I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

”Good night, Your Grace.”

The room was huge, like, echo-if-you-try-it huge. Shadows stretched everywhere, only pushed back a little by the dying glow in the fireplace. Zarius didn’t reply. He usually did, though. Instead, he gave a small nod, very regal, very him, and then, under the thick silk covers, his hand found Cherion’s.

Cherion lay there, staring up at the fancy carved canopy overhead (seriously, who even has time to carve that much detail into wood?), replaying the day like his brain had decided to be a very annoying editor.

The man was always composed, quiet, watchful, basically built out of discipline and not so good at communication skills. But tonight?

He’s too quiet, Cherion thought, his thumb lazily brushing over Zarius’s knuckles. Even for him. It’s like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

Which, honestly, wasn’t comforting.

But he figured it was because his parents’ death anniversary was coming up, and yeah... feeling excited about anything right now would be a bit questionable.

At some point, exhaustion just won. Between the freezing Northern air, all the social politics, dance practice kicking his ass, and Zarius being in a mood, his brain finally gave up.

Then he woke hours later to a void.

Cherion’s hand moved automatically, searching for that familiar heat, but nothing. The bed suddenly felt way too big. Empty. Like someone had taken a piece of it and walked off.

”Your Grace?” he whispered.

The darkness swallowed the word like it had never existed. No shifting of weight, no sleepy grunt.

Cherion sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A strange, prickling restlessness took hold of him, like his instincts were quietly going, Yeah... something’s off. He didn’t bother with a robe, the urgency in his chest wouldn’t allow for the delay. He slipped out of bed, bare feet hitting the freezing floor with a quiet hiss before he quickly shoved them into his slippers.

He checked the bathroom, the balcony, even the closet, because why not at that point, but yep, he was definitely alone. So he made a beeline for the door.

The hallway was a tunnel of obsidian and moonlight. Every little creak sounded ten times louder, like the house itself was complaining about being awake.

Huh.

It’d actually been a while since he’d wandered these halls in the middle of the night. Last time was... yeah, when he and Zarius had made that late trip to the library.

Funny how something as simple as walking down a hallway could feel completely different now. Same place. Same cold floors. Same creepy vibes.

Very different energy.

Cherion found himself heading toward the study first, his mind already picturing Zarius hunched over a desk, drowning in border reports and tax ledgers to escape whatever thoughts were haunting him.

If he’s working at this hour again, I’m going to throw his inkwell into the courtyard, Cherion thought, irritation bubbling up just enough to cover the growing unease.

But the study was a tomb. The desk was meticulously clean, the chair tucked in with such a precision.

Well... good. Great, actually. At least Zarius wasn’t in here ruining his eyesight over paperwork at some ungodly hour.

...Which, unfortunately, meant Cherion now had to keep looking.

He then checked the library, nothing but the scent of old parchment and dust. Why did I even check here? he thought, dragging a hand over his face. Ugh.

He even wandered toward the kitchens, half-hoping to find the Duke seeking the mundane comfort of a midnight meal, but nope, no luck.

Finally, his feet led him toward the north wing. It was a path he hadn’t intended to take, the gallery of the ancestors and the dancing hall was a place of heavy energy even during the day, but the pull felt undeniable.

As he rounded the corner, the world turned to silver.

The family portrait gallery was bathed in an ethereal, surreal blue light. High, arched windows acted as spotlights, illuminating the long corridor of painted faces. And there, standing in the center of a moonbeam, was Zarius.

Cherion stopped, his breath hitching in his throat. From this distance, Zarius didn’t look like the formidable warrior who could handle the Empire like it was just another Monday. He didn’t look like the ”Cold Duke” who managed the lives of thousands with a flick of his wrist.

Like a ghost who hadn’t realized he was one yet.

Zarius was standing in front of the massive family portrait, the one Cherion had dubbed ”The Little Nugget and the Marshmallow” earlier that day. But the humor of the nickname felt very illegal now. Zarius was leaning forward, his forehead nearly touching the cold frame, his shoulders hunched in a way that made him look small and breakable.

The moonlight hit the canvas at a weirdangle, making Duchess Nerissa look like she was reaching out of the darkness, her eyes shimmering with a haunting light. The young Zarius in the painting seemed to be watching his adult self with an expression of profound, silent pity.

He shouldn’t be alone for this, Cherion thought. A fierce, protective heat flared in his chest, hot enough to melt the frost on the windows. To hell with the rules. To hell with the ”Cold Duke” persona. He’s hurting, and I’m right here.

Cherion took a step forward. He didn’t care if Zarius pushed him away or gave him a lecture on boundaries or whatever. He was going to walk over there, wrap his arms around that broad, trembling back, and pull him away from whatever dark hole he’d fallen into..

”Zarius,” he began to whisper, his hand reaching out into the silver light.

He never finished the name.

A shadow, darker than the rest, detached itself from behind a suit of ceremonial armor to his right. It happened with a speed that defied human movement.

Before Cherion could even register a heartbeat of danger, a hand slammed over his mouth.

It wasn’t a large hand, but it was possessed by a terrifying strength. The fingers smelled faintly of rosewater and metal, which was a combo Cherion did not appreciate right now. An arm hooked around his chest like a vice, hoisting him off his feet with a sudden, violent jerk that sent the air rushing out of his lungs in a muffled whump.

Cherion’s eyes went wide, his pupils dilating in sheer terror. His mind screamed Assassin! Traitor! Yerel’s hounds!

He kicked out, his feet striking the heavy stone wall with a dull thud, but his captor was as solid as the manor itself. He was being dragged backward, away from the light, away from the safety of the moonbeam.

He tried to scream, but his voice died against a palm that felt like leather. He clawed at the arm across his chest, his fingernails digging into fabric, but he was already being pulled into the dark.