Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 30: Twenty Kilometers of Possession

[Silthara Palace—Throne Hall Aftermath]

The Hall of Judgment emptied... but its silence did not.

The nobles had fled—some stumbling, some pale as bone, some nearly fainting—but none dared breathe until they were far beyond the doors.

Only two figures remained in the vast, blood-scented hall:

The Serpent Emperor and the High Mage of the Magic Tower.

The great obsidian doors slammed shut behind the last noble—BOOOOM—and the echo crawled through the hall like a dying heartbeat.

Zeramet did not move.

He stood before the throne, sickle-sword dripping a single line of red onto the marble. His golden shawl was stained. His bare chest was streaked with crimson lines.

Arkhazunn alone stood steady.

No fear, only the calm, ancient concern of someone who had known the Emperor since before the crown weighed his head... since they were young, foolish serpents playing with forbidden spells.

The High Mage folded his arms, studying Zeramet with a long, heavy sigh.

"Your rage is justified, Malik," Arkhazunn said, his tone more exasperated elder brother than subject. "But that old serpent was not the mind behind this."

Zeramet’s jaw twitched, a thin line of control barely held.

"I know," he said quietly—dangerously quiet. "And I also know I should have waited. Interrogated him. Let him speak before the blade rose."

His eyes sharpened, molten gold narrowing.

"But I do not need to guess who stands behind all this."

A faint smirk curved Arkhazunn’s mouth; he stretched lazily, lifting his arms over his head.

"Ah... so the great Malik of Zahryssar finally admits it." He clicked his tongue. "The Black Serpent Clan is slithering its influence everywhere. Today it was Master Zh’reth. Tomorrow—who knows? Someone closer to you. Or perhaps..."

His gaze flicked with mischief.

"...the consort Levin?"

Zeramet didn’t blink; he didn’t need to. His aura spiked so fast the torches flickered.

"Do not utter my consort’s name," Zeramet said, voice low and lethal, "from your mouth."

Arkhazunn arched a brow—unintimidated—eyes twinkling.

"So Nabuarsh was right." He spread his arms wide with mock celebration. "Consort Levin has truly taken the unshakable Serpent Emperor and wrapped him around one delicate human finger."

Zeramet didn’t answer; he simply lifted the black sickle-sword and placed the blade against Arkhazunn’s throat.

The High Mage blinked, not in fear. In flat, unimpressed amusement.

"Hmm," Arkhazunn murmured, tilting his head back slightly so the blade pressed more firmly. "I should have known. You’re even more possessive than the old temple stories say."

Zeramet’s voice dropped further, colder.

"I said..." the blade pressed deeper. "Do not mention my consort’s name from those lips."

But Arkhazunn only smiled—infuriatingly calm, sliding the sword down from his finger, saying, "It’s sharp."

"I would love to meet the human," he said, glancing at him brightly, "who managed to leash a serpent like you in barely twenty days."

Zeramet froze for a heartbeat, then turned sharply, cloak flaring, and strode toward the doorway. "You are not even allowed to breathe within one kilometer of my consort."

Arkhazunn’s jaw dropped. "What?"

He hurried after Zeramet, grabbing his staff, expression twisting with pure disbelief. "What do you mean not allowed to breathe? Malik—"

Zeramet walked faster.

Arkhazunn followed, indignant.

"That human is practically my brother-in-law!" he complained loudly. "I have every right to see him!"

The Emperor’s steps did not slow. His aura thundered down the corridor like rolling sandstorms. Arkhazunn chased after him, robes flapping, hair swaying like wild jungle vines.

"I heard he’s beautiful," the mage continued dramatically. "More beautiful than any omega in this empire. I’d like to—"

Zeramet turned, slowly, dangerously. His eyes were two molten suns ready to swallow a world. "Twenty kilometers away from my Consort."

Arkhazunn froze mid-step, mouth half-open.

"...Malik."

The mage placed a hand over his heart, wounded. "Do you really believe I am some poisonous demon who corrupts everything I look at?"

Zeramet raised a brow and scoffed.

Arkhazunn’s eyes narrowed, and then he grinned shamelessly.

"Or..." he leaned forward, smirk widening, "...do you fear your consort will fall for my handsome face?"

Zeramet stared, one long, suffocating, murderous stare. Then he turned to the nearest Red Knights and pointed at the High Mage like one points at a misbehaving stray cat.

"Ensure this pathetic creature never enters my private wing."

Arkhazunn gasped.

"Pathe—what—?! Malik! I am the High Mage of Zahryssar! This is an insult to the entire lineage of High Mages! I outrank half the—HEY! Did you just—No—wait—STOP!"

Zeramet walked away, the Red Knights immediately grabbed Arkhazunn by both arms.

He kicked dramatically.

"This is abuse of magical authority! Are you hearing me?! Malik! ZERAMET! I SWEAR BY THE SEVEN TEMPLES IF YOU—HEY! DON’T LIFT ME LIKE A GOATSACK—"

Zeramet’s voice echoed coolly from the corridor: "Throw him out of the Silthara Palace."

The knights obeyed instantly.

Arkhazunn’s outraged voice echoed through the halls— "I SWEAR I WILL CURSE YOUR PILLOWS! AND YOUR BATHWATER! AND YOUR SANDALS! LET GO—AGHH—!"

The doors to the private wing shut firmly. Zeramet’s expression softened—barely, because he was steps away from Levin, and nothing in the world mattered more.

***

[Outside Silthara Palace—Later]

Arkhazunn was still muttering to himself when the Red Knights escorted him out—more like dragged him with ceremonial politeness.

"Fine, fine, I’m going," he grumbled, dusting off his robes. "Like Malik... like knights... tch—one giant overprotective serpent and his army of obedient statues."

He waved a dismissive hand toward the guards; they didn’t blink. Arkhazunn rolled his eyes. "Yes yes, keep glaring. I promise you I won’t break into the Emperor’s chambers."

A beat.

"But I could if I wanted to."

A Red Knight twitched. Arkhazunn smirked in triumph—only for his expression to freeze as he stepped past the gates.

Because someone was waiting for him. Tall, unmoving, wrapped in the deep crimson of Zahryssar’s highest command.

Nabuarsh.

Zahryssar’s foreign advisor, the Emperor’s right hand. The serpent who smiled once per decade.

Arkhazunn’s smirk returned immediately.

"Ah," he drawled, "my favorite statue."

Nabuarsh exhaled—slow, patient, the sound of a man long resigned to suffering Arkhazunn’s existence.

"Were you thrown out again?" he asked flatly.

Arkhazunn scoffed. "Thrown? No. Gracefully escorted by men with no sense of humor." He flicked his hair dramatically. "I am used to it now."

Nabuarsh’s expression did not shift a single scale.

Arkhazunn leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, "I simply wanted to meet the consort. But your Malik is too possessive for that—"

He held up fingers.

"—twenty kilometers, Nabuarsh. Twenty. He banned me like I’m some wandering plague spirit."

Nabuarsh did not react. Not outwardly, but something flickered—old, tired, hidden—deep in his eyes.

"He is bound," Nabuarsh said quietly, "in the way only a serpent can be bound. It has not even been a month... yet this consort already holds Malik’s entire breath in his palm. If this continues... I wonder..."

Arkhazunn cut in, clicking his tongue sharply.

"What happened with you," he said, voice unexpectedly gentle beneath the sarcasm, "will not happen with Malik Zeramet, Nabuarsh."

Nabuarsh turned his gaze toward him.

Cold and Emotionless, but his eyes... They were empty in a way no warrior’s eyes should be. Something old and unhealed lay there—shadows of grief carved too deep, carved too long ago.

Nabuarsh’s voice came low, quiet, almost a whisper carried by desert winds.

"Malik lost all his previous consorts," he said. "Many graves lie in the palace garden. Seventeen shrouds lowered by his own hands. I fear..."

His throat tightened—barely perceptible, but it was there. "...this consort may have survived, but I do not trust consort Levin."

For once, the High Mage did not smirk; instead, he touched Nabuarsh’s arm—lightly, steadily.

"Nabuarsh," he said, voice dropping into something rare—honesty, "your past is carved with knives, yes. But do not place your wounds on Zeramet. He is not you."

Nabuarsh’s jaw shifted—pain flickering and gone.

Arkhazunn continued.

"And Consort Levin?"

His eyes softened.

"I have read the reports. That human shattered a queen-heart with his bare determination. He did what serpent warriors twice his age could not."

He looked toward the private wing of the palace, where Zeramet’s aura still lingered faintly like silver lightning across stone.

"That consort," Arkhazunn said slowly, reverently, "is no fragile bloom. He is the first since Malika Ninsara who has the heart—and the spine—to stand beside the Serpent Emperor."

He exhaled softly, the desert wind lifting his green hair.

"I feel," he murmured, "that this consort will be worthy of the title Mother of Zahryssar."

The words hung between them—heavy, sacred.

Nabuarsh stared at him for a long moment, then turned away, cloak sweeping like blood across the sandstone.

"I see..." he murmured.

Arkhazunn watched him go, expression unreadable. When Nabuarsh’s silhouette disappeared down the palace corridor, Arkhazunn let out a long sigh.

"Ah, Nabuarsh..." he whispered to the empty air, "...when will you let the ghosts of your past sleep?"

***

[Silthara Palace — Emperor’s Private Wing — Courtyard]

Lyseraph tumbled across the flowerbeds like a shiny, overexcited pebble, sneezing petals into the air. Asha, larger and lazier, rolled after him with dignified annoyance—until Lyseraph head-butted her, sending both creatures flopping into a heap of blossoms.

The attendants giggled, Iru hid a smile behind his sleeve.

Levin flipped a page of the old Zahryssar history scroll resting on his lap, brow furrowed in gentle curiosity.

"So..." he began, tracing a line of ancient script, "the Black Serpents lived within Zahryssar once?"

Iru nodded, bowing lightly.

"Yes, Malika. They were once a revered branch of our own bloodline—fierce, strong, unmatched in venom. All serpents lived as one clan once upon a time."

Levin tilted his head. "Then what caused the separation? Why do they hunt the other serpents now?"

Before Iru could answer—A voice cut through the courtyard, deep and edged with ancient fury:

"—Because they began killing their own kind, Consort."

Everyone froze, every attendant stiffened—gasps slipping from their lips as they turned toward the garden gate.

Zeramet stood there.

Still drenched in blood, still carrying the obsidian sickle-sword. His chest and golden shawl were streaked in red—some dried to rust, some still fresh. His aura had not fully faded; it clung to him like storm haze.

But Levin did not gasp.

He simply looked up—quiet and steady—and then looked away from Zeramet to Iru, closing the scroll calmly.

"Iru," Levin said softly, "could you bring hot water?"

Iru bowed so fast he nearly tripped, "Right away, Malika!"

Attendants scattered like startled birds. Levin’s gaze shifted back to Zeramet, voice gentle but firm.

"...Please put the sword away."

Zeramet paused for a single heartbeat—almost startled by the request—then obeyed without hesitation. He handed the blade to a knight behind him; the knight took it with both hands and bowed low before retreating.

Zeramet crossed the courtyard in long strides and sat beside Levin, the blood on his clothes stark against the peaceful garden scene.

His golden eyes scanned Levin instantly, searching, worried, tender beneath the storm.

"Are you well, Consort?" he asked, voice low, meant only for him.

Levin nodded, blue eyes lifting to meet his, "I’m fine."

His gaze dropped—not to the Emperor’s eyes, but to the red stains covering his chest and arms.

"But..." Levin’s voice softened, concern threading through it, "...you’re covered in blood. Are you hurt?"

Zeramet blinked—then chuckled under his breath, warmth softening his features.

"This?" He brushed a thumb across his shoulder, smearing a streak of dried crimson. "This is not my blood, Consort."

Levin sighed—relieved, then mildly exasperated, "..I see."

Zeramet smirked faintly, leaning in just a fraction, lowering his voice.

"What?" he murmured. "Did you think your husband would stain himself with his own blood on a day like this?"

Levin opened his mouth, trying to form the right words, "No... I was just..."

He stopped—the concern caught in his throat.

Meanwhile, Lyseraph climbed boldly onto his lap, puffed up like a tiny guardian warlord, sniffing Zeramet’s bloodied shawl with offended chirps. Asha sat behind him, tail flicking, clearly judging the Emperor for arriving home drenched in other people’s blood.

Zeramet watched the trio, his heart tightening in a way only they could cause. His voice softened, slipping into something warm, something human beneath the crown.

"You were right to worry, my heart," he murmured, thumb brushing Levin’s cheek. "And... it pleases me more than I can say—that my consort worries for me."

Levin’s gaze softened, his lips parting with a shy, warm smile. Zeramet almost looked away, because the sight tugged something deep within him.

He cleared his throat once, composing himself, "The whole empire, is proud of you, my dear. You shattered a Queen’s heart-stone. No serpent will forget that."

Levin lowered his eyes modestly. "I only did what was needed."

Zeramet’s lips curved faintly, "Which is why, we shall not waste more time. Let the common serpents see the one who fought for them. You will accompany me on the Parade of Scales, yes?"

Levin considered, then nodded. "I do not mind. If my presence calms them... perhaps those still hiding in fear of the Sirrash will find the courage."

"Exactly, Consort," Zeramet murmured approvingly. "Your appearance will restore their courage."

He reached out, brushing a strand of Levin’s hair behind his ear—slowly, reverently. "Prepare yourself. On the next full moon, the Day of Lord Urzan’s Blessing approaches."

Levin looked up. "Lord Urzan’s blessing?"

Zeramet nodded, voice taking on a solemn cadence, like ancient scripture brought to life.

"On the full moon night, Lord Urzan walks the winds and blesses Zahryssar’s soil. Serpents gather under his gaze to seek prosperity, health, and a future unmarred by shadow."

His gaze softened again, the regal edge slipping just for Levin, "It is an auspicious night—perfect for the empire to greet its Malika."

Levin smiled faintly, fingers stroking Lyseraph’s head as he listened. Zeramet inhaled, then added in a quieter tone, "And... if you wish, you may summon your father."

Levin froze.

"My... father?" His voice trembled slightly.

Zeramet nodded once, firm and gentle, "Yes. Your father is my father-in-law, and thus honored by the throne. On the night Lord Urzan blesses this land, I would have him stand beside us."

Levin’s breath caught, warmth bloomed in his chest—soft, bright, unsteady.

"Father... will be happy," he whispered.

"And I," Zeramet replied, his lips curving with rare tenderness, "am happy to see my consort smile."

Levin lowered his head, cheeks warming, while Zeramet reached out and brushed the back of his hand lightly with his thumb—a private gesture hidden from attendants’ eyes.

The courtyard basked in sunlight.

Lyseraph purred, Asha yawned, the attendants smiled quietly.

And the Serpent Emperor, freshly painted in another’s blood, sat beside his recovering consort with a tenderness fierce enough to move the desert itself.

The empire prepared for the Full Moon Festival—and the future mother of Zahryssar would walk among them.