I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Chapter 176: The Smell That Started It All

"Begone, you greasy, silk-wearing demons! Out! Out, I say!"

Cherion swung the censer with a bit too much enthusiasm, nearly hitting Reiner in the face with a stray puff of smoke.

"I command you, bad vibes of the Crown Prince, to evacuate these premises immediately."

The smell hit the back of his throat first, sharp, almost like pine, but with something older underneath. Cherion moved through the corridors with the focused intensity of a man on a mission, clutching a small, blackened iron censer that puffed out thick, grey-white clouds of "Silver Sage." Behind him, Reiner and Ezek followed in a loose, somewhat confused formation, holding their own smoke-makers like they were carrying sacred relics rather than bundles of dried weeds they’d spent the last hour frantically gathering from the frost-bitten gardens.

The smoke swirled in the air. It was sweet, yet bitter, a smell that felt like it was scrubbing the very atmosphere clean.

Zarius stood at the entrance of the main hall, his silhouette framed by the harsh northern morning light. Flio and Elios stood on either side of him like twin pillars of silent judgment, though Flio’s nose twitched with obvious curiosity.

"And what exactly," Zarius began, "is the meaning of this particular... theatrical display, Cherion?"

Cherion stopped, waving a hand to clear a path through the fragrant fog. He looked up at the Duke, his eyes bright with a spark of stubborn defiance. "It’s a cleansing ritual, Your Grace. Back... Well, where I come from, we do this to chase away ’bad energy.’ Specifically, whatever gross, lingering vibe certain royal guests had left behind."

He made sure the word royal guests carried just enough bite.

To Cherion’s surprise, a short, dry laugh escaped Zarius’s lips. It was a rare sound.

"The ingredients aren’t exactly what the books call for," Cherion continued, shaking the censer until a fresh plume of Silver Sage erupted. "Frost-root is a bit more stubborn than the herbs I’m used to, but we have to utilize whatever we have on hand. Desperate times, desperate measures."

"Ok, so another Southern ritual?" Zarius asked, his eyebrow arching in a way that was almost, but not quite, teasing.

"It works," Cherion insisted, stepping forward and trying to hand a bundle of the unlit sage to the Duke. "Here. You can help."

Zarius looked at the dried herbs as if they were a strange, alien life form. He didn’t take them. Instead, he reached out and gently redirected Cherion’s hand toward Flio, who accepted the bundle with a bewildered but polite nod.

"I have work to get done, Cherion. Reports from the border don’t read themselves. Flio can help." Cherion pouted for a second, then gave a small shrug. "And speaking of duty... I just saw Madame Varo’s carriage arrive. I suggest you finish your ’cleansing’ quickly. She isn’t known for her patience with spiritual delays."

Cherion groaned as Zarius walked away toward his study. The Duke walked away without slowing, leaving Cherion standing in a cloud of bitter smoke and the sudden, cold realization that his dancing lesson was about to begin.

Two hours later, the silence of Zarius’s private study was absolute, save for the scratching of a quill against parchment. Zarius sat behind the massive desk, the air around him still smelling faintly of the Silver Sage Cherion had given him earlier. He finally set the pen down, leaning back and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

The peace didn’t last.

A light, rhythmic tapping sounded from the balcony, not the main door. Before Zarius could even stand, the glass door slid open and Marielle stepped inside, her hair windshed and her cheeks flushed pink from the biting Northern wind.

"So," Zarius said, his voice calm, as if his sister regularly scaled the exterior of the manor to enter his study. "Did you find what you were looking for, Marielle?"

Marielle let out a long, frustrated "Hmph!" as she threw herself into the armchair opposite him. She looked disheveled, a far cry from the polite, silent noble ladies.

"No matter how I look at it, Brother, that man is a walking disaster," she snapped. "Yerel is suspicious. More than suspicious. He’s... he’s planning something that isn’t just about ’checking on your health.’"

Zarius watched her, a flicker of pride warming his chest. Since the moment Marielle had learned Yerel was coming, she had made it her personal, secret mission to keep an eye on him. She hadn’t just "disappeared" from the castle, she’d been moving around unnoticed the whole time. She’d spent her time investigating the Prince’s carriage while the stable hands were distracted, watching his movements through the servants’ passages, and even making sure to watch the Royal procession until it was nothing but a speck on the horizon.

"He knows he can’t pull his usual tricks here," Marielle continued, leaning forward. "He knows the North is your territory. But the way he looked at the manor... the way he looked at Cherion... it made my skin crawl."

"I know," Zarius murmured.

"We should be relieved he’s gone," Marielle said, her voice dropping an octave, becoming softer, more hesitant. "And we are. I am. But... we have something else to take care of now. Something that couldn’t be chased away with a glare."

Zarius went to pick up his quill. "What is it?"

"You know what day it is, Brother," she said quietly. "Or what day is coming. ’That day.’"

The quill snapped.

Zarius stared at the dark ink pooling on the parchment, the black stain spreading like a shadow.

"I know," Zarius said, his voice flat. Dead.

"Brother... I didn’t mean to upset you," Marielle whispered, standing up and reaching out a hand, though she didn’t quite touch him. "I just..."

"It’s okay, Marielle. I’m fine." Zarius stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floors. He offered her a small smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. "I think I need a bit of fresh air. You can stay here. I’ll be back shortly."

Zarius stepped out into the corridor, the study door closing behind him with a heavy thud. He walked without a clear destination, his boots echoing softly against the stone, his thoughts far from the present. He knew exactly what Marielle meant.

But he didn’t want to think about it. He tried to shove the memory into the dark, locked cellar of his mind, but suddenly, the floor seemed to tilt. A wave of dizziness, sharp and cold as an icepick, pierced his temples. Zarius staggered, his hand flying out to catch the rough stone of a window arched deep into the wall. He gripped the ledge so hard his knuckles turned a ghostly white, his breath hitching in a way that had nothing to do with his faked illness.

He closed his eyes, and the darkness wasn’t empty.

He hated this. He hated the vulnerability of it, the way time marched forward regardless of how much power or land he amassed. He stood by the window, still as ever.

He didn’t want "that day" to come.