I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Chapter 160: The Frost That Bites Back

Fever has a strange way of peeling back the layers of a man’s dignity. For Philia, currently swaddled in blankets that felt like they were woven from iron wool, the sensation was utterly foreign. When was the last time he’d been reduced to this? This... shivering, pathetic mess? He let his thoughts drift back, past the grand altars and the silk-lined carriages of the Capital, to a time he’d tried to burn from his memory. The orphanage. He remembered the damp smell of stone and the way the sickness would crawl through the dormitories like a monster, claiming the weak.

"Ugh," he groaned, the sound catching in a throat that felt like it had been scraped with glass.

How deeply, profoundly unfortunate. And it was all because of Cherion. That miserable, low-tier nuisance had somehow managed to harm him again, and this time, the wound wasn’t just a bruised ego, it was a full-blown physical collapse. But the fever wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was the memory of the fountain yesterday. Philia’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the duvet. He still couldn’t process it. The Duke. The cold, impenetrable Monster of the North. Had Zarius actually... cared for that man? Like, for real?

It felt like something in the world had gone awry.

Speaking of the devil, the man had been haunting Philia’s fitful snatches of sleep all night. It wasn’t just a nightmare, it was a taunt. In his dream, the air had been thick and suffocating, and there was Cherion, not cowering, not begging, but standing there with a look of triumph. In the dream-logic of his fever, Cherion had actually stuck his tongue out at him. A childish, mocking gesture that mirrored the reality of yesterday, when the Duke had practically dragged him away from the fountain as if he were something precious, leaving Philia in the cold.

I miss the palace, Philia thought, a wave of homesickness hitting him harder than the chills. There’s no use in rotting here. The North is a graveyard for grace.

He tried to sit up, but the room decided to spin slowly, making his stomach turn. He slumped back, his skin slick with a cold sweat that refused to break. The guest wing was quiet, with only the wind whistling now and then. It was a lonely kind of silence. The kind that makes you realize exactly how little people care when you aren’t standing on a pedestal.

A sharp knock at the door startled him.

"Enter," he whispered.

It was Brie. The maid had been assigned to him since the moment he set foot in this drafty fortress, and frankly, she was as warm as a glacier. She marched in carrying a tray with a basin of medicinal vinegar, her footsteps loud and unapologetic on the floors. She didn’t really bow, and she set the tray down like she had twenty other things to get to.

"Time for the soak, Lord Philia," she said.

Philia forced a weak, shimmering smile. "You are too kind, Brie. Truly. I fear I am becoming a terrible burden to you."

Brie didn’t look up as she wrung out the cloth. "It’s just my job, my Lord," she said quietly. "The basin needs filling, the clothes need soaking. It’s no trouble, really."

"Still, your dedication is noted. It’s so quiet today... Where’s His Grace? I don’t suppose he’s been by? I wished to apologize for the... the trouble I caused yesterday."

Brie slapped the damp cloth onto his forehead. It was freezing. Philia winced, his teeth nearly chattering.

"His Grace isn’t in the castle," Brie said, turning back to tidy the tray.

"Oh? Out on patrol? The border must be restless."

"Not the border," Brie muttered, her back to him. "Probably gone to the city because he took Lord Cherion with him."

The vinegar cloth felt like it was burning into his skin. The city? Together?

The Duke of the North, a man who loathed the sun and the public eye, was somewhere out there with a villain. While he lay dying in a guest room. The injustice of it was so sharp it felt like a physical sting. Philia wanted to scream. He wanted to throw the basin at the wall. He wanted to demand to know why the world had suddenly stopped following the rules.

"I see," Philia murmured, his eyes dropping to the duvet. "How... How wonderful for them. Lord Cherion has been so stressed lately. Perhaps some fresh air will do him good."

"Perhaps," Brie said. She picked up the empty pitcher. "I’ll bring some broth in two hour."

"Thank you, Brie. You may go."

The door clicked shut, and his expression hardened into a scowl.

Philia stared at the ceiling, the shadows of the bedposts looking like bars. It was so profoundly unfair. He was the one suffering. He was the one who had been pushed into the fountain (metaphorically, at least, in his own head). And there was Cherion, galavanting through the city, probably laughing, probably eating street food without a single shred of guilt for what he’d done. He was supposed to be the one in agony! He was the villain!

The unfairness of it all felt like a second fever. He closed his eyes, the image of Cherion’s mocking tongue from his dream returning to haunt the back of his eyelids. He felt the cold vinegar cloth slide off his forehead, but he didn’t have the energy to catch it. He just let it pool on the pillow, damp and sour-smelling.

Fine, he thought, his breathing slowing as the exhaustion of the fever began to drag him back down into the dark. Let them have their day in the sun. Let them play as a couple in the snow.

He felt himself slipping away, the darkness at the edges of his vision closing in. He wasn’t defeated, not yet. He was the "good one," after all, and the heavens always favored the righteous. Or at least, the ones who knew how to look the part.

There’s always the next chance, he whispered to the empty room, his voice quiet, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. The party is coming. The Capital is waiting. And I haven’t even started to play my hand.

With one last shaky breath, he let himself drift back to sleep, his thoughts already turning darker. He would wait. That was all he needed to do.