I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The Grand Salon was packed, hot, and painfully loud. Zarius and Cherion had only been gone for ten minutes, but in a palace fed on gossip, ten minutes was a lifetime.

News of his departure spread through the crowd in waves. The Duke of the North had left abruptly, The Duke of the North had stepped out abruptly, needing his fiancé’s help, leaving behind a sudden chill and a room full of unanswered questions.

Near the marble pillar bordering the refreshment tables, the nobles were already circling.

"Did you see his face? Pale as death," a middle-aged baroness murmured behind her painted silk fan, leaning toward her companion. "They say the illness is eating him from the inside out. He could barely stand!"

"If this keeps up, how long can he actually hold the northern border?" her husband whispered back, swirling the wine in his glass.

"First Princess Iryna, then that dead maid in the forest, and now the Duke? You really think he just ’collapsed’ from his illness? What if someone’s targeting him next?"

"As long as it’s not us."

A few paces away, Marielle’s hand was clamped onto the sleeve of Elios’s arm with a grip that threatened to tear the fine wool straight off his shoulder.

"I’m going to kill them," Marielle hissed under her breath, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth audibly ground together. She gave Elios’s arm a frantic, furious yank. "Listen to them! The audacity! I swear, Elios, if you don’t let me go right now and check on Zarius, I am going to start snapping necks."

"Marielle, please," Elios muttered, keeping his face locked in a serene, aristocratic smile while attempting to subtly pry her fingers off his biceps. "You are cutting off the circulation to my hand. And if you make a scene right now, you ruin everything Lord Cherion set up."

"I don’t care about the setup, he was in pain!" she whispered aggressively, leaning closer so only Elios and Flio could hear. Her eyes were wide, hot with a mixture of raw panic and Northern fury. "Ugh, Zarius was literally fine! Which bastard dares put their hands on my sweet brother? I’ll chop their body into meat, freeze the pieces in solid ice, shatter the ice into dust, and then burn the dust all over again!"

Elios winced, letting out a soft sigh. "That is... remarkably specific, Marielle. Take a breath."

"I am breathing!"

"You’re hyperventilating," Flio chimed in smoothly. His eyes darted across the ballroom, tracking the subtle movements of the surrounding nobles. "And for what it’s worth, Marielle... keep your voice down, but I have a feeling it’s not the curse."

Marielle’s brow furrowed. "What do you mean, something else? Like a..."

"Forgive me if I’m prying, but... is the Duke truly as ill as they say?"

The sudden, warm voice cut through their hushed conversation like a dull blade. Derrick stepped into their circle, his face etched with genuine, heavy concern. He looked between Elios and Flio, his eyes lingering on the door where Zarius had disappeared moments prior.

Elios didn’t flinch. In a split second, his easy posture shifted into one of exhausted, carefully guarded strain. He let out a quiet, heavy breath, looking down at his boots before meeting Derrick’s eyes.

"Lord Derrick," Elios said softly, putting on a brave face that looked thoroughly worn thin. "I won’t lie to you. His Grace’s health has... taken a bit of a downturn lately. The strain of recent events in the capital hasn’t helped." He offered a tight, polite smile. "It’s nothing immediately life-threatening, I assure you. Just an unfortunate flare-up that requires rest."

Derrick’s expression softened with sympathy, placing a hand over his chest. "That is terrible news. Look, if it would help, I have personal connections to two of the finest physicians in the capital. I would be more than honored to write to them on your behalf."

"You are far too kind, Lord Derrick," Flio smoothly intervened, stepping forward with an appreciative, graceful bow. "We are deeply grateful for your concern and your offer. For now, everything is under control, but we will certainly keep your generosity in mind."

"Of course, of course," Derrick said earnestly.

Before he could elaborate, a stout Marquis from the central territories patted Derrick on the shoulder, calling him over to discuss an upcoming trade decree. Derrick gave a apologetic nod to the Northern group and allowed himself to be dragged back into the political tide.

The second Derrick was safely out of earshot, Marielle let out the massive breath she’d been holding, her shoulders slumping.

"That was... surprisingly painful to watch," she muttered, rubbing her forehead. "Lie through your teeth much, Elios?"

"It’s not a lie if it serves a purpose," Elios replied under his breath, his eyes watching Derrick’s back disappear into the crowd. He straightened his tunic, adjusting his cuffs. "LordCherion was right. The moment people think Zarius is weak, the real culprit gets comfortable. They think their little curse tricks is actually working. Comfort makes people careless."

"So we just stand here looking miserable while Zarius and Cherion are God-knows-where?" Marielle asked, though the hysterical edge in her voice had finally subsided, replaced by the calculating coldness typical of her family line.

"Precisely," Flio said with a faint, sharp smirk. "We play the part of the worried, helpless inner circle. Let the court dig its own grave."

Elios reached over, placing a steady, reassuring hand on Marielle’s shoulder. He gave it a firm squeeze, his voice dropping into a gentle, grounding tone. "Take a deep breath, Mari. Everything is going to be fine. Lord Cherion has him."

Marielle looked at Elios, held his gaze for a second, and finally nodded. She took a long, shuddering drag of air into her lungs, letting the tense knot in her chest loosen just a fraction. In moments like these, only a select few had the power to soothe her.

The Grand Salon’s heavy doors burst open. Conversations near the threshold cut off in an instant, and a tense silence rippled across the room at the guard’s call.

Iryna stepped through the threshold. Her head held high despite the lingering rumors of her recent brush with death. Walking half a pace behind her, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword, was Gillian, his sharp eyes scanning the room like a hawk protecting its territory.

She didn’t get far before the room broke its stunned silence. A handful of high-ranking nobles, practically tripping over their own heavy robes, quickly closed in to swarm her path.

"Your Highness! Praise the heavens, you are looking radiant!" a countess gasped, clutching her pearls with a flattering, breathless smile.

"We were sick with worry, Princess," an older Marquis chimed in, bowing low.

Iryna paused, her posture remaining straight. She didn’t flinch as the crowd gathered, though behind her, Gillian subtly shifted his weight.

With grace, Iryna offered the surrounding noblesa faint, perfectly composed smile.

"You are far too kind," Iryna replied. "I am deeply touched by your concern. Please, ease your hearts. As you can see, I have fully recovered, and I am quite well now."

The nobles let out collective, exaggerated sighs of relief, nodding eagerly to one another as if her survival were their personal victory.

"A true miracle!" someone called out.

"The Princess is blessed indeed!"

Iryna offered another polite, shallow nod, using the brief moment of chatter to smoothly step through the gap in the crowd. "If you will excuse me, my lord, ladies."

Without a word, she walked straight toward the Northern group, the crowd parting silently to let her through.

Marielle stiffened, her hands dropping to her sides as Iryna stopped directly in front of her. For a long, heavy moment, the Princess just looked at Marielle.

"Princess Iryna," Elios began, offering a respectful bow, but Iryna raised a single, delicate hand to gently cut him off. Her eyes remained fixed entirely on Marielle.

"Lady Marielle," Iryna called. "Can I have a word with you in private?"

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