I Became the Villain Alpha's Omega (BL)

Chapter 180: The Lesson of Endurance

She was going to marry her big brother.

Peering from behind the cold marble of a massive courtyard pillar, she watched the steady flow of the training grounds. There he was. Zarius. He was fourteen, moving with a fluid, lethal grace that made the veteran knights look slow by comparison. To Marielle, he was the sun around which her entire world orbited.

He was handsome, obviously. He was funny, possessing a dry wit that he reserved only for her. He read her stories, and he never skipped the scary parts because he knew she was brave. He was smart, always top of his marks, always the one the tutors spoke of with hushed tones. And he was diligent. Oh, so diligent. She watched him now, sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead as he blocked a strike from a man twice his size.

My brother’s perfect, she thought. Why would I ever want anyone else?

The voice belonged to Gretel, her maid with hands like iron and a real talent for finding Marielle exactly where she wasn’t supposed to be. Before Marielle could protest, she felt a firm grip on her shoulder. She was being hauled away, her boots dragging across the gravel.

"You can’t be wandering here alone, my lady. This isn’t a place for you," Gretel grumbled, her pace quickening as they neared the heavy oak doors of the East Wing.

"You cannot be in here," Gretel repeated, her voice dropping into a hushed, frantic tone. "If Her Grace finds you loitering near the training fields again, she’ll have my head, and yours will be stuck in that embroidery room until you’re twenty. It’s dangerous."

Gretel didn’t answer. She just tightened her grip and hurried them inside. But Marielle noticed the way the maid’s eyes darted toward the high windows of her mother’s room. It wasn’t the swords her mother disliked, Marielle realized. It was the closeness. Her mother didn’t like it when she breathed the same air as her brother for too long.

But Marielle wasn’t napping. She was a girl on a mission.

She reached his room. To her surprise, they weren’t fully latched.

A wet sound tore through the room. A cough. But it wasn’t the sound of a cold, it was the sound of something tearing.

"Brother?" The name left her throat as a broken whimper.

She fell to her knees beside him, her small hands hovering over his shaking shoulders, not knowing where to touch. He looked up at her, his eyes glazed with a pain so intense it made Marielle feel like she was being burned. He couldn’t speak. He just choked, more blood splashing onto his white tunic.

The voice was like a bucket of ice water. Marielle looked up, her face streaked with tears, and met their father’s cold expression. The Duke of Valtrane stood by the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, looking down at his convulsing son with the same clinical interest one might show a limping horse.

The Duke didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch when Marielle’s bloody hand smeared his sleeve. He merely looked at her, his gaze devoid of any warmth. "What are you doing here, Marielle? You were instructed to remain in your quarters."

Before the Duke could respond, the heavy doors swung open again. The Duchess swept in, followed by a line of silent, pale-faced maids. She took in the scene, the blood on the rug, the gasping boy, the hysterical girl, and her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

The Duke sighed, as if inconvenienced by her question. "He needs to build resistance to poison."

She stepped forward, her silk skirts hissing as she avoided the pool of blood. She crouched down, but she didn’t reach for Zarius. She reached for Marielle.

"No! Mother, help him! Why won’t anyone help him?" Marielle fought, her small fists thudding against her mother’s corset. She tried to reach for Zarius, whose fingers were twitching against the floor, reaching out in a blind, agonizing search for something to hold.

The Duchess made a sharp gesture. Two maids stepped forward, their faces like stone masks. They grabbed Marielle’s arms, hoisting her off the floor.

Marielle kicked, her boots striking the maids’ shins. She turned her head, trying to catch one last glimpse of her brother. She saw him try to lift his head. She saw his eyes, wide, terrified, and filled with a silent plea for her to look away.

As they dragged her out of the room, her wooden sword, the one he’d carved for her, clattered onto the floor, rolling into the puddle of blood. The door began to swing shut, and the last thing Marielle saw was her father leaning down, not to help Zarius up, but to whisper something into his ear while the boy choked on his own life.