I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)-Chapter 61: A Crown’s Cold Embrace

"Please wake up, My Lord. We’re almost there."

Back. Forth. Side. Side. The motion was hypnotic in the worst possible way. Cherion’s stomach did a slow-motion somersault, as if trying to escape without the rest of him.

When he finally pried his eyelids open, he expected the familiar dark ceiling of his bedroom in Valtrane. Instead, he got velvet. Plush velvet. The kind that whispered money and smelled aggressively of lavender and generational privilege.

Cherion pushed himself upright. Sitting across from him was a man in a stiff, high-collared uniform. He looked like he’d been professionally composed since birth. Except for the eyes that held something of... was that pity? Cherion blinked. He definitely didn’t know this guy.

Wait. Where the hell is Zarius? What happened to him?

"Zarius?" he croaked, or at least he tried. He wanted to demand an explanation. He wanted to know why he was in a carriage with this stranger and why his head felt like it had been stuffed with wet cotton. But the moment he opened his mouth, the only sound that escaped was a soft, pathetic little sniffle. He sounded like a very tiny, very offended dog.

What the absolute hell was that? Cherion screamed internally.

He tried again. Hey! Who are you? Where’s the Duke? Again, nothing. His lips didn’t even move. It was as if he was a passenger in his own skin, strapped into the backseat of a car while someone else was at the wheel.

The carriage groaned to a rhythmic halt. The door was swept open, letting in a burst of air that was far too warm for the North. The man in the uniform stepped out first, then turned back, extending a gloved hand.

"Careful now, Lord Cherion," the man said softly.

Cherion watched, horrified, as his own hand reached out. It moved automatically, sliding into the man’s palm with a dainty grace he didn’t remember ever possessing. And then he saw it.

The hand.

It was tiny. It was a pale, soft little thing with dimpled knuckles and skin that hadn’t seen a day of hard work or Northern frost. It was the hand of a child.

No. No, no, no. This is not happening. As he was helped down to the cobblestones, his knees felt wobbly. He looked up, and his heart started hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Ahead of them loomed a a gigantic white building with spires, gold trim, and guards in ceremonial plate that looked more like jewelry than armor.

It was the Palace. The Capital.

Is this a regression? he wondered, a spike of genuine panic lancing through his brain. Did I die and get sent back to a save point? Please tell me I didn’t just lose all my progress with Zarius.

"Don’t be too sad, Lord Cherion," the man said, misinterpreting the tremor in the boy’s frame. He placed a heavy hand on Cherion’s shoulder. "Your family... they didn’t die in vain. They managed to hold back the rebels long enough for the reinforcements. They died heroes. The King surely won’t forget such merit."

Cherion’s head dipped. Slowly. Tragically. Like it had a sad little mind of its own. Totally out of his control.

Oh, he thought, the realization hitting him like a bucket of ice water. I’m not regressing. I’m spectating. This was a memory. A front-row ticket to someone else’s worst day.

Specifically, the Hale family massacre. He was trapped in a flashback, forced to relive the exact moment the original soul’s tragedy began. Otherwise, how else do you explain his mouth saying things he didn’t mean, and his limbs moving like they had secret instructions?

As they walked through the endless corridors, everything felt grotesquely oversized. The ceilings were miles high, the vases were taller than he was. Every servant they passed dipped into a low, silent bow, but their eyes stayed on the floor.

The original Cherion was absolutely out of his tiny little mind, he realized. He could feel it, a cold, nauseating knot in the pit of his stomach. The kid was eight, maybe nine, and he’d just lost everyone he’d ever known. Yeah... no wonder he was a mess.

Ah, the Throne Room again.

The double doors creaked open, revealing a chamber that was basically a gaudy monument to ego. Ah, this room again.

King Alderon sat on the throne, radiating kind monarch energy. Younger, fresher version, of course. No perfectly trimmed beard yet, and that smile, yeah, it didn’t reach his eyes.

Cherion swallowed hard before stepping forward, forcing his legs to cooperate. "Your Majesty," he said, voice a little too high, a little too shaky.

"Little Cherion," the King said, his voice booming with warmth. "Come closer, child."

Cherion’s legs obeyed, walking across what felt like an endless floor.. When he reached the dais, the King leaned forward, speaking at length about "sacrifice" and "unwavering loyalty." Every word screamed PR stunt.

"You are alone now," King Alderon continued, his voice dropping to a paternal murmur. "But you shall not be lonely. The Hale family saved my life, and I shall repay that debt. From this day forward, you will live here, within these walls. I shall treat you as if you were my own flesh and blood."

Cherion felt the boy’s head nod again. A tiny, obedient bow of a soul that had just been bought and sold.

"And speaking of sons," the King said, turning his head toward a side entrance. "Yerel, come here."

A boy stepped out from behind the heavy curtain and Cherion felt the air leave the body’s lungs.

Oh, boy. Here he is. Mr. Protagonist himself. Yerel. Again.

But the original Cherion? The kid currently occupying the driver’s seat? He was gone. Hook, line, and sinker. Cherion felt a surge of warmth, a desperate, pathetic hope, blossom in the boy’s chest.

Yerel walked over, smiling way too bright for human eyes. He looked at Cherion with a carefully measured pity.

"This is my son, Yerel," the King said. "He is of an age with you. I hope you will be the best of friends."

Yerel extended his small, perfectly manicured hand.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Cherion," Yerel said. "We shall be brothers, I think."

Cherion watched his own small, trembling hand reach out to meet Yerel’s.

Oh, Cherion. If only you knew this handshake is the start of a countdown to your own execution.