I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

”Eyes up! If you’re looking at your feet, you’re already dead!”

Zarius’s voice cut through the freezing air, sharp enough to make the younger knights jump. He wasn’t yelling out of anger; he was just trying to keep them alive. He’d seen too many good men get cornered in these ditches because they lost their footing in the slush.

A Velkyn lunged, its jagged, flint-like shell scraping against a frost-shattered boulder with a sound like grinding teeth. Zarius didn’t even think. He stepped into the beast’s guard, his greatsword finding the soft seam beneath its mandibles with a wet, heavy thud.

He watched the monster crumble, and a strange sense of relief washed over him. When the curse had first taken hold a few months ago, his first thought hadn’t been for his life, but for his sword. He’d genuinely feared that this subjugation would be his last, that he’d be a liability to his men, a Duke who couldn’t even swing his own steel without the curse in his mind dragging him down.

But of course that wasn’t the case anymore.

Gods, I feel... light.

It was an alien sensation, considering the weight he’d been carrying lately. The suffocating veil that had spent months dragging his reflexes into the mire had simply vanished, leaving him sharp, predatory, and fast. Today, the world lay before him in unparalleled clarity. He could hear the frantic, skittering heartbeat of a fleeing Lorvus thirty yards away. He could feel the exact vibration in his hilt before his blade even met resistance, allowing him to adjust his weight before the thought fully formed in his brain.

He knew exactly who to blame. Or rather, who to thank.

Between the visceral strikes, his mind drifted, an annoying, persistent habit he’d developed lately, to a certain Southern mess of curls and stubbornness. Cherion. The man’s constant, quiet infusion of healing mana had done more than just mend skin, it had scrubbed the curse off Zarius’s soul. He thought of the breakfast they’d shared only hours ago, the way Cherion had fussed over a simple pot of stew, his hands dusted with flour and his eyes bright with that quiet, terrifying resolve.

I am fighting for the North, Zarius told himself, parrying a Velkyn’s jagged claw with a clang that echoed off the Rift’s walls. For my people. For the land beneath my feet.

But as he ducked under a swipe and rose to take another head, a smaller, traitorous voice in the back of his mind added: And so he has a home to wake up in.

His knights moved together with deadly precision, so perfectly in sync it would have made even a clockmaker jealous. They weren’t just knights, they were an extension of the Duke’s own will. Elios was barking orders, his voice cutting through the screeching of the monsters as the unit funneled a Velkyn into a bottleneck of spears. It was beautiful. It was clean. It was the Valtrane way, maximum output, minimum waste.

The skirmish was bleeding into its final moments. Zarius had his sights set on a particularly large Velkyn, his muscles coiling for a final, finishing lunge. He stepped forward, the snow crunching under his boots

Whish-THUD.

A massive, six-foot Great-Spear, forged of blackened Northern iron, whistled through the air with the force of a falling star. It didn’t just hit the Velkyn, it impaled the beast through the skull, pinning its twitching carcass to the frozen earth with enough force to crack the frozen ground.

Zarius froze, his own sword inches from the kill.

The thunder of hooves followed. A massive warhorse, a beast of shaggy white fur and iron-shod hooves, thundered into the clearing, kicking up a blinding spray of slush. The rider was a vision of Northern ferocity, decked in layered furs and scarred leather, her face a pale, sharp oval framed by hair the color of a crow’s wing. She looked like she had been carved out of a glacier and told to go kill something.

She didn’t wait for the horse to come to a full stop before vaulting out of the saddle, landing with a heavy, confident thud.

”Well, well,” she said, her voice a husky, melodic rasp that carried over the dying screeches of the monsters. ”You’ve grown slow in your old age, Duke Valtrane. I almost had time to set up a tent and make tea before you finished off these runts.”

Zarius straightened, his eyes narrowing into two icy slits. He didn’t sheath his sword. ”What in the seven hells are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. ”This is the edge of the Rift. It’s no place for wandering.”

The woman tilted her head, a predatory smirk dancing on her lips. She walked toward him, ignoring the blood on her boots. ”Is that a hint of concern I hear? Or are you just looking down on me because I’m an Omega? Don’t tell me you’ve spent so much time alone that you’ve forgotten I can gut a Velkyn before you’ve even unbuckled your fauld.”

Zarius didn’t flinch. He’d dealt with this temper countless times before. ”I never said you couldn’t fight. I said it’s dangerous. There’s a difference.”

”My Lord! Lady Marielle?”

Elios scrambled toward them, his helmet tucked under one arm, his face a mask of sheer shock. He looked between the Duke and the woman as if he were seeing a ghost, or perhaps a very beautiful, very violent headache. ”What... how”

”Please, Elios,” the woman, Marielle, said, her grin widening. She didn’t look at Elios; her eyes were locked on Zarius. ”I heard rumors that Duke Valtrane was playing house in monster-infested lands. I couldn’t very well let him have all the fun, could I?”

Before Zarius could utter another word of protest, Marielle stepped into his personal space. She hooked her arm firmly around his, her fingers digging into the gaps of his plate armor with a familiarity that would have made anyone else lose a limb.

”You’re sulking,” she chirped, her tone shifting into something terrifyingly chatty as she began to lead him, practically dragging him by sheer force of will, away from the carnage. ”Is he always this grumpy, Elios? Or is he just mad I stole his kill? Honestly, Zarius, you need more fiber in your diet. Or more wine. Or maybe just a sister who knows how to handle a spear.”

Zarius let himself be pulled. What choice did he have? Arguing with Marielle was like trying to argue with an avalanche; you just had to wait for it to stop moving and hope you weren’t buried too deep.

But as they walked, her voice a constant, bright hum against the backdrop of the desolate, silent North, Zarius looked down at the hand clutching his arm. He looked at the woman who was currently leaning her head against his shoulder with a fierce, possessive sort of affection.

He let out a long, tired breath. He thought of the camp. He thought of the tent. He thought of Cherion, who was probably currently organizing bandages and tending to the soldiers.

And then he thought about how in exactly fifteen minutes, his worlds were going to collide.

This is going to be a disaster.

He closed his eyes for a fleeting second, the cold wind whipping his hair. He was the Monster Duke. He was a man who had faced down gods and monsters without flinching.

But as Marielle laughed at her own joke and squeezed his arm tighter, Zarius felt a genuine, bone-deep tremor of dread.

Gods, give me strength.