I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 122: The Healer and the Watchful Blade

Reiner’s mouth was barely a centimeter away from committing a capital offense when Cherion’s palm slammed over it.

"Mmph...! Lord Cheri...hnghh!"

The sound Reiner made was less like a human sentence and more like a distressed badger being stuffed into a sack. Cherion didn’t just cover the boy’s mouth, he practically tried to fuse their bone structures together. He could feel Reiner’s frantic eyelashes fluttering against his knuckles, but his gaze was locked entirely on the woman standing three feet away.

Marielle. The Duke’s sister. The woman who, in Cherion’s very humble estimation, suffered from a terminal, stage-four case of "Brother Complex" that would make even the most devoted saint look like a distant acquaintance.

"Ah, haha," Cherion’s laugh sounded like a hinge hadn’t been opened in years. "He’s just... excited. You know how Reiner gets. Too much mountain air. Not enough oxygen to the brain."

Reiner finally managed to pry Cherion’s fingers off his face, gasping for air and looking at his healer with deep, wounded betrayal. "What was that for? I was just telling Lady Marielle that..."

"That I am incredibly eager to help with breakfast!" Cherion interrupted, his voice reaching a pitch that definitely shouldn’t exist in nature. "Right, Reiner? The cooking fires! Morale! The culinary arts! I was just about to head to the kitchen field."

He didn’t wait for a reply. He started walking. It was a fast, undignified shuffle that he hoped looked like "confident strides" but probably looked like a man trying to outrun his own shadow. He didn’t think Marielle could accept the truth. Not yet. It didn’t matter who started... Whatever that was in the tent last night, the fact remained that if Marielle found out her stoic, iron-willed brother had gotten a taste of Cherion, she wasn’t going to settle for just yelling.

"Wait."

The word was a single syllable, but it had the weight of a falling guillotine. Cherion stopped so fast he nearly tripped over his own boots. He turned around, smile locked in place like he’d glued it there out of sheer survival.

"I believe I’ll join you," Marielle said. Her hand wasn’t on her dagger anymore, but her eyes were doing enough cutting for both of them. "The morning air is a bit too quiet for my liking. I could use the distraction."

Cherion’s brain did a frantic scramble. He couldn’t exactly say no. What was he supposed to do? Chase her away with a wooden spoon? "Of course! Delighted. Truly. Reiner, why don’t you stay here and check the medical supplies? Every single bandage. Count them twice, ok?"

Reiner looked at the crates of bandages with the enthusiasm of a man told to count grains of sand, but Cherion didn’t care. As long as the boy’s loose tongue was anchored to a medical chest, the secret was safe for at least now.

The walk to the makeshift field kitchen near the center of the camp, was performed in a silence so thick you could have served it as a side dish. Cherion tried to be subtle about it, but he kept finding himself lagging three paces behind her. He tried to treat her shadow like a landmine. If he stayed back here, maybe she’d forget he was part of the conversation.

"You know, little Healer," Marielle’s voice drifted back over her shoulder, dry and biting, "if you walk any further behind me, I’ll assume you’re planning to stab me in the back, or you’re simply practicing being quietly unsettling for no reason. Which is it?"

"Neither, Lady Marielle," Cherion fired back, his sarcasm finally finding its legs. "I just didn’t want to crowd your... space. You’ve got a very... strong presence when you’re suspicious."

She didn’t respond, but he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. When they arrived, everything was grey, frozen, and just... not having a good time. The porridge looked tragic, and the salt pork was being chopped with way too much emotional damage.

Cherion rolled up his sleeves. He couldn’t stand it. He was a healer, and in his world, you didn’t recover on a diet of sad, boiled cardboard. He grabbed a knife and a bowl of winter roots, and to his utter bewilderment, Marielle did the same. They stood side-by-side, the Duke’s sister and the Southern noble, quietly chopping and peeling like this was normal. Except it wasn’t.

"I didn’t think you knew which end of a knife to hold," Marielle noted, her blade moving with a lethal speed. "I figured the ’Crown Prince’s ex-fiancé’ would expect the vegetables to peel themselves out of sheer respect for his status."

Cherion let out a short, barked laugh. "Ah, haha. And what exactly makes you think I’m that spoiled? Is it the way I’ve been sleeping on frozen dirt, or the way I’ve spent the last few days barely surviving whatever this place throws at me?"

"It’s the reputation," she countered. "Spoiled nobles usually break when the wind turns. You just... look like you’re always bracing for something."

"Well, prepare to be surprised," Cherion muttered, tossing a perfectly diced carrot into the pot. "And please, for the love of my own sanity, don’t mention the Crown Prince near the food. It’ll make the stew, knock on wood, taste like ash."

Marielle paused, her knife hovering over a slab of pork. "Is it an act? This... theatrical disgust you have for Yerel? Or is it just a clever bit of diplomacy?"

Cherion stopped. He looked at her, his eyes flashing with a genuine, sharp irritation that he didn’t bother to hide. "I thought I told you to stop talking about that good-for-nothing prince? Do I really have to remind you every five minutes?"

The silence returned, but the edge of it was different. Marielle went back to her dicing, but there was a strange, contemplative tilt to her head.

"You’ve got guts," she said softly, after a moment. "I like it. It means you’re actually here, not just floating above us like a pretty Southern bird."

Cherion blinked. "Oh? So you don’t hate me anymore?"

"Since when did I hate you? Who said that?"

Cherion didn’t even skip a beat. "Oh, was it your twin sister, then? The one who was telling me just the other day that I’m a pathetic refugee looking for pity shelter? Because she looked an awful lot like you. Had the same dagger and everything."

Marielle actually chuckled. It was brief and sharp, but genuine. The first crack in her usual composure. She didn’t have an answer for that. She just shook her head, speechless for the first time since they’d met, and moved to the steamer to check the grain.

As the steam rose in a thick, white cloud between them, softening the harsh lines of the camp, Marielle’s posture shifted. She lost that sharp edge, and what was left was something awkward and a little painful to say.

"I apologize," she said, her voice barely rising above the crackle of the fire. "For my rudeness. There’s no excuse for it, really. It’s just... in the North, we learn early that trust is a luxury that gets people killed. Seeing Zarius keep someone from ’enemy territory’ so close... It made me defensive. I saw you as a threat to his focus."

Cherion’s shoulders eased as he let out a breath. "I get it, Lady Marielle. Truly. I’d be suspicious of me too. And... Thank you."

Marielle looked confused, a strand of dark hair falling over her eyes. "For what?"

"For defending me," Cherion said quietly. "When the others were pointing fingers. When they said I was the one who tampered with the Hearth Stones."

Marielle leaned against the wooden prep table, watching the steam rise. Her expression hardened, something colder settling in her eyes. "Don’t thank me for that, little Healer. It wasn’t out of the kindness of my heart."

She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that made the fine hairs on Cherion’s neck stand at attention.

"I know the ’smell’ of the man who actually did it. The one who wants to see the North burn into hell’s earth, he’s still sitting at our high table."

She reached out, her hand closing around his shoulder for a brief, firm squeeze. It wasn’t a threat this time.

"But I will make sure my brother is the one who stands until the end."