I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The persistent, rhythmic scratch of a steel nib against thick paper was the only sound echoing through Yerel’s private study. Late-afternoon light bled through the high arched windows, casting long, sharp shadows across the desk where stacks of territorial tax logs, troop movement ledgers, and southern grain reports sat organized under heavy paperweights.

Karson sat at his own desk near the corner of the grand desk, a stack of documents arranged neatly before him. His short sword rested at his side, while he calmly reviewed the papers in front of him, occasionally glancing toward Yerel whenever his attention was needed. As Yerel’s aide, keeping track of his lord’s affairs required his constant attention, though he had long grown accustomed to doing so without making a fuss.

Yerel leaned back in his high-backed leather chair, setting the quill down into its brass holder with a light click. He flexed his ink-stained fingers slowly, letting out a long, quiet exhale that sounded more like a sigh of mild boredom than genuine fatigue.

”The border report is finished,” Yerel remarked softly, breaking the heavy stillness of the room. He tilted his head back against the dark leather, his sharp, dark eyes shifting over to rest on Karson.

”Good work, Your Highness,” Karson replied crisply. His voice was entirely even, devoid of any personal tone, and his posture didn’t shift by a fraction of an inch.

Yerel didn’t immediately reach for the next leather-bound folder. Instead, he rested his chin in his palm, studying his guard with a slow, calculating gaze that lingered far longer than necessary.

”Now that I think about it again,” Yerel began, his tone deceptively casual, though carrying an unmistakable undercurrent of sharp scrutiny, ”you and Philia’s attendant... Valen. You seem rather close with him these days.”

Karson’s jaw tightened slightly, though he kept his expression completely blank. He didn’t turn his head. ”It is merely your imagination, Your Highness.”

”Is it?” Yerel hummed softly, a faint, unreadable twitch touching the corner of his lips. ”He slips into my study without an appointment, lingers near you in the corridors, and exchanges smiles with you right in front of my face. That is hardly standard behavior for men who barely know one another.”

”We are simply two men working under our respective masters,” Karson answered smoothly, keeping his tone flat and professional. ”Since you and Lord Philia are betrothed, our paths naturally cross more often than before. Nothing more.”

Yerel tapped one long finger rhythmically against the polished wood. ”And what if he wants something more from you? What if his presence around you isn’t just professional courtesy?”

Karson turned his head slowly, meeting Yerel’s gaze with calm discipline. ”I do not have time for romance right now, Your Highness. I have far too much work to handle.” He paused for a fraction of a second, allowing a tiny, dry edge to slip into his voice. ”Didn’t Your Highness just add three more tasks to my shoulder earlier?”

Yerel stared at him for a quiet, heavy moment before breaking into a sudden, low chuckle. The sharp, suffocating pressure in the room eased just a fraction as the prince shook his head.

”A fair point,” Yerel admitted, leaning forward to pull another stack of documents toward himself. ”My aide hardly has time to sleep, let alone entertain the advances of Philia’s hound. But remember this, Karson, Philia may be my fiancé, but he has his own ambitions. Valen is his shadow, just as you are mine. Do not let sweet words or lingering glances blind you to where your loyalty belongs.”

”My loyalty has always belonged to you, Your Highness,” Karson said, bowing his head deeply.

”I know,” Yerel whispered, his dark eyes glittering under the candlelight as he dipped his quill back into the inkwell. ”Which is precisely why I expect you to handle him if he steps out of line.”

Karson kept his head bowed, his fingers tightening quietly around the hilt of his sword in the silent room.

Down the long, drafty corridor outside the study, the palace was beginning to quiet down for the evening. The doors guarded the room well, but Karson could still hear the faint, distant footfalls of patrols making their rounds through the stone hallways.

Yerel returned to his paperwork, the scratch of his pen resuming its steady, monotonous pace. Yet the quiet warning hung thick in the air between them. Karson knew Yerel wasn’t stupid. The Crown Prince noticed every shift in tone, every lingering glance, and every minor breach of protocol. Being questioned about Valen wasn’t just a casual observation, it was a leash being pulled taut.

Karson shifted his gaze back toward the door, his mind briefly flashing back to the sensation of Valen leaning in too close, the low, teasing tone of his voice, and the lingering heat that always seemed to follow whenever the silver-trimmed guard was nearby. Valen moved through the palace with a dangerous, effortless grace, acting as if the world were a game he had already won. But playing games in Prince Yerel’s shadow was a quick way to end up dead or discarded.

He needs to back off, Karson thought grimly, his jaw setting into a hard line. Or he’s going to get us both dragged into something we can’t walk away from.

Yerel flipped a page over with a sharp snap of paper. ”Karson.”

”Yes, Your Highness?”

”When the Valtranes head South, I want you to coordinate with our scouts,” Yerel instructed without looking up from his report. ”I want to know every carriage that leaves their estate, every stop they make, and every noble who sends them a letter.”

”Understood,” Karson replied instantly. ”I will handle the arrangements personally.”

”Good.” Yerel finally looked up, offering a thin, satisfied smile. ”You may take the evening watch off once this stack is filed. Go get some rest.”

”Thank you, Your Highness.”

Karson remained at his desk until the final document was sealed and signed. As Yerel finally stood up to retire to his private chambers, Karson offered a final, precise bow, holding the heavy study door open for the prince. Once Yerel’s footsteps faded down the hall, Karson stepped out into the quiet corridor, letting out a long, heavy breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He leaned his shoulder against the cold stone wall, rubbing the back of his neck with a tired hand. The palace was a snake pit, and every passing day made navigating it feel like walking on thin ice. Karson straightened his coat, stepped away from the wall, and began his walk down the quiet hallway, unaware that a familiar, silver-trimmed figure was watching him from the dark archway at the end of the hall.