I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 118: The Illusion of Always

The morning air in the Capital didn’t bite like the North. Birdsong floated through the grounds, broken now and then by the sharp sound of blades.

Zarius, barely fifteen and already carrying the broad-shouldered gravity of a man who knew his lineage was a burden, stood centered on the sand-dusted stone. He kept a steady rhythm to his breathing, calm and controlled. Across from him, Yerel danced. The prince was younger, maybe ten or eleven, and he didn’t have Zarius’s steady presence, but he made up for it with quick, restless energy.. He moved in fits and starts, a blur of white linen and blonde hair that caught the sunlight like a polished coin.

It wasn’t a spar between strangers. Every lunging thrust from Yerel was a question, every block from Zarius was a firm, quiet answer.

"You’re getting predictable, Zarius!" Yerel chirped, his voice still holding that high, boyish crack. He lunged, aiming for the ribs before shifting mid-swing to strike at the knees. "Is the Great North finally freezing your joints?"

Zarius didn’t take the bait. He didn’t even blink. He closed the distance, his pommel striking Yerel’s hilt with a solid knock. He shifted his weight slightly and countered with a clean, quick strike.

His sword slipped from his hand and slid across the ground with a sharp sound. The prince ended up on his backside, dusty and disheveled, with Zarius’s blunted steel hovering precisely two inches from his throat.

It went quiet, aside from the younger boy’s heavy breathing. Then, Yerel laughed. It wasn’t the bitter sound of a defeated royal, but a bright, genuine peal of delight. He looked up at Zarius with wide, sparkling eyes, as if the sensation of losing was the most interesting thing that had happened to him all week.

Zarius lowered the blade, his expression showing nothing at all. He extended a hand, calloused and steady. Yerel grabbed it, hauling himself up with an energetic tug.

"You’re a monster," Yerel grinned, brushing the sand from his tunics with zero regard for the expensive fabric. "Stronger than the instructors. Stronger than anyone. How do you do that? You don’t even look like you’re trying."

"You rushed," Zarius replied. His voice was already deep, though it lacked the gravelly edge it would gain in adulthood. It wasn’t a taunt, just a cold, clinical observation. "You saw an opening that I gave you on purpose. Your footing gave you away the moment you committed to the strike. You have to learn to wait for the real gap, not the one I draw for you."

Yerel listened intently, nodding as if he were memorizing a holy text. He didn’t seem to mind the critique. In fact, he seemed to crave it. In a palace full of yes-men and bowing tutors, Zarius’s bluntness was probably the only honest thing the boy touched all day.

"Next time," Yerel promised, pointing a finger at Zarius’s chest. "Next time, I’ll make you move at least two steps."

"Perhaps," Zarius said, the ghost of a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the closest he ever got to a smile.

The moment shattered as King Alderon stepped into the light, he carried himself with quiet confidence, the kind that made the whole space feel smaller. Beside him walked Lario Zaltrane. Zarius’s father was a man of shadows and iron, his spine so straight it looked painful. Both boys snapped into an immediate, practiced salute.

"Fine form, Zarius," the King boomed, his eyes crinkling with a forced sort of warmth. He looked at Zarius with a hunger that made the boy’s skin crawl, the look of a man eyeing a particularly sharp tool. "Precision. Control. You carry the weight of your house well."

Lario Zaltrane bowed his head, his voice a cool, humble rasp. "He is adequate, Your Majesty. But he still has much to learn before he is worthy of the title. He depends on strength more than he should, and not enough on nuance."

Lario then turned his gaze toward Yerel, his expression softening by a fraction, a warmth he never quite spared for his own son. "And the Prince shows remarkable potential. His speed is nearly unmatched for his age."

King Alderon patted Yerel’s shoulder, a gesture that felt more like a brand than an embrace. "He must be more than fast, Lario. He must grow strong enough to surpass even your boy one day. A King cannot be shadowed by his shield, after all. He must lead it."

It sounded like encouragement, but there was something sharper underneath. It was a comparison, a quiet pitting of one boy against the other, a reminder that their friendship was always supposed to be a hierarchy.

Zarius felt a strange, protective heat rise in his chest. "His Highness fought well, Your Majesty. His ingenuity is difficult to guard against."

The King laughed, a rich, booming sound that didn’t reach his eyes. "Ah, look at that. The future Duke has a fine heart as well as a fine sword. You have nothing to worry about, Duke Zaltrane. They are a matched set."

Lario Zaltrane merely nodded. He didn’t smile.

"Dismissed," the King said, waving a hand. "Go, wash the dust off. We shall have lunch together."

As soon as they were out of sight, the suffocating weight of the Crown seemed to lift. The tension drained out of the training ground like water from a cracked jar. Yerel was the first to bounce back, his energy returning in a sudden, frantic burst.

"Gods, my father can be so... loud," Yerel muttered, walking toward the washbasins at the edge of the grounds. He didn’t look like a prince now. He just looked like a kid who wanted a snack.

Zarius followed at a more measured pace, his mind still chewing on his father’s coldness. They washed their hands in silence for a moment, the cool water a welcome relief.

"I like training with you best," Yerel said suddenly, flicking droplets of water at Zarius’s arm. "The masters are afraid to hit me. They pull their punches like I’m made of glass. But you... you actually fight me. It’s never boring."

Zarius dried his hands on a rough linen cloth. "It would be an insult to your rank to hold back. You wouldn’t learn anything."

"See? That’s what I mean!" Yerel fell into step beside him as they began the walk toward the residential wing. The earlier grin was back, but it was softer now, more genuine.

Suddenly, Yerel reached out and hooked an arm around Zarius’s shoulders. It was a casual, heavy gesture, the kind of familiarity that usually got a person executed if they weren’t the Crown Prince. He leaned his weight against Zarius, forcing the taller boy to adjust his stride.

"When I’m King," Yerel said, his voice dropping into a tone of easy, unearned confidence, "you’re going to stay right by my side. You’ll help me rule. We’ll be the greatest duo the Capital has ever seen."

Zarius answered automatically, the words drilled into him since he could crawl. "It is the duty of House Zaltrane to serve the Throne, Your Highness. I will be where the King commands me to be."

Yerel immediately pulled back, shaking his head in clear frustration. His grip on Zarius’s shoulder tightened, not in anger, but in a sudden, intense insistence.

"No," Yerel said, his eyes locking onto Zarius’s with a clarity that felt startling. "Not as a Duke. Not because some dusty scroll says you have to. I mean as my friend. I don’t want a ’Shield of the North.’ I want you, my friend."

Zarius stopped walking. He looked at the younger boy, the Prince who would one day hold his life in his hands, and for a brief, flickering moment, the world felt incredibly simple.

Zarius didn’t say yes or no. But he didn’t pull away from the arm draped across his shoulders, either.

"We’ll always be on the same side, Zarius," Yerel said. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a demand. It was a statement of fact, as simple and undeniable as the sun rising in the east. "You and me. The Shield and the Crown."