Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 14: The Garden Did Not Stay Quiet

[Silthara Palace—The Next Day—Emperor’s Chamber]

Levin fluttered his eyes open.

Light filtered softly through the high lattice windows, pale and unhurried. For a moment, he did not understand where he was—only the warmth surrounded him, steady and protective.

"...ugh," he muttered faintly, lifting a hand to his brow. "My head hurts..."

As he shifted—SQUISH.

Something warm and yielding pressed against him. Levin stiffened, then looked down to find himself once again enclosed in the serpent’s coils, closer than before. Memory rushed back in fragments—pain, heat, breath, silver and shadow.

He rubbed his forehead with a small groan.

"I truly did not know," he murmured to himself, voice hoarse, "that womb formation would demand such immense pain."

Then the coils shifted.

Smoothly, silently, the silver serpent receded. Scales flowed like liquid moonlight, reshaping, drawing inward—until Zeramet sat in his human form once more, tall and solid in the morning light.

He moved behind Levin and gathered him close, one arm wrapping around Levin’s waist, drawing him back against his chest. His other hand brushed Levin’s hair aside as he leaned in, kissing near the shell of his ear.

"Are you well, Consort?" Zeramet asked quietly, his voice deep and unhurried, wrapped in concern. "Are you still in pain?"

Levin’s head throbbed in answer. He winced, letting out a faint breath, "...It’s my head. It aches."

Zeramet did not hesitate. He drew Levin back against his chest, one arm firm around his waist, the other brushing gently through his hair.

"Lean on me," Zeramet murmured, his tone both commanding and tender. "It’s because of the womb-formation ritual. Allow me to give you a light massage.

His fingers slid to Levin’s temples, strong yet warm, tracing slow, careful circles. The touch was deliberate and steady—hands that knew both how to command a battlefield and how to ease a fragile heart.

Levin’s shoulders softened almost immediately, his breath growing lighter.

"...Does it feel better?" Zeramet asked in a low, tender murmur.

Levin nodded, eyes fluttering closed. "Yes. Thank you... truly."

Zeramet lowered his head and brushed a tender kiss into Levin’s hair, "If you can endure such trials for this empire... and for me, then the least I can offer my Consort is comfort."

A faint, sincere smile curved Levin’s lips, his heart easing with the ache. As the pain slowly faded, a gentle thought stirred within him—soft, persistent, and filled with longing.

’I must write to Father. He must be worried that I haven’t sent him any letters. He must’ve assumed the worst.’

Levin glanced up at the Emperor. "Zer... may I ask something?"

Zeramet’s hands stilled, though his arm remained firm and steady around him. "You may, my dear."

"I wish to send a letter to Thalryn. Only to assure my father of my well-being. Nothing more," Levin said.

Zeramet studied him for a moment, his gaze thoughtful rather than stern.

"You may," he said at last, "but no letter leaves Zahryssar for foreign lands without my seal."

Levin lifted his eyes.

"Come to my office chamber later," Zeramet added calmly. "I will place the seal upon it myself."

Levin lowered his gaze, lashes brushing his cheeks as he thought, ’Is this caution... or control?’

His chest tightened as a colder truth followed.

’Then again... I am under his control. My life, my breath—even this body no longer belongs solely to me.’

The warmth around him suddenly felt fragile. Temporary.

’This tenderness,’ he thought bitterly, ’is allowed only because I am useful. I am still a bride given to still a war. A peace offering wrapped in silk.’

His fingers curled faintly at his side.

’If I fail, If I cannot bear him a child... this gentleness will fade. He will grow distant. The empire will move on. Another consort will be chosen. I mustn’t forget my place. To maintain the peace... I must endure. After all, peace always costs something.’

As he shifted to rise from the bed, Zeramet caught him at once.

"What are you doing?" Levin asked softly, startled.

Zeramet stood and lifted him with effortless strength. "My consort requires care from his husband. So I am fulfilling my responsibilities."

"But—the court—" Levin began.

Zeramet walked toward the bathing chamber without slowing. "The court can wait. Caring for my Consort cannot."

Levin blinked, surprised, then slowly relaxed against Zeramet’s shoulder, the palace falling quiet around them.

For one morning, at least, the empire would wait and the Emperor would remain exactly where he wished to be.

***

[The Bath Chamber—Later]

Steam lingered low in the chamber, curling along white stone and serpent-carved walls. Warm water lapped softly against the basin as Zeramet worked with unhurried care.

"Tell me if I press too hard," he said, voice calm, almost domestic.

Levin nodded.

Zeramet dipped the cloth again and began to wipe Levin’s skin—slow, careful strokes, mindful of every place that still carried ache. There was no rush in him. No impatience. Only attention.

Levin watched him, eyes lingering longer than he meant to.

’He is... very tender,’ Levin thought quietly. ’I wonder if he also cared for his previous consorts in this manner too.’

The thought lingered—unwanted and sharp until—

"I am doing this for the first time, my dear." The words cut clean through the steam.

Levin blinked, startled. "Pardon?"

Zeramet’s lips curved faintly, not cruelly—knowingly. "Your thoughts are far louder than you believe."

Heat rushed to Levin’s face. He turned his eyes away at once. "I... I apologize."

Zeramet did not laugh. He simply continued his careful ministrations, voice steady as water.

"All my previous consorts were dead after the first night," he said plainly. "I never had the chance to spend three nights with any of them."

The words were spoken without drama. Without pride. Only fact. Then Zeramet lifted his gaze. His golden serpent eyes softened as they met Levin’s.

"You are the first and the one who will carry my child."

Levin’s breath caught.

His gaze dropped to his own hands—to where Zeramet’s were wiping away the water with gentle precision.

’That’s right. I must not forget why I am here. But...’ he glanced at Zeramet. ’He’s really warm and tender.’

The silence that followed was not awkward. It was heavy. Thoughtful. Broken only by the sound of water and breath.

"Close your eyes," Zeramet said.

Levin obeyed.

Warm water poured over his hair and face, washing away steam and tension alike. Zeramet’s hands followed, cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing gently as he wiped the water away.

"There," he said quietly. "Good."

Levin opened his eyes and stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded.

’I hate the way he treats me like this. Like I am... fragile, like a child.’

Then, his gaze drifted to him again, ’well....it’s not too bad.’

Then his gaze lowered and went over Zeramet’s body.

Scars.

Old ones. Deep ones. Some faint with age, others still pale and jagged, crossing bronze skin like a map of battles long past.

’I wonder, how did he get so many...?’ Levin wondered silently.

For the first time, the Emperor before him did not look invincible.

He looked endured, and Levin found himself wondering—not for the empire, not for politics—but for the man who stood before him, scars bared in steam and silence.

***

[Later—Silthara Palace—Courtyard]

Sunlight spilled gently into the inner courtyard, warming the pale stone beneath Levin’s feet. Flowerbeds bloomed in careful abundance—hibiscus flaring red like embers, marigolds bright as captured gold, and dahlias heavy with layered petals he had never seen before.

’So many flowers,’ Levin thought distantly. ’I’ve never seen them before.’

An attendant placed a cup of tea beside him and withdrew without a sound.

Levin sighed and turned. "Iru, I have told you—it was not your fault. Please... stop kneeling."

Before him, Iru remained on both knees, forehead pressed to the stone.

"I cannot, Consort," he replied, voice steady but strained. "Though the Malik has spared me, the fault is still mine. By my carelessness, the empire nearly lost its Malika again."

Levin stared at him, expressionless.

"I should have been more vigilant," Iru continued. "I should have tested the dessert myself before it ever reached you. Until the consort doesn’t give me a punishment, I shall remain like this."

Levin exhaled slowly, rubbing his brow, "...Very well."

Iru glanced at him.

"Your punishment is to stop kneeling and massage my legs. Now rise—and endure it," Levin said.

Iru bowed and then he stood at once, bowing deeply. "As you command, Consort."

He moved closer and knelt properly this time, hands hovering uncertainly. "Allow me to touch your consort."

Levin nodded.

As Iru began to massage, careful and reverent, Levin glanced back toward the flowers.

"I would like ink and paper," he said suddenly.

An attendant reacted instantly. "I will bring them at once, Consort," she said, bowing before hurrying away.

Levin’s fingers curled lightly around his teacup, mumbling, "I should write to father, before he assumes the worst."

Then—Rustle.

Leaves shifted where there was no wind.

Rustle—rustle.

Every attendant froze.

Iru’s hands stopped at once. His head snapped up, eyes sharp and barked, "Summon the guards, now."

Levin was already moving.

In one smooth motion, he rose and drew the dagger concealed at his side, steel flashing briefly in the sunlight. He stepped forward, positioning himself instinctively between the rustling bushes and the others.

"Step back," Levin said, voice calm but firm. "I can handle this."

The courtyard held its breath.

The flowers shuddered again.

And something unseen waited just beyond the petals.