I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The imperial bedchamber felt far too vast when the silence settled in.

Yerel sat on the edge of his wide, velvet-draped bed, staring blankly at the unlit fireplace on the far wall. Pale moonlight filtered through the high arched windows, leaving long shadows across the floor. Normally, he didn’t mind the quiet, but tonight the stillness pressed against him.

It wasn’t unusual for him to sleep alone, of course, but his mind kept drifting back to the simple fact that Philia wasn’t in the palace. Philia had always been a calming presence, someone he could rely on when everything became too much. When Philia was near, the air felt lighter. But tonight, Philia was away visiting the orphanage, leaving Yerel stranded in the empty silence of his own thoughts.

Unable to sit still any longer, Yerel stood up. He didn’t bother putting on his coat, opting instead for a simple dark robe thrown over his linen shirt. He stepped out into the deserted corridor, his bare feet making almost no sound against the thick wool runners.

He didn’t have a destination in mind when he started walking. He simply wandered through the quiet wings of the residence, letting his feet carry him through the shadowed hallways. Yet, before he fully realized where he was headed, he found himself standing in front of a familiar door.

Cherion’s quarters.

Yerel stood there for a long moment, his hand hovering over the iron handle. The silence behind the door was complete. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was pristine and impeccably tidy. The heavy curtains were pulled back, allowing the moonlight to spill across the desk, and the made bed. It was clean, cold, and entirely devoid of life.

Yerel walked slowly toward the bed. He reached out, letting his fingertips slide across the smooth, cool surface of the silk sheets.

It was ridiculous, really. Just a few nights ago, Cherion had been right here. He had been sleeping in this very room, under these very blankets.

A faint, almost involuntary smile touched Yerel’s lips as he pictured Cherion’s face.

But the moment the image of Zarius lying beside him flashed into his mind, the gentle smile instantly vanished.

Right, he hadn’t been alone in this room. He had shared this space with Zarius.

Yerel’s fingers tightened against the bedsheet, crumpling the fine silk into a hard ball within his fist. A dark, hot wave of irritation surged through his chest, making his blood boil in an instant. The sheer thought of Zarius’s hands near Cherion, of Zarius occupying the space that had always, fundamentally belonged to the crown, felt like a direct, deliberate insult.

”Hah...”

A low, humorless chuckle escaped Yerel’s throat as he released the fabric, running his hand over it to smooth it down.

It was obvious. It had to be.

Cherion was intelligent, calculated, and intensely proud. There was no possible way he had genuine feelings for a man like Zarius. Cherion was simply hurt. He was angry, bitter, and looking for the most effective way to strike back at Yerel for bringing Philia into the palace.

What better way to get under the prince’s skin than to openly parade around with Zarius? Cherion knew better than anyone how deeply Yerel despised the man. He knew exactly which buttons to push, exactly where to thrust the blade to make it hurt the most.

It’s just a rebound, Yerel told himself, his jaw setting into a hard, stubborn line as he stared down at the empty pillows. A petty, desperate ploy to get my attention. To get on my nerves.

The thought provided a strange, twisted sort of comfort. It was far easier to digest Cherion’s defiance as a temper tantrum or a transparent political provocation than to entertain the unthinkable alternative, that Cherion was actually moving on, that he was genuinely turning his gaze toward someone else.

Yerel turned away from the bed, pacing slowly over to the narrow window overlooking the courtyard.

Cherion had always been stubborn. He had always fought back whenever he felt backed into a corner, hiding his jealousy behind cold glares and sharp, biting reprimands. He had questioned Philia’s origins, sneered at Philia’s gentleness, and tried every subtle trick in the book to drive a wedge between Yerel and his new favorite. And when none of those tactics worked, Cherion had resorted to this disgraceful display with Zarius.

”How childish,” Yerel whispered into the glass, watching his own reflection faint against the pane.

Yet, despite his dismissive words, the knot in his stomach only grew tighter. The empty room seemed to mock him, reminding him that no matter how he rationalized it, Cherion wasn’t here. Cherion was away in Zarius’s arm, sharing quiet mornings and private strategy sessions with Zarius, completely out of Yerel’s reach.

Yerel leaned his forehead lightly against the cool glass, closing his eyes.

He hated this. He deeply hated how easily Cherion could still disturb his peace, how a man who wasn’t even in the palace could somehow occupy so much space inside his mind. Yerel had Philia, gentle, devoted Philia, who asked for nothing and offered only warmth and tranquility. Philia should have been the only one filling his thoughts.

Yet here he was, standing in Cherion’s room, letting his thoughts consume him over Cherion and Zarius. It infuriated him that Cherion still managed to pull at his temper, forcing his way into Yerel’s mind alongside Philia.

How infuriating, Yerel thought bitterly, his eyes snapping open as he looked out over the quiet palace grounds, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the stone sill. To think he has the power to irritate me like this.

Cherion could run to the northern borders. He could play his little games with Zarius for as long as he wanted. He could pretend that he no longer cared, that he was free to give his loyalty and his body to whoever he pleased.

But Yerel knew better. He knew Cherion’s pride, and he knew the history they shared.

Let him throw his tantrum, Yerel thought bitterly. Let him try to replace me. When this farce is over, he will come back. He always comes back.

He turned and left the cold bedroom behind, pulling the door shut as he walked down the quiet corridor.

First thing at dawn, he would summon the head maid. He wouldn’t just ask for a routine cleaning. No, he would order every single item in that room stripped to the bare stone. The silk sheets, the heavy mattress, the pillows, the bath linens, even the wall decorations. He wanted them dragged out into the courtyard and set ablaze until nothing remained but grey, unrecognizable ash.