I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

”Rise, Zarius.”

The voice was Lario Valtrane’s. It didn’t carry the warmth of a father or even the irritation of a tired man. It was a gavel striking a block.

Zarius sat up instantly. There was no grogginess, no childhood whim of wanting five more minutes under the furs. His body, even at ten years old, was a machine of trained reflexes. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet meeting the frost-rimed stone of the floor. A shock of ice traveled up his spine, but his expression remained as flat as the horizon. He didn’t shiver. Shivering was a confession of weakness, and in this house, confessions were met with ”corrections.”

He dressed in the dim light, stiff leather, heavy wool, the weight of the Valtrane crest pinning his cloak. His hands were already numb, the blood retreating to his core as if trying to hide from the man standing in the doorway.

”The training ground is waiting,” Lario said, his eyes scanning his son for any sign of a slumped shoulder or a stray yawn. Finding none, he turned without another word.

Zarius followed. He always followed. It was the only way to survive the silence.

Everything in the training ground was washed in grey, and the cold bit at his throat with every breath he took. Lario stood at the edge of the stone circle, his arms crossed over a chest that looked like it had been carved from a mountain.

He didn’t teach. Not in the way a tutor teaches. He observed.

Zarius swung the practice blade, a hunk of iron that was far too heavy for a boy his age. The goal wasn’t just to learn the form; it was to learn how to ignore the protest of the bone. Thwack. The sword hit the wooden pell. Thwack. ”Too slow,” Lario’s voice drifted through the mist, devoid of emotion.

Zarius adjusted his footing, his boots slipping slightly on a patch of black ice. He recovered, his muscles screaming, his vision blurring at the edges from the sheer effort of keeping the iron level.

”Too soft,” the Duke remarked, his gaze like a scalpel. ”If the mountain senses you are soft, it will crush you. Again.”

Zarius swung until the sweat on his brow turned to ice. He swung until his palms bled into the leather grip of the sword, the copper scent of blood mixing with the ozone of the coming storm. When he finally executed a perfect, bone-jarring parry that sent a shockwave up his arm, Lario didn’t smile. He didn’t clap.

He gave a singular, curt nod. ”Not enough. A Duke is not measured by what he can do, but by what he can endure when he can do no more. Dismissed.”

Lario turned and walked away, his cape snapping in the wind like a funeral shroud. He didn’t look back to see if his son was still standing. He didn’t care. Competence was the baseline, anything less was an insult.

Zarius retreated into the manor, his arms trembling so violently he had to hide them in his sleeves. The transition from the training ground to the estate was supposed to be a relief, the warmth was supposed to be a sanctuary, but it never felt like that. The warmth just made the bruises ache more.

He was halfway to the safety of the library when a small, chaotic blur collided with his hip.

”Big Brother! You’re back!”

Marielle. She was six, a tiny whirlwind of black hair and loud joy. She grabbed his sleeve with sticky fingers, her eyes bright with some secret game.

”Play with me! You have to be the Dragon-Knight!”

Zarius looked down at her. He felt a thousand years older than his sister. He wanted to tell her he couldn’t lift his arms, but she was already dragging him toward the sun-room. She was the only person in the world who touched him without wanting to measure his worth.

They ended up in a corner filled with discarded toys. Marielle thrust a wooden sword into his hand, a light, flimsy thing compared to the iron he’d been wielding, and began to dance around him. She was reckless, swinging the ”blade” with a terrifying lack of coordination.

”I’ll save the kingdom! Take that!”

She lunged, her foot catching on the edge of a rug. In her excitement, she didn’t see the blunt wooden tip of her sword heading straight for her own eye.

Zarius moved. He caught her wrist just in time. His grip firm and controlled, and yanked the weapon away before she could skew herself.

But he was tired, and his strength faltered.

Marielle, caught off balance by the sudden correction, let out a small ”oh!” and tumbled backward. She hit the floor with a dull thud, the wooden toy clattering across the marble.

Silence rushed into the room, cold and suffocating.

For a second, Marielle just sat there, stunned.

Then her lip trembled.

A small, shaky sound slipped out of her, and just like that, she started to cry.

Then came the footsteps.

Nerissa Valtrane appeared in the doorway like a pale, beautiful specter, her midnight-blue gown trailing behind her like a shadow.

Her eyes went to crying Marielle, who was sitting on the floor. Then, her gaze shifted to the sword. Finally, it landed on Zarius.

”What happened?”

Her voice wasn’t raised. That was the horror of Nerissa. She didn’t need to scream. Her disappointment was a quiet, sharp thing that cut through a child’s heart like a razor.

”Mother, I... she was going to hit her face,” Zarius started, his voice small, his hands shaking at his sides.

”Why are you always so rough, Zarius?” she asked, her tone conversational, as if she were discussing the weather. ”Why must your presence always result in someone else’s tears? Your father wants a weapon, but I see only a boy who lacks the grace to be among people.”

”It was an accident! I was trying to...”

”Enough,” she said, cutting him off with a flick of her wrist. She didn’t look at him when she spoke. She walked over to Marielle, lifting the girl with a tenderness that Zarius had only ever seen from a distance. ”Come, Marielle. We shall go to the conservatory. It is too dangerous here.”

Marielle looked back at Zarius, her lip wobbling. She wanted to say something, but the weight of Nerissa’s disapproval was a physical barrier. She let herself be led away, leaving Zarius alone in the center of the vast, quiet room.

Zarius stood there for a long time. The wooden sword lay at his feet, a pathetic reminder of a ”playtime” that had turned into a trial.

Nerissa paused at the door, her back to him. Something in Zarius, some dying ember of a ten-year-old’s hope, flared to life. He didn’t think about it. He didn’t plan it. He just moved forward, his small, bruised hand reaching out toward her trailing sleeve.

He just wanted to touch her.

Nerissa felt the movement, and she simply recoiled.

It was a reflexive, instinctive jerk of her body away from his touch, as if his hand were a hot coal or a plague-sore. The motion was so sharp it threw Zarius off balance, sending him stumbling back a step.

She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even acknowledge that she had nearly knocked him over. She simply adjusted her shawl and walked out.

Zarius stood in the center of the room, his hand still half-raised in the empty air. He looked at his fingers, red from the cold, calloused from the iron, and apparently, repulsive to the woman who had given him life.

Slowly, he lowered his hand.

He was used to the cold. He had been raised in it, shaped by it, and told that it was his only true companion. He had learned to live in the silence between his father’s ”not enough” and his mother’s ”don’t touch me.”

He walked to the window, watching the blizzard begin to swallow the world outside. He was ten years old, and he was already a master of the frost.

But as the wind rattled the glass, a single, stray thought pierced through the iron wall of his mind. Just because you’re used to the cold, it doesn’t mean you can’t still freeze.