep. His hair was a mess against the pillow, and one of his hands was still curled into a loose fist, as if he were still holding onto a tent rope in his dreams.

Zarius stood there for a long moment, the cold of the outside world slowly bleeding off his cloak. He looked... smaller like this, Zarius thought. Less the defiant Omega, and more a man who had poured every ounce of himself into a day that offered no mercy.

He moved quietly, surprising for someone his size, sliding out of his armor piece by piece. He didn’t want to wake him. Even in the dim light, the exhaustion on Cherion’s face was impossible to miss.

As he climbed into the bed, Zarius hesitated. Usually, they shared a bed in the castle for the sake of the curse, the constant, steady flow of Cherion’s healing energy was the only thing that kept the curse from clawing at Zarius’s mind. He looked at Cherion’s pale face and wondered if he should reach out, if he should draw some of that warmth now.

No, Zarius decided, pulling the heavy furs up over both of them. Let him sleep. He’s worked enough today. I can survive one night without feeding off his light.

The wind outside picked up, howling against the canvas walls, making the whole world feel incredibly small and fragile. Zarius closed his eyes, letting the smells of the camp fade as he focused on the steady rhythm of Cherion’s breathing. It was almost too peaceful for a place built for control rather than comfort.

He was just on the edge of sleep himself when a sound broke the stillness.

It was a soft, muffled murmur.

Zarius’s eyes snapped open. He stayed perfectly still, his heart thudding against his ribs. Was he having a nightmare? Was it Yerel again? The thought sent a sharp, familiar prickle of irritation through him. He leaned in closer, his ear hovering just inches from Cherion’s lips.

”Zarius...”

The name slipped out like a whisper, soft and sleepy, carrying none of the panic or urgency he might have expected. Just a name, but it was his name.

Zarius froze. The irritation vanished, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming warmth that had nothing to do with the stone or the furs.

Cherion wasn’t dreaming of the Palace. He wasn’t dreaming of the ”lovey-dovey” letters or the warm sun he’d left behind. He was here. In the middle of a frozen wasteland, in a tent that smelled of damp earth, dreaming of the man who had dragged him into this mess.

Zarius lay perfectly still, his heart hammering a rhythm that felt entirely too loud for the small space.

He’s probably just dreaming about today, Zarius told himself, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the tent’s ceiling. It’s a purely functional dream.

But the corners of his mouth were betraying him. There was a warmth spreading through his chest that felt dangerously like a sun-strike.

Is he having a nightmare? A sudden, darker thought hit him. Am I the one chasing him in his sleep? He looked down at the sleeping man, his brow furrowing. If he’s dreaming of me, it’s likely because I’m the most stressful thing in his life right now.

Zarius froze, his eyes narrowing as he scanned Cherion’s face for signs of a night-terror. But there was nothing. Cherion’s expression remained smooth, almost unnervingly peaceful. There was no wince, no tension in his jaw. He looked... comfortable.

Zarius then adjusted the furs, tucking them tighter around Cherion’s shoulders like fragile cargo that absolutely couldn’t escape his grip.

He closed his eyes, letting his hand drift close enough to feel Cherion’s warmth. He definitely wasn’t that happy.

Yes. It’s good he’s dreaming of me, he concluded firmly. It’s a tactical victory over Yerel. Nothing more.