[Silthara Palace—Ancestral Hall —Continuation]
The moon hung high above Silthara Palace—white, round, perfect—its cold light spilling like fallen milk through the carved lattice windows of the Ancestral Hall.
The vast chamber breathed silence.
Only the faint murmur of turning scrolls and the soft hiss of oil lamps kept Levin company. He sat at the long central table—alone. Ink-stained parchnts lay scattered around him, their ancient symbols shimring like dried blood beneath the lantern glow.
Another ache twisted in his lower abdon.
Sharp, sudden, and deep.
Levin’s breath trembled—"Hh—..."—but he straightened his back, jaw tightening with stubborn resolve.
’I must endure... there is no other way.’
He dipped the quill again, but the words on the scroll blurred. Doubled. Tilted. His vision swam, and a cold sweat trickled down the curve of his spine.
Still—he tried to continue.
Still—he fought through the pain.
Still—he had no idea that the entire palace was awake with a different storm.
***
[Hallway—Sa ti]
Zerat strode through the corridor like a storm draped in silver. His heartbeat hamred against his ribs. His pheromone—thick, smoky, heavy with worry—spilled behind him in faint waves.
He was nearly at the Ancestral Hall when a robed figure stepped into his path.
Naburash.
He bowed instantly, spine folding in sharp respect.
"Malik," he greeted, breath unsteady. "Why are you—"
"I am here," Zerat growled, voice low and thunder-slick, "to take back my consort. My consort will not burn himself alive learning the Malika’s authority in ten nights."
The torches flickered violently—his aura crackling like heated obsidian, but Naburash did not move aside. He bowed lower, fists clenched tight against the floor.
"I apologize, Malik... but now the Malika must learn it within ten nights."
Zerat’s eyes sharpened—cold, lethal, and furious. "...What?"
Naburash’s voice trembled as he forced himself to speak.
"Forgive , Malik... but the rumors have already swept across Zahryssar. Every noble, every priest, every rchant knows that Malika Levin will take his authority in ten nights."
Zerat’s jaw locked.
"And you dare imply," he snarled softly, "that my decree... cannot be undone?"
Naburash swallowed hard.
"I dare imply nothing, Malik. I speak only of consequences." He bowed again, even deeper. "If we withdraw the announcent now... if the Malika steps back... every serpentian will question his strength. His right to be Malika. His worth."
Zerat’s aura surged—a blast of black lotus power trembling through the hall.
Naburash held his ground.
"Malik..." he whispered, voice raw, "your wrath protected the Malika today. But if he falters now—your wrath cannot protect his na."
Zerat stiffened, his fingers curled slowly into a fist at his side.
"Do you know," he said, voice dropping to a dangerous calm, "...that you tread very near death, Naburash?"
Naburash did not lift his head, "I know, Malik."
Silence.
Long, cold, and razor-sharp.
Then Zerat’s voice, soft and lethal: "So...I cannot take back my decree, huh?"
Naburash inhaled deeply, as though gathering courage from ancient stone.
"Yes, Malika Levin agreed publicly before High Ensi Rakhane, before knights and attendants. If we change the order now... it will appear as though Malik Zerat is shielding a weak consort."
Zerat’s pupils narrowed like a serpent’s at night.
"And Zahryssar’s people," Naburash continued, "do not expect weakness in the mother of the empire."
Zerat exhaled through his teeth—a sound like a blade dragged across stone.
"So you tell ..." Zerat murmured, golden eyes burning with cold logic and hot fear, "that my consort must bleed to uphold my throne."
Naburash flinched. "Not for your throne, Malik...but for his dignity."
Sothing inside Zerat shattered, softly and quietly, like a whispered truth hitting a pride too ancient to bend.
Naburash finished in a whisper:
"To undo the decree now... would wound the Malika far more deeply than any threshold ever could."
Silence thickened around them—the kind of silence that carried history, guilt, and unspoken truths. Zerat dragged a hand through his hair, frustration ripping through him.
"I should not have let jealousy—rage—cloud my mind..." he muttered, voice heavy with regret.
Naburash did not respond aloud, but his bowed head said, ’At least he understands and sees his fault.’
Zerat inhaled sharply, then commanded, "Move. I shall et my consort—and no one shall follow."
Naburash bowed deeply, "Yes, Malik."
Then he stepped aside.
As Zerat entered the Ancestral Hall, the doors closed behind him with a deep echo that rolled through the chamber like distant thunder. The mont he stepped inside, the world seed to still. Moonlight poured over the scrolls and stone floor like a silver blessing—or a cold reminder.
And there... at the center table... Levin. His head rested on his folded arms, eyes closed, as though exhaustion had finally claid him.
A faint tremor moved through him—not from sleep, but from pain.
Zerat stepped forward quietly. The sound of his footfall—soft but heavy—made Levin’s shoulders stiffen.
He opened his eyes and lifted his head, and instead of relief...instead of warmth... His face showed nothing.
Blank.Carefully blank, as if protecting himself.
’Why is he here?’ Levin wondered, chest tightening.
Zerat tried to speak, but the words broke sowhere in his throat. He took a step forward. Levin’s foot slid back—instinctive, small, but enough.
The Malik’s chest tightened.
And then—he moved, not forward, but down.
KNEEL.
The emperor, the conqueror of six kingdoms, dropped to his knees before his consort. A sound left Levin—a gasp, faint, panicked—as he stepped forward instinctively.
"Y–Your Radiance—what—what are you doing?!"
Zerat lifted Levin’s hand with a reverence that felt like prayer. He pressed it against his cheek—his warm skin against Levin’s trembling fingers.
His voice dropped into a deep—soft as sand, heavy as stone, breaking as river-clay beneath a storm.
"My consort..." he whispered. eyes closing briefly as if the words pained him, "...forgive this husband of yours."
Levin froze.
Zerat opened his eyes—golden, burning, raw.
"I have wronged you," he said, voice trembling, "...with rage born of jealousy. I let envy drown the care. I should have wrapped around you."
Levin’s throat tightened, and he tried to pull his hand back.
Zerat held it gently, not forcefully, and shook his head.
"No," he murmured. "Do not withdraw from ...not you."
Levin stamred, "Your Radiance...this—this is not right. The Malik of Zahryssar cannot kneel—not to anyone—"
But Zerat raised his head slowly, and his voice was a whisper that shook the walls, "A Malik may kneel...for his Malika."
Levin’s breath stopped, and Zerat bowed lower—forehead nearly touching Levin’s hand, "A husband may kneel for the heart that anchors him."
His voice cracked—a deep fissure of regret, "I failed you, my moonflower. I failed to hold you when your body writhed in its second threshold. I failed to soothe the pain that only my presence can calm."
Levin’s stomach twisted—not from pain this ti but from emotion so sharp it wounded.
Zerat lifted his gaze again, golden eyes softened by sothing so vulnerable—Levin had never seen it in him, "Forgive ...for abandoning you to your suffering. Forgive ...for letting another man’s words turn from your side."
He bowed again—lower still, "As your husband...as your mate...as the one who vowed to shield you—I beg your forgiveness."
The hall held its breath.
The lamps flickered.
Levin stared down at him—this powerful man kneeling at his feet, his voice trembling, his pride shattered willingly, and for the first ti since last night—Levin felt heat prick behind his eyes.
Because in that mont, the mighty emperor looked not like a tyrant but like a husband terrifiedof losing the mate he cares for.
Levin’s breath shattered in his chest. He had never seen Zerat kneel, yet here he was—on the cold stone floor, kneeling at Levin’s feet, only for him.
The hall seed to breathe with them, quiet, soft, and sacred.
Levin’s voice—when it erged—trembled like a thread about to break, "Your Radiance...please... stand..."
But Zerat didn’t rise; he bowed his head lower, "Not until my consort forgives ."
The words were reverent, soft and almost... broken. Levin stared at him—the unshakeable emperor—kneeling on cold stone with devotion carved into every line of his body.
A faint smile trembled at the corner of Levin’s lips, "I forgive you... Your Radiance."
The effect was imdiate.
Zerat exhaled—shuddering—relief cascading through his shoulders.And then—
YANK—!
Levin’s breath escaped in a startled gasp as Zerat seized his wrist, pulled him forward in one smooth motion, and seated him firmly onto his lap—strong arms wrapping around his waist as though reclaiming sothing sacred.
Levin’s cheeks flushed brilliantly beneath the veil, "Y-Your Radiance...!"
Zerat leaned in, resting his forehead against Levin’s sternum, inhaling the familiar, fragile scent of ink and lotus clinging to his robes.
"Thank you—for your forgiveness. It soothes wounds I did not know I carried."
Levin swallowed, his fingers hovered awkwardly before settling on Zerat’s broad shoulders.
"B-but... your radinace you know..." Levin whispered, "you cannot withdraw the order now. The rumors..."
Zerat closed his eyes, voice low and heavy with regret.
"I know. I regret every breath taken in anger... every word I uttered in envy, but the decree is cast. The empire watches."
He pressed closer—like a serpent coiling around its moon, "But there is one thing I can do. I can extend the ti—"
"No."
Zerat froze.
"Do not extend it. I can handle ten nights. I will not cower behind a longer deadline," Levin said.
Zerat stared at him—moonlight painting his golden eyes with a softness rare and dangerous from the window.
Then he lowered one hand and rested it upon Levin’s abdon— over the place where the new womb ford, where pain pulsed through Levin like a hidden storm.
His touch was gentle. Reverent, "Then at least... allow to calm the pain I gave you. Allow to do what a mate must, Please allow ... to soothe you."
Levin inhaled shakily and closed his eyes.
"...Yes."
A whisper.
A surrender.
Zerat held him closer, pheromones beginning to warm the air like soft sandalwood fire.
The Malik of Zahryssar—the Serpent Emperor feared across kingdoms— knelt for the first ti in his life.
And he knelt only for him.
Only for Levin, only for his consort, only for his moonflower.
***
[Silthara Palace — Opposite Wing — A Dark Hallway]
Far from the warm glow of the ancestral lamps, far from the moonlit serenity of their reconciliation—another shadow stirred. A dim corridor—narrow, cold, carved from stone that never saw sunlight or moonlight— lay silent except for a faint drip of water echoing from sowhere far below.
In that darkness, a man stood perfectly still.
His entire form was wrapped in a long, white veil—not a corner of skin visible, not an eyelash revealed. The faint lamplight caught on sothing sharp in his hand—a glimr of silver.
A needle.
Long, thin, wickedly barbed, sared with sothing faintly violet. He rolled it between his fingers, lowering his head.
His whisper broke the stillness like a blade sliding across skin, "It is ti...for you to mourn another consort, Malik of Zahryssar."
A soft hiss echoed through the corridor, like serpents coiling beneath the stone.
"And this ti, the empire shall bleed with you."
The light flickered—And his silhouette lted back into the darkness.
A shadow sent by the Forsaken Lord.
A shadow moving toward Levin, toward the Malika who had only just begun his ten nights. Toward the heart the emperor had finally reclaid.
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