I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 83: A Boy Who Kept Reaching

The capital didn’t just smell like wealth and power, it was also reeked of deception. It was a thick, cloying scent that seemed to stick to the back of the throat until you couldn’t taste anything else. But for a younger Cherion, it was the smell of home, or at least the closest thing a boy of his standing could claim within the sprawling, white-marble labyrinth of the Royal Palace.

He was running. He shouldn’t have been, nobles didn’t run, they moved with a measured, effortless elegance, but Cherion had never quite mastered the art of being bored. His heart was a frantic bird against his ribs, each beat filled with hope. Today was the day.

Cherion had spent the last three nights awake, his eyes stinging by candlelight, stitching together a protection charm that he was certain, well, almost certain, would make Yerel smile.

He burst through the marble archway of the training grounds, his boots kicking up the fine, golden dust of the arena. The heat was a physical weight, a shimmering curtain that blurred the edges of the world. And there he was.

Yerel.

The Prince stood in the center of the ring, sunlight glinting off his training armor, wrapping him in a shimmer of light.. He was sparring with two senior knights, moving so fast he was almost a streak of gold and steel. Every strike was precise. Every block was an insult to his opponents’ skill. To Cherion, watching from the sidelines with a bottle of iced water clutched to his chest like a holy relic, Yerel wasn’t just a prince. He was the sun. Everything else was just shadows waiting for him to turn his head.

Cherion waited. He waited through three more bouts, his own skin turning a painful, mottled pink under the sun. He didn’t care. He just watched the way Yerel’s damp hair clung to his neck, and the way his jaw set when he landed a finishing blow. Finally, the instructor called for a rest.

This was the window. The tiny, precious gap where Cherion could exist for a moment.

He hurried forward, his feet tripping slightly over the uneven sand. "Your Highness! You were... you were incredible. I’ve never seen that footwork before, did you learn a new technique?" He held out the bottle, his hands shaking just enough to make the condensation drip onto his shoes. His face was bright, his eyes wide and pleading, offering up his entire soul along with a drink of water.

Yerel didn’t stop. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

He didn’t even slow down. He walked straight past Cherion, the wind of his movement carrying the scent of sweat and expensive leather. It was as if Cherion were made of glass, something to be looked through, but never at. Yerel reached out and snagged a silk towel from a servant standing five paces behind Cherion, wiping his brow with a casual, indifferent grace.

"The heat is becoming tedious," Yerel remarked to the head knight, his voice cool and utterly devoid of the warmth Cherion remembered from their childhood. "Ensure the stables are prepared. I want the mares ready by dusk."

Cherion stood there, his arm still outstretched, holding a bottle that suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. A group of younger pages nearby stifled a snicker, their eyes darting between the "ignored" fiance and the Prince’s receding back. It was a sharp, stinging humiliation, the kind that gets under the fingernails and stays there.

Maybe he didn’t hear me, Cherion lied to himself. It was a lie he’d told so often it felt almost natural. He’s just focused. A future King has much on his mind.

He followed. Like a shadow that refused to realize the sun had moved, he followed Yerel toward the royal stables. The gardens they passed were the same ones where they had once hidden from tutors. There was the stone bench where Yerel had once promised to teach Cherion how to ride a warhorse. There was the fountain where they’d made a pact, at age eleven, to never let anyone come between them.

But memories are treacherous things. They stay soft while the people in them turn to stone.

"Your Highness, wait!" Cherion called out as they reached the cool, shaded archway of the stables. The smell of hay and expensive horseflesh was a relief after the oppressive heat of the arena. "I... I made something for you. It’s a protection charm, I used the silk from..."

Yerel stopped. He didn’t turn around at first. He just stood there, shoulders broad and imposing, his silhouette etched sharply against the light. When he finally turned, his eyes weren’t the eyes of the boy who used to share his sweets. They were like steel. Cold, grey, and dangerously sharp.

"Cherion," Yerel said. The way he said it, like he was pronouncing a sentence or a particularly annoying chore, made Cherion’s stomach turn over. "Do you have nothing better to do with your time than hover?"

Cherion flinched. "I just wanted to help. I thought..."

"That is the problem," Yerel interrupted, taking a step closer. He was taller now, the gap between them growing every year. "Your constant presence is a distraction. A King does not need handmade trinkets, Cherion. He needs allies. He needs power. He needs people who aren’t... a liability."

"I’m not a liability," Cherion whispered, though his voice betrayed him by cracking right in the middle. "We’ve always... you said we’d be a team. You said you’d be my shield."

Yerel let out a short, dry sound, a laugh that had no humor in it. "We were children. Childhood promises are for people who don’t have a crown waiting to crush them. Look at you. You spend your days pining in gardens while the rest of the world moves on. It’s pathetic, really."

He reached out, his fingers brushing the small, braided charm Cherion was holding. For a heartbeat, Cherion thought he might take it. Instead, Yerel just pushed Cherion’s hand away, his lip curling in a faint, bored disgust. "Stop waiting for a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore. It makes you look weak. And I have no use for weakness."

Yerel turned sharply and walked into the darkness of the stables, calling for his stablemaster. He didn’t look back. He never looked back.

Cherion stood in the dust, the golden afternoon light feeling more like a shroud than a blessing. He looked down at the charm in his hand. The silk was frayed where he’d gripped it too tight. It was a stupid thing. A childish thing. He felt a hot, prickly sensation in his eyes, but he refused to let the tears fall.

How could someone change so completely? Or maybe, the terrifying thought crept in, Yerel hadn’t changed at all. Maybe he had just finally grown into the person he was always meant to be, and Cherion was the only one too stupid to notice the shift.

He walked back toward his quarters, his steps heavy and aimless. He passed the fountains, the roses, the marble statues of past kings, all of it felt like a stage set for a play he was no longer a part of. He felt a deep, hollow ache in his chest.

Stupid, he thought, the word echoing in his mind like a funeral bell. Stupid, stupid Cherion. Why do you keep reaching for a hand that only wants to push you away?

"Stupid..." he whispered, his voice trembling. "Stupid... Yerel..."