I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Clack.

The sound of wood meeting wood echoed sharply across the training ground, vibrating up Cherion’s arms and settling into his teeth. His hands were shaking, not the ”I just had too much caffeine” kind of shaking, but the ”my muscles are literally contemplating a strike” kind of trembling. But he’d done it. The wooden practice blade in his hand hadn’t flown off into a nearby decorative shrub this time. It was held.

”Good work, Lord Cherion,” Elios said.

The knight’s voice held a genuine flicker of surprise that, frankly, Cherion felt was a bit uncalled for, though maybe statistically accurate. Elios lowered his weapon, his expression shifting from focused instructor to something approaching impressed. Cherion, meanwhile, was busy trying to remember how to breathe. His hair was a chaotic nest of damp strands sticking to his forehead, and he felt about as graceful as a three-legged stool. Still, somehow, he managed to block a very serious attack from one of the North’s best fighters.

Progress. Finally.

Practice wasn’t the only thing eating up his time that week. No, Cherion had fully leaned into his role as a self-appointed ”research gremlin.” Between the soul-crushing muscle groans and the frequent applications of whatever pungent liniment Reiner kept slathering on him, he’d been on a desperate hunt for information. He had cornered Zarius during dinner, pestered Flio in the hallway, and trailed Elios like a very annoying shadow.

He needed the full picture. What kind of beasts were they actually hunting? What was the terrain like when the wind tried to take your skin off? He’d been digging through every map and monster guide he could find because if he was going to step into a literal monster-packed frozen hell, he wasn’t doing it without a mental cheat sheet. Knowledge was power, or at least a way to prevent becoming a snack.

The training ground was busier than usual today. Normally, Cherion had his little corner of solitude, but these days, soldiers were everywhere, sharpening gear and sparring in groups, their presence a constant reminder that the clock was ticking.

”Water,” Cherion wheezed, signaling a break. ”Need... liquid life.”

He turned to head toward Reiner, who was standing a few yards away by the hydration station (a very fancy bucket and some tin cups). But before he could take three steps, a shoulder slammed into his with the force of a falling log.

Cherion wobbled and almost face-planted. Luckily, Elios grabbed his arm before disaster struck, but he still felt like his brain had done a triple flip. When he finally stood up, he got an eyeful of a few soldiers grinning like they owned the place.

He knew these guys. Or rather, he knew the type. Ezek stood at the center, his arms crossed over a chest that looked like it had been carved out of granite and spite. They were the ones who looked at Cherion like he was a glitch in the Northern matrix, an outsider, a brat from the South, a distraction.

Lame, Cherion thought, wiping a bead of sweat from his lip. Truly, the school-bully trope is universal.

He didn’t look away even with Reiner right next to him now. He glared at Ezek. It wasn’t the most intimidating glare, he was still breathing like he’d run a marathon through a swamp, but it got the message across.

”Why the scary face, Lord Cherion?” Ezek asked, voice annoyingly polite. Cherion wanted to smack him.. ”It’s not our fault you’re a bit... light on your feet. You might want to think again about this little trip. Subjugation isn’t a walk in the garden, and I hate to tell you, but none of us are going to stop and play hero if a monster decides you look like a particularly tasty appetizer.”

Elios stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. ”Ezek. That’s enough. Don’t make a scene.”

”We’re not making a scene, Sir Elios,” Ezek said, his lips curling into a playful, dangerous smirk. ”Just offering some... neighborly advice. Wouldn’t want the Duke’s favorite toy to get a scratch, would we?”

Cherion felt a spark of heat in his chest that had nothing to do with the sun. He straightened his back, ignoring the way his thighs were screaming at him.

”Oh, I appreciate the concern,” Cherion replied, service-industry smile fully activated. ”Truly. It warms my heart that you’re so invested about my safety. But maybe focus a little less on my status as the monster’s lunch and a little more on your own footwork? I’ve seen smoother pivots from recruits learning to march for the first time.”

Ezek’s smirk faded, and the soldiers squirmed like they’d sat on cactus.

”You’ve got a lot of nerve for someone who can barely hold a piece of wood straight,” Ezek hissed.

Before Cherion could deliver the next jab, Ezek’s hand shot out. It wasn’t a punch, but a heavy, dismissive shove. Exhausted and caught off guard, Cherion’s legs finally gave up the ghost. He hit the dirt hard, the rough stone of the courtyard scraping across his knee with a stinging heat.

”Ow,” he muttered, more annoyed than hurt, looking down at the red blooming through his trousers.

Ezek let out this harsh laugh, like a donkey with attitude, gearing up for a victory speech. Then it just stopped.

A shadow dropped over Cherion. He squinted up and... yep. Zarius. Just what he needed.

The Duke looked like a walking statue. His eyes were fixed on Ezek, and the look in them was something usually reserved for things that needed to be put down.

”You seem to have a great deal of energy this morning, Ezek,” Zarius said, voice deep and scary enough to make Cherion’s spine want to crawl out of his body..

Ezek’s face went from smug to sheet-white in approximately 0.4 seconds. His cronies suddenly found their own boots deeply fascinating.

”Your Grace,” Ezek stammered, ”we were just...”

”Training?” Zarius interrupted, his gaze narrowing. ”I hope so. Because if I recall correctly, during the last subjugation, I had to send three men to pull you out of a snowbank because your legs were trembling so violently you couldn’t outrun a wounded scavenger. You were quite literally being chased like a frightened rabbit.”

A few of the soldiers nearby muffled a gasp. In the North, being reminded of your cowardice by the Duke himself was a social death sentence.

Zarius stepped closer, his mana flaring just enough to make the stones under Ezek’s feet crack. ”Cherion is going as a healer. He is the person who will be responsible for stitching your hide back together when your legs inevitably fail you again. He is the one who will decide if you keep your limbs or lose them to rot. So, if I were you...” Zarius stepped closer to Ezek. ”I wouldn’t dare run my mouth so freely.”

Before Ezek could even muster a breath to apologize, Zarius turned his back on him as if the man had ceased to exist.

”Cherion.” Zarius called out, his eyes going... not to him, but straight to his bleeding knees.

”Hey, Your Grace. Oh this? It’s just a...”

Cherion didn’t get to finish. In one fluid, terrifyingly strong motion, Zarius reached down and scooped him up.

Wait. No. Cherion’s brain completely fried when he realized he was being carried, bridal style, in front of the entire soldiers.

”Whoa! Put... Your Grace, wait!” Cherion flailed, his face heating up to a temperature that could probably boil water. He looked over Zarius’s shoulder to see Reiner looking like he’d seen a ghost and Elios wearing a look of stunned, wide-eyed silence.

Zarius started walking, the soldiers parting like the Red Sea before him. Then, abruptly, he stopped.

”If you find him a burden, Ezek, it is probably only because you are too weak to carry your own weight.”

Before they fully went inside, Cherion noticed Ezek and his crew, heads down, quiet, moving like they were trying to disappear.