I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 117: A Brother’s Blind Spot

The ink on the parchment was drying too slowly, or perhaps the air in the command tent had simply grown too stagnant to carry the moisture away. Zarius remained where he was, the warm light of the fire catching on his still figure. To anyone walking by, he seemed completely composed, the kind of Duke the North expected, though his thoughts were a tangled mess.

Precious.

Cherion had used that word. It was a ridiculous, soft, southern-flavored syllable that had no business existing in a war camp smelling of iron and wet fur. Yet, it sat there in the back of Zarius’s throat like a swallowed stone. He tried to focus on the topographical map spread before him, the lines representing the treacherous Iron Crags, but the ink seemed to rearrange itself into the shape of a healer’s frustrated scowl. It was distracting. Infuriating, really.

The tent flap shifted, letting in a gust of cold night air that made the candles flicker and hiss. Zarius didn’t reach for his sword, already knowing who it was from the lightness of their steps.

"Brother! Still buried in your papers? I honestly think you’d marry a ledger if the Council allowed it."

Marielle stepped into the light, her presence a sharp, bright contrast to the gloom. She was wearing her heavy traveling cloak, the fur trim dusted with a fine layer of frost that began to glisten as it met the warmth of the tent. She didn’t wait for an invitation, Marielle had never understood the concept of boundaries when it came to her brother. She moved with a practiced, elegant sort of domesticity, though Zarius noticed the way she avoided looking at the empty chair where Cherion usually sat during briefings.

Zarius didn’t answer.

For a moment, the only sound was the quiet shift of the tent in the wind. He kept his eyes on the map, though he wasn’t reading it anymore.

Marielle watched him, her earlier ease slipping just a little.

"...What?" she asked, a hint of defensiveness creeping in. Then, after a beat, softer, "You’re still mad at me?"

"Marielle," Zarius said at last. "It’s late. The camp is supposed to be in a state of rest before the push tomorrow."

"Oh, hush. Since when did you start following the rules you wrote for everyone else?" She walked over and took a seat on the crate, settling in with easy familiarity. She looked at him for a long moment, her head tilted, her eyes searching his face with that terrifyingly perceptive gaze that ran in their bloodline. "I realized we’ve barely had a moment to breathe. Between the Velkyn attacks and... well, everything else, we’ve hardly spoken. I just wanted to see if you were actually fine."

Zarius finally looked up from the map, leaning back until the shadows swallowed the upper half of his face. "Why wouldn’t I be fine? The perimeter is secure, the supplies are accounted for, and the casualty list was shorter than expected."

Marielle let out a soft, huffing laugh, a sound that held zero mirth. "Fine? Zarius, a lot has happened. Don’t play the invulnerable Duke with me. You’ve been... different. Tense. More so than usual."

"Everything is pretty much under control now," he stated, his tone flat. It was his ’Commander’ voice, the one designed to end conversations before they became complicated.

Marielle nodded slowly, her fingers tracing a stray thread on her cloak. She let the silence stretch for a beat too long, a classic interrogation tactic they’d both learned as children. Then, she pounced. "Are you actually serious about him, then? That healer omega?"

Zarius’s posture didn’t change, but the air in the tent seemed to freeze. "Marielle..."

"Brother, I’m serious!" She stood up, her irritation flaring like a struck match. "I saw the way you carried him. I see the way you look at him when you think no one is watching. I’m your sister, I’m the only person in this godforsaken tundra who actually knows when you’re being a fool. I just want you to be happy, but this... it’s complicated. He’s a Southerner. He’s a wild card."

Zarius closed his eyes for a second, the image of Cherion’s defiant, soot-streaked face flashing behind his lids. "Don’t worry about it, Marielle. It’s handled."

"Handled? That’s what you say about a supply shortage, not a person," she muttered, though she backed off, sensing the wall he’d slammed down. She paced toward the corner of the tent where a crate of the new Hearth Stones sat, their surfaces dull and deceptively mundane in the low light.

She moved on just as suddenly, the change too sharp to be accidental. "Speaking of things that aren’t handled... these stones. You know as well as I do that they didn’t just ’fail.’ It’s too convenient. My gold is on that good-for-nothing Crown Prince. Yerel was always a petty, grasping little thing, but this? Sabotaging a subjugation? That’s a new low, even for a Palace snake."

Zarius’s hand tightened into a fist atop his map. "Marielle, enough. Let’s not drop accusations before we have a shred of proof. To speak of treason in a camp this size is to invite a different kind of disaster."

Marielle turned back to him, her eyes flashing with a sudden, cold fury that mirrored the Duke’s own. "Proof? You’re still doing it, aren’t you? You’re still clinging to that rotting corpse of a memory, the idea that Yerel was your ’friend’ once upon a time. Wake up, Brother! He’s so far below that now. He’s someone from the past you can’t let go of, and it’s making you slow."

The quiet dragged on, disturbed only by the wind brushing against the tent walls. Zarius didn’t defend himself. He couldn’t. The memory of a shared childhood between them still lingered somewhere, something he could still feel itching even though it had been severed years ago.

Marielle’s anger seemed to drain out of her all at once, replaced by a weary, familiar sadness. She walked over to him, her footsteps soft on the rugs. She stepped behind his chair, leaning down to wrap her arms around his shoulders in a tight, constricting hug.

"I’m sorry," she whispered against his shoulder, her voice soft and slightly muffled. "I didn’t mean to make you sad. It’s just... it hurts to see you looking for a heart in a man who traded his for a crown years ago. I don’t think anything can ever go back to how it used to be. We’re so far from the start of the story now, aren’t we?"

Zarius reached up, his large, gloved hand gently tapping hers where they were locked over his chest. It was a clumsy, wordless gesture of comfort, the only kind he knew how to give. Marielle didn’t move right away.

For a moment, her hands lingered on his shoulders, her grip tightening just slightly.

"I don’t care who’s behind this," she said quietly. There was no softness left in her voice now, just something cold, certain. "Whether it’s the Palace, that Prince, or anyone else stupid enough to try... if they’re messing with you, messing with the North..."

Her fingers curled faintly against his fur cloak.

"I’ll cut them down myself."

Zarius let out a low, quiet breath, almost a chuckle.

He shook his head slightly, the sound gone as quickly as it came. He didn’t need to see her to know what she looked like right now. He could picture it perfectly, the sharp set of her jaw, the way her eyes would narrow just before she meant every word she said.

He felt her sigh, a warm puff of air against his neck, before she finally let go. She stepped back, adjusting her cloak with a sharp, decisive snap. The softness in her expression faded, replaced by a more serious, grounded look. She walked toward the tent flap, pausing just before she vanished into the night.

"One more thing, Brother," she said, her tone carrying a quiet certainty. "You’d better get Yerel before he gets you first. Because while you’re worrying about ’proof’ and ’honor,’ he’s already sharpened the knife. And I don’t think he’s going to wait for you to be ready."