I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 96: The Woman Beside the Duke

"Next! Come on, keep the line moving, don’t be shy!"

Cherion’s voice cracked slightly, a sharp, authoritative ring that felt entirely too big for his lungs. He punctuated the command with a brisk clap of his hands, his sleeves rolled past his elbows to reveal forearms dusted with a fine layer of herbal powder and a suspicious splash of something purple. The medical tent was... a lot. Imagine stepping into a sauna that smells like your grandma’s flower shop got hit by a welding accident. Iron, lavender, mint gone rogue, and some mysterious hint of "probably dead stuff." It was the kind of smell that made you question all your life choices... and your nose.

Next to him, Reiner was basically a ninja, gliding around the tent and tossing pre-cut bandages like he’d been born to do this. No one had to ask, he just did it. Meanwhile, Cherion was hovering over some poor knight, poking and prodding a cut that honestly looked like someone had tried to slice bread with a hammer. Chaos everywhere, but somehow it felt... organized?

Stitch, pull, knot. Don’t use the light yet. Save it.

That was the mantra playing on a loop in his skull. While his healing power was a literal godsend, he wasn’t about to blow his entire spiritual load on a dozen cuts and bruises. Priorities, people.

He’d spent way too much time on the "slow way", slathering weird green smush on cuts, forcing bitter magic juice down knights’ throats, and sewing them up like a medieval grandma with commitment issues because what if, heaven forbid, a real emergency rolled through those canvas flaps and he was left running on empty? The thought made his stomach do a nervous little jig.

Naturally, because his brain refused to stay on task, his internal monologue began a very serious, very heated debate. I wonder if Zarius likes the ’ethereal saint’ look or if I should lean into this ’gritty, hardworking commoner’ vibe? He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a basin of water. It wasn’t promising. His hair had become a sentient nest of static and humidity, and he was fairly certain he currently smelled like a confusing mixture of high-end lavender and raw, unaged beef.

Very rugged. Very attractive, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow with a messy sleeve. I’m a professional. A healer of the people. I am definitely not wondering if Zarius is currently being hit on by some frost-breathing monstrosity out there. Then again, Zarius probably didn’t need worrying about. He was probably out there looking like those ridiculously handsome protagonists in the novels and manhwas Cherion used to skim, all flowing hair, glowing swords, and looking way too intense for anyone’s good.

The thought was interrupted by a roar from outside. Not a monster roar, but a human one. Cheers.

"The Duke’s back!" someone yelled.

Cherion’s heart decided to try out for the Olympic gymnastics team. He’d been staring at that tent flap for the better part of three hours, a fact he was desperately trying to hide from Reiner. In a sudden, undignified panic to look "busy," he reached for a jar of antiseptic ointment and promptly fumbled it.

"Crap...!"

He performed a frantic, leg-tangled scramble, catching the jar inches before it hit the dirt, but losing every ounce of his remaining dignity in the process. He stood up, smoothing his tunic with trembling hands. He needed to see him. He needed to make sure Zarius was whole. Last night was... strange. He hadn’t fed the man any healing energy, yet they had fallen asleep with their fingers hopelessly tangled together like two earbuds in a pocket.

He stepped out into the cold air, his eyes searching the crowd. He found the Duke almost immediately. Zarius was a pillar of dark steel in the center of the camp, looking every bit the god of war he was rumored to be. But he wasn’t alone.

There was a woman. A tall, terrifyingly beautiful woman with hair like a raven’s wing and a spear that looked like it could pierce the sun. She wasn’t just standing near Zarius, she was practically fused to his side, her arm hooked through his with a familiarity that screamed "I belong here."

She’s tall, Cherion’s internal voice hissed, shifting into full-blown crisis mode. Why is she so tall? Is that a legal requirement in the North? Am I too short? She looks like she could crush a boulder between her thighs, and I still have to use a towel to get the grip I need to open a jar of pickles.

The annoyance hit him like someone had dumped a backpack full of bricks on his chest. He felt small. He felt like a stray cat watching a lioness reclaim her throne.

Cherion retreated back into the shade of the tent. He needed a distraction before he did something stupid. He grabbed the nearest patient, a young, talkative knight with a superficial scratch on his arm.

Wait... Why do I care? He shouldn’t be bothered by a tall, spear-wielding Valkyrie-god-woman hanging off Zarius’s arm. Maybe people here just lacked personal space? Maybe they all shared body heat like penguins?

"So," the knight chirped, blissfully unaware he was walking into a minefield. "Did you see her, My Lord? The one with the Duke? Absolutely divine. Her spear-work out there? They say it was like a ’dance of death’ alongside His Grace. A perfect match, really."

A dance of death? Cherion’s jaw tightened until his teeth ached. How poetic. Truly. I hope she enjoys the ’dance of the overly-tight bandage.’

He was so caught up in his dark, petty daydream that his hands began to move with a frantic rhythm.

In a fit of purely accidental-on-purpose distraction, Cherion’s fingers twitched. He gripped the linen roll and gave it a sharp, possessive yank, putting his entire weight into the final knot as if he were trying to choke a literal snake.

Thwack.

"GAH! My Lord! My arm!"

The knight let out a yelp that sounded remarkably like a stepped-on flute.

"Oh! Oh gods, I’m so sorry!" He apologized frantically, his hands hovering uselessly over the poor man’s arm.

He was still stammering apologies when the tent flap was pulled back. The sunlight flooded in, silhouetting the very man he wanted to see and the one woman he definitely didn’t. Zarius stepped inside, looking rugged and quite pleased with himself. Marielle trailed behind him like a smug, gorgeous shadow, her hand still resting on his arm.

Cherion’s personality did a complete 180-degree flip. He snapped into "Extreme Professionalism." It was his final defense. He dropped into a bow so deep and formal he was essentially addressing Zarius’s mud-caked boots.

"Your Grace," he said, trying to sound fancy and in control. "I trust everything went smoothly. If you’ll excuse me, I have patients who actually require my attention."

He couldn’t even glance again. Not while that woman was hugging Zarius’s arm like a monkey on a branch. It was indecent. It was rude. Didn’t she know he had a fiancé? Did Zarius just not mention it?

Marielle circled him then, her boots clicking softly on the hard-packed earth. She moved like a wolf eyeing a particularly confused rabbit.

"So," she drawled, her voice a husky rasp that set Cherion’s nerves on edge. "This is the little thing you’ve been hiding, Duke Valtrane? He’s a bit... delicate, isn’t he? Quite dainty. Does he always talk to your toes, or is he just shy?"

Cherion’s ego took the hit and immediately declared war. He straightened up, his eyes sparking with a fire that usually only appeared when someone insulted his ethics. He looked at Zarius, then at the woman, his gaze lingering on the arm she was still clutching.

Unbelievable. The nerve. The utter lack of manners.

He was ready. He had a whole commentary prepared. He was going to put her in her place.

But instead of speaking, Cherion reached out. Before his brain could veto the move, his hands shot out and pried Zarius’s arm from Marielle’s grip like some overdramatic referee breaking up a fight nobody asked him to stop

Marielle froze, a sharp, dangerous smile spreading across her lips. Cherion could see the anger marks, those little popping veins, appearing on her forehead. But he didn’t back down. He stood his ground, chin tilted high, ignoring the way his heart was thundering against his ribs.

I’m the fiancé, he thought fiercely. There’s no way anyone’s gonna treat me like this.

The silence in the tent was heavy enough to suffocate a horse. Zarius looked between them, his expression a confusing mix of bewilderment and something that looked suspiciously like a smirk.

Finally, the woman broke the silence. She let out a short, sharp laugh that echoed off the canvas walls.

"Well," she said, looking at Zarius. "It seems your fiancé is quite the jealous type, Brother."

Cherion froze. The world stopped spinning.

"...Brother?"

The word hung in the air like a death sentence. Cherion’s hand, which was still gripping Marielle’s arm, suddenly felt very heavy and very, very stupid.

"Wait," Cherion whispered, his face turning a shade of white that shouldn’t be biologically possible. "YOU HAVE A SISTER?!"