I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

The high arched windows of the eastern balcony overlooked the lower stone courtyard, where the morning mist was slowly burning off under a pale, watery sun.

Yerel stood with one hand resting casually on the marble balustrade, a silver goblet held loosely in his right fingers. He was dressed in a pristine white tunic trimmed with dark gold thread. From this vantage point, the palace grounds usually looked quiet, orderly, and entirely under his control.

This morning, however, the courtyard below was crawling with heavy iron armor.

Groups of four and five royal guards were marching in strict formation, their heavy boots clattering against the cobblestones. They weren’t just patrolling the main gates, they were opening supply wagons, inspecting the undercarriages of carriages, and posting static watches at every single archway leading into the inner castle.

A quiet step sounded behind him. Karson, dressed in his dark, tailored aide’s coat, stepped onto the balcony, holding a small stack of leather-bound reports under his arm.

Yerel didn’t turn around. He took a slow sip of his warmed wine, his gaze tracking a squad of six guards who were currently marching up the grand stone staircase toward the residential wing.

"Philia is still at the orphanage, I assume?" Yerel asked, his tone smooth, almost conversational.

Karson stopped a respectful two paces back, adjusting his glasses with the tip of his finger. "Yes, Your Highness. A runner arrived from Havenwood an hour ago. Lord Philia spent the night there again."

Yerel let out a quiet, dry hum. "That makes two nights now."

Karson hesitated for a fraction of a second, scanning the Crown Prince’s relaxed posture before speaking carefully. "If you miss his presence at the breakfast table, Sire, I can have a carriage prepared. A brief trip to Havenwood to fetch him back would take less than three hours. He would hardly be able to refuse if you went personally."

Yerel turned his head slightly, giving Karson a sideways look that carried a sharp, amused chill.

"No," Yerel said simply, turning his back to the balustrade and leaning against the marble. "I won’t do that."

"Sire?"

"If I go down there, the entire royal escort goes with me," Yerel said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more thoughtful register. "The guards, the banners, the noise. Philia went to that little house specifically to breathe. If I show up, the children will be forced to bow, Nora will stress herself into an early grave trying to serve tea on broken plates, and Philia won’t be able to enjoy a single second of his stay."

Yerel took another sip of wine, his dark eyes softening just a fraction, a rare, fleeting crack in his usual icy demeanor.

"Let him be carefree for a few days," Yerel murmured. "He gets so few chances to forget who he’s engaged to."

Karson bowed his head slightly. "A considerate gesture, Your Highness."

Yerel dismissed the compliment with a small wave of his hand, turning his attention back to the bustling courtyard below. His expression hardened instantly, the momentary softness vanishing as if it had never existed. He gestured with his silver goblet toward the courtyard.

"What is all this?" Yerel asked, his tone cutting. "Why are there enough armed men down there to hold off a siege? I counted three new guard posts between my quarters and the council hall this morning."

Karson stepped up to the edge of the balcony, looking down at the heavy patrol sweeps. "Ah. That is by order of the King, Sire. Lord Harlond issued the directive right before dawn."

Yerel raised an eyebrow. "On what grounds?"

"The official reason given to the council is an upgrade to the palace perimeter," Karson explained smoothly. "Lord Harlond stated that His Majesty wishes to tighten security inside the living quarters and inner corridors to avoid... a repeat of recent tragic events. Specifically, the poisoning incident involving Princess Iryna."

Yerel stared at Karson for three long seconds. Then, a low, bitter laugh bubbled up from his chest, sharp and devoid of any real humor.

"Is that so?" Yerel said, his knuckles whitening slightly around the silver stem of his goblet. "A sudden, deep concern for internal security because of Iryna?"

"That is the official stance, Sire," Karson replied neutrally.

Yerel turned away from the railing, taking a few slow, deliberate steps across the marble floor of the balcony. His jaw was set tight, a dark, dangerous spark flickering in his eyes as he looked toward the central tower, where his father’s private study lay hidden behind thick stone walls.

"How touching," Yerel muttered, his voice dripping with heavy, sarcastic venom. "My father suddenly remembers he has guards when it’s convenient for him. He doubles the watch inside the palace walls to ’protect’ us."

He stopped, turning his head back toward Karson, his expression turning grim.

"He should have strengthened the palace guard long before that. Perhaps the incident could have been prevented." Yerel let out a quiet scoff. "This is what he gets for letting his guard down just to celebrate the success of the subjugation. Tch."

Karson kept his mouth firmly shut, recognizing the dangerous territory the Crown Prince was walking into.

Yerel let out a quiet breath, tilting his head back to stare up at the grand stone arches of the palace roof. "Now... now he suddenly can’t sleep unless there are two fully armored guards standing outside every empty broom closet in the west wing."

Yerel shook his head, a cold, mocking smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

"It’s really not so befitting for a King, is it?" Yerel whispered, his voice so low it was almost swallowed by the morning breeze. "To be so terribly brave when talking to the council, but so pathetically paranoid in his own home."

Karson shifted his weight, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "Your Highness, the guards below..."

"Let them listen," Yerel interrupted coldly, dumping the remainder of his wine over the stone balustrade, watching the dark red liquid splatter against the courtyard flags below. "Let them report every word back to Harlond, or my father, or whoever else is pulling the strings in that dark study."

Yerel tossed the empty silver goblet onto a nearby marble table with a sharp, metallic clang that echoed across the balcony.

"My father is growing old, Karson," Yerel said, stepping past his aide toward the heavy wooden doors leading back into his private chambers. "And old men who start jumping at their own shadows don’t stay on high thrones for very long."

Karson watched him go, the heavy silence on the balcony stretching long and tense as the Crown Prince disappeared into the shadows of the doorway, leaving behind only the cold wind and the rhythmic, ominous clatter of march steps echoing from the courtyard below.

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