I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

"Gagh...!"

Philia’s chest violently convulsed as heavy, calloused hands slammed into his back, forcing him onto his side in the wet gravel.

"Come on, kid, cough it up! Out with it!"

Philia spewed a harsh stream of cold river water onto the mud, choking and gasping for air that felt like needles dragging down his throat. Rain battered his face as he lay shuddering in the dark, his small body spasming as his lungs desperately fought for oxygen.

"There you go... easy now," a deep, weathered voice grunted above him, patting his back until the violent coughing fit finally subsided. "Get it all out."

Philia lay gasping against the wet mud, his vision swimming with river silt. Before his freezing mind could even process the dark silhouette kneeling over him, a thick, dry oilskin coat was wrapped tightly around his trembling shoulders. Strong, sturdy arms scooped him up off the bank as if he weighed nothing at all.

"Hold on, little guy," the voice muttered near his ear.

The rhythmic, heavy crunch of boots on wet gravel faded as darkness pulled Philia under once again.

When Philia opened his eyes next, the roar of the river was gone.

He was lying on a low wooden bench beneath a scratchy wool blanket. A stone fireplace filled the small room with a deep, orange glow and the clean scent of burning pine.

As his breathing slowly evened out, the memory of the night hit him all at once like a falling stone, the roaring flames, the crashing timbers, his mother’s face, and the terrifying plunge into the cold water.

Mother.

Philia gasped, scrambling backward on his elbows until his back slammed hard against the rough log wall behind him. He pulled his knees up to his chest, trembling so violently his teeth clicked together.

An old man in a worn leather vest was crouched a few feet away, holding a wooden mug of steamy broth. His face was deeply lined, covered in a scruffy grey beard, but his brown eyes were soft as he watched the boy with quiet concern.

"Careful, you’ll shake yourself right off the hearth," the man said softly, keeping his hands low and non-threatening. "You gave me quite a scare there, kid. Thought for sure you were already dead when I pulled you out."

Philia’s heart hammered frantically in his chest. He stared at the stranger, his knuckles white as he clutched the wool blanket to his throat.

"Where are you from, little one?" the man asked gently, setting the mug down on a low wooden stump. "What is your name? Where is your family?"

Go far away from here. Run, and never look back. Never let anyone find out who you are.

His mother’s final, desperate warning echoed in his mind, sharp and clear above the sound of the rain outside. Philia pressed his lips together, sealing his jaw shut. He stared straight at the hunter, his dark eyes wide and terrified, but did not utter a single sound.

"Nothing, huh?" The man sighed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked at the boy’s pale, bloodless face and the faint bruises purpling around his collarbone. "Ah... I see. You can’t speak?"

The hunter stood up, his heavy boots creaking on the wooden floorboards, and walked over to the fireplace. He reached up to a peg on the wall and pulled down a thick, oversized wool tunic. It was faded, patched at the elbows, and clearly belonged to an adult, but it was clean and dry.

"This’ll look like a nightgown on you, but it’s warm. Change out of that damp blanket while I stir the pot," the man explained, tossing the tunic onto the bench next to Philia.

The hunter turned his back, stepping over to an iron pot bubbling over the hearth.

Philia didn’t move for a long moment. He looked at the oversized tunic, then down at his bare, scraped legs. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely grip the fabric, but he forced himself to pull the heavy garment over his head. It drowned his small six-year-old frame completely, the sleeves flopping well past his fingertips and the hem trailing on the floorboards, but the dry wool immediately trapped his body heat.

The smell of savory meat and root vegetables drifted over from the fireplace. Philia’s stomach let out a loud, hollow growl before he could stop it.

The man chuckled, picking up a wooden plate with a thick slice of crusty bread and a wooden bowl of stew. He walked back over and set them down on the stool beside Philia.

"Eat up," the old man said, giving him a small, reassuring nod. "I’m Azar. You’re safe here, kid. Nobody’s going to hurt you."

Philia stared at the piece of bread. His mouth watered, his stomach aching with a fierce, ravenous hunger, but he hesitated.

Don’t take what strangers give you.

His mother had told him that a hundred times whenever they visited the trading towns. But as he looked at the old hunter, who had already sat down at his own table with a bowl of soup, Philia realized he had no choice. He had no home, no money, and nowhere to run in the rain outside.

He reached out with a trembling hand, picked up the bread, and took a small bite. It was coarse and hard, but to a starving, freezing child, it tasted like absolute mercy. He chewed quickly, swallowing past the tight knot in his throat, and before he knew it, he was eating the stew with his fingers, desperately scraping the wooden bowl clean.

Azar watched him from across the small cabin, a faint, sad smile touching his weathered face, but he refrained from asking any more questions.

When the bowl was empty, Philia set it back on the stump. The full stomach brought a heavy, crushing exhaustion rolling over his small body. He pulled his legs back up, wrapping the oversized sleeves around his knees, and turned his head to stare into the dancing flames of the hearth.

In the quiet of the warm cabin, with the rain pouring outside, the shock began to wear off, leaving a deep, dark void in his chest.

He remembered the roar of the fire swallowing his home. He remembered the cold, metallic voices of the men in armor reporting that everyone was dead. He remembered his mother’s body disappearing beneath the collapsing roof.

A single tear slipped down Philia’s cheek, burning hot against his cold skin.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream until his throat bled, to sob like any six-year-old boy who wanted his mother to pick him up and tell him it was just a bad dream.

No.

Philia looked down at his small hand swallowed by the oversized wool sleeve.

His power?

He didn’t know what it was. He only knew his mother had told him never to show anyone, or bad men would come.

He pulled his knees closer to his chest, sinking deeper into the heavy tunic until he felt tiny inside it. The cabin was warm and smelled of roasted vegetables, but his chest felt hollow and cold, like a dark room where the wind wouldn’t stop blowing.

He stared at the crackling orange logs in the fireplace. The flames danced and popped, sending small sparks up the chimney. They looked just like the sparks that had swallowed his home.

His eyes began to sting, heavy with tears and complete exhaustion.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, pressing his forehead against his knees. It’s just a bad dream, Philia thought, his small hands clutching the rough wool of his sleeve as hard as he could. When I open my eyes, I’ll be back in my own room. Mother will be sitting on the bed, and the fire will be gone.

He kept his eyes closed, holding his breath and waiting for his mother’s hand on his head, waiting to hear her tell him it was time for breakfast. He waited and waited in the dark behind his eyelids, praying with everything he had that the nightmare would end.

"Get some sleep, kid," the old man murmured softly from across the room, blowing out the small oil lamp on the table and plunging the cabin into the dim, flickering shadows of the hearth.

Philia didn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t. He just curled up on the scratchy blanket, keeping his eyes shut tight against the dark, too afraid to see that he was still in the cabin.

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