[Silthara Palace—Malika’s Office —Continuation]
The word kill did not echo; it hung.
Suspended between fang and feather, between instinct and reason, between what had always been true and what had just been revealed. Lady Arinaya stood rigid, dagger bared, her breath slow and controlled. Her eyes never left Iru—not for a blink. The serpent in her blood had not forgotten ancient skies filled with talons.
Iru did not move; he did not defend himself; he did not plead. He simply knelt—back straight, chin lifted just enough to et Levin’s gaze—waiting.
Levin felt the weight of that stillness more sharply than any blade.
"Kill him," Arinaya repeated, quieter now, more dangerous. "Before the wards decide for us, before instinct does."
Levin did not answer her; he stepped forward instead.
Each footfall echoed against the stone floor—slow, asured, and deliberate. He passed Arinaya without a word, without even a glance, and stopped directly before Iru. Close enough that Iru felt the shift of air when Levin’s robes stilled. Close enough that there was nowhere left to retreat.
Levin’s voice was calm. Too calm.
"As an origin different from serpents," he said quietly, "how did an eagle arrive in this place?" His eyes did not waver. "And why would a natural enemy try to save every consort of the Silver Throne?"
Iru’s jaw tightened; for a heartbeat, he said nothing, then his breath hitched—once.
"I was raised by—" The words broke. He swallowed hard, his throat working as if the past itself resisted being spoken.
"...I was rescued," he corrected softly, "by the previous Malika."
The air cracked.
Lady Arinaya’s eyes widened in fury and disbelief.
"How dare you speak such lies!" she snapped. "The previous Malika is gone—she was murdered when the Malik was only nine years old. How could she possibly—"
"Enough," Levin’s voice cut through her like drawn steel.
"Let him finish, Lady Arinaya." His gaze never left Iru. "We will hear everything."
Arinaya froze, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles whitened. After a mont, she stepped back—reluctantly, barely contained.
Iru bowed deeply. "Thank you, Malika."
Then his eyes dimd, not with fear but mory, as he started telling him everything he was inford of.
***
[Years Ago—When Zerat Was Seven—Silthara Palace—Private Courtyard]
The courtyard was quiet in the way sacred places often were. Sunlight filtered through flowering vines, painting gold across white stone. A woman stood beneath the shade of a flowering hibiscus tree, turning one crimson bloom slowly between her fingers.
She had golden eyes.
Not the fierce gold of a warrior—but the deep, warm gold of wisdom and grief endured. Her hair fell in pale brown waves over her shoulders, her skin was sun-kissed, and her presence was soft yet unyielding.
Malika Seraphel of Zahryssar.Zerat’s mother.
An oga, and a queen.
Cradled in her arms was a baby eagle—small, fragile, feathers barely ford, heart fluttering fast with instinct not yet sharpened into hatred.
"He cannot survive here," Seraphel said quietly.
Her voice was gentle—but final.
"He will either be killed," she continued, "or he will grow into sothing that kills us. Send him away."
She turned to her attendant—a small woman with dark brown hair bound tight and eyes full of longing.
Maerin, her na whispered in the palace corridors.
Maerin stared at the baby eagle, breath trembling. "Malika... I could never bear a child," she said softly. "I am a beta. If you would permit —if I may—"
Seraphel’s gaze sharpened at once.
"Do not confuse rcy with permission," she said coldly. "I will not let your desire endanger my kind." Her arms tightened around the fledgling. "Take him far from here—or I will have to let my son kill him when instinct awakens."
Maerin flinched.
"If... if you used the binding spell that—"
"Do not speak of it," Seraphel snapped, fire flashing in her golden eyes. "So things must remain buried. Take the child and cast him away. He may be harmless now—but only now."
Maerin fell to her knees as she begged, "I will raise him; I will bind him to loyalty. I will make sure he serves the next Malika—Young Prince, Zerat’s consort. I swear it." Her voice broke. "Let an enemy protect what serpents cannot see."
Seraphel went still; she looked down at the baby eagle, then back at Maerin.
"Hm," she murmured thoughtfully. "An enemy guarding the Silver Throne..."
Her lips curved—not into a smile, but into calculation.
"...He may be useful, but he must stay hidden; that’s the only way he will protect his consorts."
***
[Back to Present—Malika’s Office]
The mory collapsed back into the present like a door slamming shut. Silence followed—thick, reverent, dangerous.
Lady Arinaya stared at Iru, disbelief battling reason. "...So you are saying," she said slowly, "that you were planted as a hidden watcher—to protect the Malik’s consorts?"
"Yes," Iru replied. "From the shadows."
"And why," Arinaya pressed sharply, "should we believe you?"
Iru turned his gaze to her, unflinching. "Because the husband of Maerin—the Malika’s forr attendant—is still alive, Lady Arinaya." His voice was steady. "You may question him. He knows how I was raised and bound, and he knows the oath that was placed on ."
Levin exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.
"So this is why," he said quietly, "you were found near every consort’s death."
Iru bowed his head. "I tried to protect them."
His fists tightened. "But his plan was flawless. He struck where I could not see, where even wards welcod him. I failed—every ti."
The room felt colder.
Levin lifted his head, eyes hardening like tempered steel as he asked slowly, each word weighted with command, "WHO is he, Iru?"
The question did not echo.
It pressed.
Iru lifted his head slowly; for the first ti since this interrogation began, his eyes did not hold only discipline or resolve—they held grief as he said, "I do not know his true na, but I know what he is."
Lady Arinaya’s breath slowed, controlled. "Then speak carefully."
Iru nodded once as he continued, "He is not a Black Serpent, nor any beast bound purely by instinct." His jaw tightened. "He is... sothing older than faction. Older than the council structures we obey."
Levin’s fingers curled slightly at his side.
Iru inhaled, as if bracing himself against mory as he continued, "He moves through the palace because the palace allows him to; the wards recognize him. The rituals do not resist him. He does not force entry—he is invited every ti."
Arinaya’s eyes darkened. "Only soone tied to the throne itself could—"
"Yes," Iru said quietly. "Soone bound to Zahryssar by blood, oath, or origin."
The room chilled.
Levin felt it then—not fear, but a tightening certainty, "You’re saying the enemy is soone very close to the Malik."
Iru did not hesitate. He nodded.
That was enough.
Levin turned away, the hem of his robes whispering as he crossed back to his seat. He sat slowly and deliberately and rested his forearms on the table. For several heartbeats he said nothing. His fingers tapped against the polished stone—once, twice, three tis—each sound asured, controlled.
Then he looked up.
"I will not kill you," Levin said at last, his voice calm but stripped of warmth. "But do not mistake that for rcy."
Iru bowed deeply at once. "I would not dare, Malika."
Levin continued, eyes steady on him. "Nor does it an I trust you."
Iru did not flinch.
"I will not tell the Malik about this," Levin said, each word precise. "Not now. Not without cause." His gaze sharpened. "But understand this clearly—if my husband asks , I will not lie for you. I will tell him everything."
The weight of that promise landed heavily.
"And when that day cos," Levin added quietly, "he will decide what becos of you."
Iru’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, then he bowed again, lower this ti. "I accept that judgnt, Malika."
Levin leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving him. "Until then, you will continue to serve ."
A pause.
"One mistake," Levin said softly, and the softness was far more dangerous than anger, "one lie, one step out of place—"
He leaned forward just enough for his shadow to fall across Iru.
"—and I will execute you myself."
Silence followed, absolute and ringing. Iru pressed his forehead briefly to the stone. "Thank you... for sparing my life, Malika."
Levin did not acknowledge the gratitude. He lifted one hand in dismissal. "Return to your post."
Iru rose, bowed once more, and turned toward the doors. As he passed through them—THUD.
The doors closed with a finality that echoed longer than it should have.
Only then did Lady Arinaya move. She turned to Levin, studying his face carefully, and asked, "Malika... are you planning sothing?"
Levin humd softly, gaze unfocused now, as if looking several moves ahead. "Iru can be useful to us, Lady Arinaya."
Her brows drew together. "Even after what he revealed?"
"Yes," Levin replied. "Especially because of it." He glanced at her, expression cool but thoughtful. "We keep him close. Close enough to watch him."
Arinaya was silent for a mont, then she nodded slowly. "My instinct urges to kill him," she admitted, voice low. "Every scale in my body screams it."
Levin’s lips curved faintly—not in humor, but in understanding.
"And yet?" he prompted.
"And yet," Arinaya said, eting his eyes, "I trust you, Malika."
Levin inclined his head once in acknowledgnt. He leaned back fully now, resting his head against the chair, eyes closing for a brief mont as he exhaled.
"Too much is happening," he murmured, the weight finally allowed to show. "Too many truths surfacing at once."
Outside the office, Silthara Palace continued its asured rhythm—unaware that within its walls, a decision had just been made that would draw the real enemy closer than ever.
***
[Hallway — Later]
Levin stepped out of his chamber, the heavy doors closing softly behind him.
The corridor was bathed in amber light, torches set into carved stone casting long shadows that stretched like ancient watchn along the walls. The air was cool here, carrying the faint scent of incense and polished marble.
And there—Zerat stood near one of the great pillars, silver mantle loose over one shoulder, hands folded behind his back. He looked unhurried, composed—but his eyes lifted the mont Levin appeared, and sothing softened instantly.
Lady Arinaya halted at once, she bowed deeply, head lowered in formal reverence. "I greet the Malik of Zahryssar."
Zerat inclined his head in acknowledgnt, his gaze never leaving Levin.
Levin spoke gently, "You may go, Lady Arinaya."
She bowed again, glanced briefly at Levin as if asuring his steadiness, then turned and disappeared down the corridor, her footsteps fading into silence.
For a heartbeat, only the two of them remained.
Zerat moved first.
He crossed the space between them with quiet certainty, stopping so close that Levin could feel his warmth. Zerat took Levin’s hands in his own, fingers firm yet reverent, and lifted them slowly.
He pressed a kiss to Levin’s knuckles—unhurried, deliberate, as though sealing sothing unspoken.
"Did you speak with Iru?" Zerat asked softly.
Levin nodded. "Yes."
Zerat studied his face, searching for cracks, for strain, for anything left unsaid. Whatever he saw there eased him; a faint smile curved his lips—not the smile of an emperor, but of a husband.
"Then," Zerat said quietly, thumb brushing over Levin’s fingers, "it is ti my consort stops carrying the weight of the world alone."
He leaned closer, resting his forehead briefly against Levin’s, breath warm and steady as he murmured, "It is ti, that you pay attention to your husband."
Levin’s lips curved in a small, tired smile—one ant only for Zerat.
"Yes," he replied softly.
Zerat’s hand slid to Levin’s waist, drawing him just a little closer—not possessive, not demanding, but grounding. For a mont, the palace, the threats, the secrets, and the blood-bound truths all fell away.
There was only stone, torchlight, and the quiet promise of two rulers standing together—unbowed.
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