I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 137: A Serpent at the Gate
The morning light in the North was never a welcome sight, it was merely a bruised, watery silver that bled through the high windows of the drawing room, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. Flio sat on the edge of the deep velvet couch, his back as straight and unyielding as the stone walls surrounding him. A low table in front of him was cluttered with the morning’s dispatches, not the heavy, formal ledgers of the Duke’s desk, but the smaller, more intimate papers that kept the Valtrane estate breathing.
The castle was never truly quiet, but today, the silence felt heavy, like wet wool draped over the shoulders of every servant and guardsman within its charcoal-gray walls. It was a silence born of bated breath.
Flio pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose, the metal cold against his skin, and stared at the logistical tallies spread before him. To anyone else, these were just numbers, grain reserves, magic stone counts, and supply routes. To Flio, they were the pulse of the Valtrane Duchy.
He had been raised alongside Zarius, a shadow to the Duke’s light, the ink to the Duke’s iron. While Zarius was out subjugating the creeping rot of the beasts, Flio was here, ensuring the hearths stayed lit and everyone was fed. It started as a necessity, but it turned into something like brotherhood. For years, this had been the rhythm: Zarius went, Zarius bled, Zarius returned.
He took a slow sip of tea, the herbal steam fogging his spectacles for a brief second. Beside his cup lay a small bundle of letters held together by a frayed leather cord. These were his anchors.
Whenever Zarius and Elios were away on a subjugation, this was how they existed to him, through the scratch of a quill and the scent of dried ink. Zarius’s notes were always efficient, almost cold, focusing on supply lines and troop morale. Elios’s letters, however, were a chaotic mess of ink blots and rambling updates about the "horrific" quality of trail rations. They had been exchanging these for as long as Flio could remember. It was their way of saying I am still here without having to say something as vulnerable as I miss you.
Flio’s gaze drifted toward the frost-etched window. Somewhere out there, swallowed by the white maw of the blizzard, was his Duke. And more than that, somewhere out there was Reiner. His own brother. The thought was a dull, persistent ache in Flio’s chest that no amount of ledger-counting could numb.
Please, he thought, his fingers brushed over the small wooden sun charm tucked into his vest. Just this once, let the mountain be merciful. Let the healer be as capable as his mouth is loud.
Cherion was a chaotic variable in the North’s rigid equation. Flio had spent some time alternating between wanting to reprimand the man for his lack of decorum and praying that his presence was exactly what Zarius needed to finally break the curse.
A sharp, rhythmic thudding interrupted his thoughts. Not the wind. Boots. Heavy, frantic boots.
The heavy doors creaked open, and a young messenger, his face flushed a violent red from the cold, stumbled in. He didn’t even wait for the proper protocol.
"Master Flio! In the courtyard... you need to see this."
Flio stood up, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. "Report."
"It’s... a carriage. A Royal Crest, sir. Gold filigree on the panels. It just cleared the outer gate."
Flio froze. A Royal Crest? Like.. Now?
"The Duke isn’t here to receive guests," Flio muttered, more to himself than the boy. He grabbed his heavy, fur-lined cloak from the rack, the weight of the pelt familiar and grounding. "And if they’ve come all this way through the frost, they aren’t here for tea."
As he descended the spiraling stone stairs toward the main courtyard, Flio felt a sense of impending dread. The castle was a fortress of secrets. He had to be the wall. He had to be the ink that rewrote the reality of the situation.
He stepped out into the courtyard, and the wind hit him hard. The snow was a blinding horizontal sheet, but through the chaos, he saw it.
It was a carriage that looked like a gilded toy abandoned in a graveyard. The gold leaf on the wheels was cracked with ice, and the six mountain-bred horses hitched to it were heaving, their coats matted with frozen sweat. The Royal Crest glowed dim and defiant against the grey stone of the Spire.
The door of the carriage creaked open.
Flio squinted through the frost. A footman, shivering so violently he could barely hold the door handle, stepped aside. Then, a figure emerged.
It was a man who seemed to belong to another world entirely. He was draped in silks of deep cerulean and ivory, fabrics that were laughably thin for the Northern climate. Even under a heavy velvet cloak, he moved with a delicate, practiced grace that screamed of palace ballrooms and tea ceremonies. His hair was perfectly styled, untouched by the gale.
Flio didn’t recognize the face immediately. He narrowed his eyes, searching his memory. He had spent years cataloging the "players" of the court, the ambitious socialites and nobles, the King’s favorites, and the shadows that moved behind the throne.
"You’ve reached Valtrane territory," Flio called out. "State your name and your business. The Duke is currently engaged with urgent matters."
"Oh, goodness," the stranger’s voice drifted through the wind, surprisingly clear and melodic, carrying a tone of gentle, refined amusement. "I must apologize for my sudden arrival. I’ve traveled days through these... breathtaking... snowy landscapes. I believe a bit of warmth and a chance to offer my respects would be in order, don’t you think?"
Flio didn’t move, his voice steady despite the freezing gale. "The Duke is currently indisposed with urgent matters. I am Flio, the Duke’s steward. If you have brought a royal decree, you may entrust it to me."
The man smiled, a soft, graceful expression that remained perfectly in place even as the wind whipped around them. He walked closer, his movements light and elegant, his eyes taking in Flio’s stature with a quick, polite nod of acknowledgment.
"The Duke’s steward? How wonderful. It is a pleasure to meet the one who keeps this magnificent place breathing," the stranger said, stopping at a respectful distance. He slipped a hand into his cloak and pulled out a letter sealed with the King’s private wax. "I am Philia Viremont. I’ve come on behalf of His Majesty, and also to reunite with my dear friend, Lord Cherion. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see a familiar face from the Capital."
He recalled reading about a rising figure in the palace, a name that kept appearing next to Cherion and the Crown Prince.
Oh, so this is him.
Flio forced his own lips into a thin smile. "Of course, Lord Philia. Please, follow me. We shall make you comfortable inside."
Flio turned and began to lead the way toward the Great Hall, his gait steady and welcoming. But as he watched the cerulean silks of Philia’s cloak flutter elegantly against the dirty snow, a scream echoed in the back of his mind.
Gods protect us, Flio thought, his smile never wavering as they crossed the threshold. The snake is in the garden, and he’s wearing the King’s colors.
