I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Cherion smoothed down the front of his tunic as he stepped out of the central sitting room, the quiet rustle of his clothes lost in the vast hallway. Beside him, Zarius walked close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed, his easy posture masking a subtle, guarded weight as he stayed right by Cherion’s side.

The High Priest emerged right alongside them, flanked by two lower acolytes whose heads remained dutifully bowed. His face was a picture of serene composure, completely unbothered by the lingering panic that had gripped the rest of the palace ever since the incident.

”Lord Cherion, Lord Zarius,” the High Priest said, turning slightly toward them as they moved down the corridor. He dipped his head in a quiet greeting. ”I trust you both are holding up well after the recent unrest?”

”We’re doing well enough, Your Holiness,” Cherion replied smoothly, keeping his tone light and entirely conversational. He knew better than to treat a palace hallway as a private room. The walls in this place might as well have had ears, eyes, and a full schedule of spreading rumors. ”Given the circumstances, we can hardly complain.”

”It is a relief to hear,” the High Priest said, his voice soft and measured. ”The palace has been shrouded in uncertainty since the incident. One cannot be too careful in times like these.”

”Indeed,” Cherion agreed, letting a faint, grim smile touch his lips. ”We are managing just fine, except for the obvious tragedy, of course. A life was lost, after all.”

He left the statement hanging in the air just enough to acknowledge the elephant in the corridor. The dead maid was the detail everyone was trying to speak around, but pretending it hadn’t happened only made a person look suspicious.

The High Priest didn’t flinch. He simply inclination his head, his expression turning appropriately solemn. ”A tragic loss indeed. That poor girl’s life was cut short far too soon. I have already offered prayers that her soul finds peace beyond this realm, and I pray just as fervently that no further harm falls upon anyone under this roof.”

”We all share that hope, Your Holiness,” Cherion said. ”Though to be perfectly frank, we would all be in a far more terrible situation right now if you hadn’t stepped in when you did. Her Highness owes her quick recovery to your swift intervention.”

The High Priest nodded slowly, accepting the praise with the practiced humility of a man who dealt in sacred duty daily. ”I merely served as the tool for divine grace, Lord Cherion. The rest was in higher hands.” He paused, glancing briefly down the hall toward the north wing where the temple attendants usually gathered. ”If you will excuse me, I must attend to my disciples. They are preparing the morning prayers.”

”Of course. Do not let us keep you,” Cherion said.

With a final, courteous nod, the High Priest glided past them.

Cherion watched them turn the corner before resuming his walk down the corridor, keeping his pace steady. Zarius walked alongside him, rubbing his thumb absently against his knuckles.

”He plays his part well,” Zarius murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of their footsteps.

”He has to,” Cherion murmured back without turning his head. ”Everyone in this castle is on stage right now.”

They continued down the long passageway toward the central wing of the palace. The architecture here was lavish, gilded trims along the archways, tall stained-glass windows throwing soft patches of amber light across the floor, but the warmth was entirely superficial. The guards stationed at every pillar stood far stiffer than usual, their hands resting flat against the hilts of their swords.

”Ah! Duke Zarius! Lord Cherion!”

Cherion turned to see Lord Fance, a middle-aged Auzelian courtier dressed in rich plum velvet, hurrying to catch up with them. He was fanning himself with a small, folded parchment, his forehead shiny with a thin layer of perspiration despite the cool breeze drifting through the high windows.

”Lord Fance,” Cherion said, offering a pleasant smile as the noble fell into step beside them. ”You seem in quite a hurry.”

”Oh, you have no idea,” Fance huffed, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve. ”The entire court is in shambles today. No one knows what to do with themselves! Are you two heading to the Grand Salon as well?”

”We are,” Cherion replied. ”We thought it best to stretch our legs and see how the rest of the palace is faring.”

”Wonderful, wonderful. Mind if I walk with you?” Fance didn’t wait for an answer, immediately falling in step on Zarius’s left. ”Honestly, walking through these halls alone today gives me the shivers. The guards look like they want to arrest their own shadows! But then, who can blame them? A poisoning right under His Majesty’s nose! It’s absolute madness.”

”It is certainly an unfortunate turn of events,” Cherion agreed neutrally.

”Unfortunate? It’s a catastrophe!” Fance lowered his voice, leaning slightly closer as they approached the grand entrance. ”The rumors flying around are ridiculous. Some say it was an internal plot, others say foreign instigators are already inside the city. I tell you, no one feels safe taking even a sip of wine since that night!”

Cherion offered a sympathetic nod, letting the noble vent his nervous energy. Beside him, Zarius stayed quiet, his gaze fixed straight ahead, though his brow twitched slightly as if a minor headache was beginning to take root behind his eyes. He raised a hand, pressing two fingers briefly against his temple before dropping his arm back to his side.

”Well,” Fance sighed, smoothing down his velvet jacket as they finally reached the ornate double doors of the Grand Salon. Two heavy guards in full royal armor gripped the brass handles, bowing their heads slightly as they pulled the heavy oak doors open. ”At least in the salon, there are enough people around that nothing absurd can happen in broad daylight. Shall we?”

”After you, Lord Fance,” Cherion murmured smoothly.

The three of them stepped through the threshold together into the vast, high-ceilinged Grand Salon.

The room had been filled with the low, constant hum of dozens of conversations, nobles gathered in tight clusters near the tall arched windows, sipping tea from untouched cups, hushed debates bouncing off the marble walls.

But the moment Cherion and Zarius crossed the threshold, the noise didn’t just fade, it stopped dead.

A sudden, suffocating silence swept across the room from one end to the other.

Couples standing near the velvet drapes froze mid-sentence. Older lords held their teacups suspended halfway to their lips. Dozens of heads turned in unison toward the entrance, their eyes locking directly onto Cherion and Zarius.

Within seconds, the silence cracked, replaced by a wave of sharp, rapid whispering that rippled through every corner of the hall like dry leaves caught in a draft.

Beside Cherion, Lord Fance swallowed hard, suddenly taking a very small, very deliberate step backward.

Cherion kept his headstraight, but inside, his chest tightened. Don’t look at us as if we’re the ones who brought the poison, he thought, scanning the hostile, accusing glares surrounding them. Or is that exactly what you’ve all already decided?