I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The carriage kept bumping along like it was trying to rock someone to sleep, but for Cherion, it felt less ”soothing lullaby” and more ”trapped inside a giant, obnoxious drum.”

He sat stiffly against the velvet seat, staring out the window as charcoal-gray pines and bare, skeletal birches blurred past. Physically, yeah, he was there. He could feel the cold air sneaking in through the door, could smell the mix of old leather and Zarius’s distinct, bracing musk. Yet, mentally? Not even close. He was miles back, still standing in that cramped, stinking hut where the air tasted of damp dirt and old secrets.

Traveler.

The word wouldn’t leave him alone. It buzzed in his head like a mosquito you couldn’t slap. It wasn’t just a word, it felt like a judgment. That old woman had looked straight through him. Not at ”Cherion,” but at whatever the hell was underneath. And that whole ”unbinding the world” thing? Yeah. That part was not helping.

He tried to play it cool in his head. Maybe she just meant I’m a tourist? Yeah, that tracks. He wasn’t from the North, after all. Yeah, Cherion the Tourist. Five stars for the scenery, zero stars for the local prophecy.

The more he tried to spin it into something harmless, the worse it got. Because deep down, he knew the truth he’d been dodging since day one: he hijacked a tragedy. He was basically a glitch in a story built on suffering, and now the whole thing might be starting to crack because of him.

Every time he looked at the snowy landscape, he didn’t see the scenery. He saw the ending. The original ending. The one he was supposedly fixing. Except now he couldn’t shake the feeling he might actually be breaking everything instead.

”...rion. Cherion!”

The voice came in like a system alert nobody wanted. He jerked upright, snapping his attention to the man across from him. ”Yes! Right! Present!”

Zarius didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a smile. He just sat there, legs slightly spread because apparently being that tall came with logistical problems, watching Cherion like he was reading something complicated. Not like a book, more like a map where every wrong turn was obvious. His eyes narrowed just a little.

”You’ve been staring at that patch of ice for ten minutes without blinking,” Zarius said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the small space. ”Is it that woman? The nonsense? It’s eating at you.”

”What? No!” Cherion’s voice went up an octave, a defensive squeak he immediately regretted. He waved a hand dismissively, his fingers fluttering like nervous birds. ”Please. That old lady? She was a total scam artist, Your Grace. Probably drank too much fermented moss and decided to freestyle some mysterious nonsense for extra tips. I’m fine. Completely fine. One hundred percent peachy.”

He forced a laugh, a thin, brittle sound that echoed off the carriage walls like glass breaking. It was a terrible lie. A spectacular, flaming wreck of a lie.

Zarius didn’t push. He didn’t call him out on the high-pitched hysterics. He simply nodded, letting the silence back in. It was a mercy, really. Zarius was providing him the comfort of a quiet space, even though his expression clearly stated that he knew Cherion was terrified.

”You know,” Zarius said after a while, his gaze shifting to the window before returning to Cherion. ”If we were to tell Flio about this... he’d have the time of his life. The man is dangerously brilliant, but he’d still spend an hour wheezing and laughing at our expense. He’d call it a collection of random nouns, a linguistic soup served by a woman who doesn’t understand the basic laws of probability.”

But internally, Cherion felt a cold shiver. That’s the problem, isn’t it? Flio was a genius, sure, but he was a genius inside the box. He was a master of the rules of this world because he believed the world ended at the horizon. He couldn’t solve a riddle that required knowing there was an ”outside.” Flio didn’t know they were all ink and paper. He didn’t know that his very existence was a series of sentences written by someone else.

Zarius leaned forward then suddenly took up more space in the carriage. He didn’t let the topic drop, despite Cherion’s best efforts to bury it.

”Cherion, look at me,” Zarius commanded. It wasn’t a Duke’s order, something softer, more desperate. ”Fate is a word people use when they’re too tired to fight. They say ’it was meant to be’ because it’s easier than saying ’I failed.’ But I’ve lived under a so-called curse. There was almost no hope, and yet... Here I am. Sitting with you.”

He paused, his eyes searching Cherion’s. ”I don’t know what’s going on in that imagination of yours right now. But I won’t let the North fall silent, and I won’t let some hollow prophecy dictate our lives. We are the ones who decide how our fate turns out. Not her, and not some story you’re playing in your head.”

It was the sincerity that did it. That grounded, But I won’t let the North fall silent, and I won’t let some hollow prophecy dictate our lives. We are the ones who decide how our fate turns out. Not her, and not some ghost of a story you’re playing in your head. belief in Cherion’s power to change things. Cherion looked at him. This man was supposed to be a broken, cursed wreck by this point in the story. He was supposed to have lost half his men in a disastrous subjugation. He was supposed to be spiraling into a madness that would eventually lead to his death.

But he wasn’t. The men were safe. The curse wasn’t destroying him.

I did that, Cherion realized.

A surge of hot, prickly defiance began to bubble up, replacing the icy dread. If he had ”unbound” fate, then fine. He’d break it into so many pieces they’d never be able to put the original tragedy back together. He was the one holding the damn pen now.

The jitters were still there, though, that lingering, nervous energy that made his hands shake. He needed to snap out of it. Truly, deeply snap out of it.

PLAK! PLAK!

The sound echoed way too loudly in the carriage. Cherion had raised both hands and delivered two sharp, stinging slaps to his own cheeks.

”What in the...!” Zarius moved instantly. Before Cherion could even register the throbbing heat in his face, Zarius had lunged across the carriage, his massive hands wrapping around Cherion’s wrists like iron bands. He pinned Cherion’s arms down, his face a mask of absolute horror. ”What in the world are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

Cherion’s face was glowing a brilliant, angry red. Yeah, he definitely knew how to slap. His eyes were watering from the impact, but as he looked up at Zarius, the fog was gone. The spiral had stopped.

”I’m awake,” Cherion croaked, his voice finally steady.

Zarius didn’t let go. He held Cherion’s hands away from his face, staring at him as if he were a delicate piece of porcelain that had just tried to shatter itself. Zarius slowly reached up, his thumb grazing Cherion’s reddened cheek with a touch so gentle it made the previous violence feel like a dream.

”You’re... awake?” Zarius repeated, his voice laced with pure confusion. ”By hitting yourself? Is this some Southern ritual I wasn’t informed about?”

Cherion let out a genuine, slightly manic giggle. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned his face into Zarius’s palm, the heat of the slap meeting the warmth of the man he’d saved. He felt a buzzing energy under his skin, not fear, but a wild, reckless resolve.

”I’m fully resolved now,” Cherion whispered, his lopsided grin growing wider.

He realized then that he had been overthinking, paralyzed by the habit of a man who still felt like a guest in his own life. He was the one standing in the center of the storm. It wasn’t up to fate or some cryptic old lady to decide the Duke’s pulse or their shared future. He was the one who held the power to determine exactly what happened to Zarius. To both of them.

Zarius just stared at him, his brow furrowed in a mix of concern and bewilderment, as if he were trying to figure out if Cherion had actually suffered a concussion. But Cherion didn’t mind the confusion.

The carriage slowed as the mansion’s gates finally emerged from the gloom. As Cherion looked out at the stone walls and those welcoming lights, a profound, quiet sense of purpose settled in his chest. He looked back at everything he’d already bent toward a better path. He could do it again. No... he had to do it again.

Not just for his own survival. His gaze drifted to Zarius, whose hand was still lingering, warm and protective, against his reddened cheek.