Chapter 157: A Script He Refuses to Follow

Cherion had, in a very loose sense, tried to murder Philia.

Ok, that... wasn’t ideal.

Not him, of course. But the OG Cherion.

His mind was a frantic mess, fingers flipping through the mental archives of the novel. This wasn’t just a "missed" plot point, it was the Post-Subjugation Party. In the paperback version of this life, the "OG Cherion" had been a hollowed-out shell of a man, driven into a corner by Yerel’s coldness and Philia’s blinding, sun-drenched "purity." At that party, the OG had finally snapped. He’d staged a horrific "accident", an elegant tragedy that ended with Philia bearing a permanent scar across his chest. A blemish the protagonist had been forced to cover for the rest of his life.

Cherion suppressed a violent shudder. He wasn’t that person. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, and he certainly didn’t have the stomach for blood. But as he stared at the drink in his hand, the realization finally hit him.

Right now, the plot was basically empty.

If he wasn’t the one playing the monster at this party, who was? If the "Villain Cherion" wasn’t there to strike the blow, the narrative would surely find someone, or something, else to fill that empty space. Things don’t just stay quiet for long. And when it comes to the story? Something bad is always coming.

His eyes drifted toward the door, his mind instantly landing on Candidate Number One: Philia.

Philia was no longer just a passive victim in this timeline. His whole "innocent" act was basically broken. He could try to glue it back together, but yeah... the cracks were showing.

If the story needed a scar, a scream, and a dramatic betrayal to keep the wheels turning, Philia was more than capable of staging his own "victimization" just to drag Cherion down. He’d have to keep an eye on that man, an extra, unblinking eye. He’d have to stay one step ahead of Philia and shut him down before he even tried anything.

I can take care of this, Cherion thought, his grip tightening on the glass. Well, I have to.

"Cherion?"

His voice was low, but it carried more than enough. Cherion blinked, his focus snapping back to the present. Zarius was watching him, his brow furrowed, his massive frame cutting through the firelight like some kind of intimidating, brooding statue that had decided to develop opinions.

"You’ve gone pale," Zarius said. He didn’t raise his voice, but his hand tightened slightly.. "If the thought of the Capital is too much, I will send our regrets. We don’t have to go. Let them have their tea and their gossip without us. We can stay here."

"No," Cherion said quickly, his voice cracking a little. He forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’m fine. Really. Who doesn’t like a party? It’s a celebration of your hard work, Your Grace. Wouldn’t want to miss the... spectacle."

Spectacle. What a funny word for a potential massacre.

He took a step closer to Zarius, the scent of cedar and cold air clinging to the Duke like armor. Cherion realized then that the Capital wasn’t just a place of bad memories; it was a crime scene waiting to happen. The person who had woven the curse into Zarius’s veins, the one who had sentenced this man to a slow, rotting decay, was probably going to be there. Sipping champagne. Smiling.

This was his best shot. He would go to that party, he would play the perfect role as Zarius’s fiancé, and he would hunt for the clue, the proof, then track down whoever cursed Zarius and make sure they never got the chance to do it again.

And then, he thought, a heavy, hollow ache blooming in his chest, the job is done.

He could leave. He could fade away into some quiet corner of the world, finally free of this script. It was the plan. It was the exit strategy. So why did the idea of "freedom" feel like he was being exiled all over again?

To ground himself, to stop the spiraling, Cherion reached out. He let his fingers brush over the fabric of Zarius’s doublet, stopping over his chest. Right where the curse’s heartbeat pulsed beneath the fabric.

"Besides," Cherion murmured, his gaze dropping to his own hand, "we might get some useful information there. Regarding... this. I want to find the one who did this to you. I want to make it disappear."

He started to pull his hand back, his face warming as the silence stretched too long, but Zarius was faster. His large hand snapped up, trapping Cherion’s finger against his chest. He didn’t just hold it, he pressed it firmly against his heartbeat. His gaze dropped slightly, then fixed on Cherion, and stayed there..

Zarius leaned in, close enough that Cherion could feel his breath when he spoke.

"You’ve grown quite bold, haven’t you?" Zarius murmured. It wasn’t a question. "Touching me so casually, right where the monster lives... do you truly have no fear of being bitten?"

Cherion’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening slightly. Zarius didn’t let go. Instead, he slowly brought Cherion’s hand upward toward his face, his eyes never wavering. He brought the tip of Cherion’s finger to his lips.

A sharp, playful nip. The graze of teeth against skin.

That felt suspiciously like a claim. Cherion’s heart jumped into his throat, and his face heated up way too fast. Zarius began to lean in closer, his shadow swallowing Cherion whole, trapping him against the desk. Things were getting tense, like, one wrong move and it would all break.

BANG.

The study door flew open hard enough to slam against the wall.

"Oh! There you are!"

Marielle marched in, then stopped dead, blinking at the sight of her brother hovering way too close to a very flushed, very wide-eyed Cherion, hand still near his mouth.

Cherion reacted like a cat that had just seen a ghost. He practically vaulted away, his hand flying up to smack against the nearest wall.

"Marielle!" he squeaked, his voice two octaves too high. "You’re... you’re here! What a nice surprise!"

Marielle squinted, her gaze darting suspiciously between Zarius’s visibly murderous expression and Cherion’s frantic state. "What exactly were you two doing? You look like you’re trying to hide a body. Or create one."

"Checking the wall!" Cherion blurted out, patting the wall like that was supposed to fix something. He let out a high-pitched, awkward laugh that made his lungs ache. "God, these walls. So strong. Sturdy. Just... marveling at the Northern craftsmanship. Truly top-tier rock, wouldn’t you say, Your Grace?"

Zarius didn’t answer. He just stood there, his hands slowly curling into fists at his sides, looking like a man who was weighing the pros and cons of family-sanctioned exile for his sister.

Cherion kept smiling, though his facial muscles were starting to twitch from the strain. As he watched Zarius walk over to Marielle and start talking, something in his chest twisted a little. Part of him wanted to sob with gratitude for the interruption, and the other part... Well, another part of him was still very aware of where Zarius’s teeth had just been.