Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 39: The High Ensi’s Insolence

[Silthara Palace — Imperial Audience Hall — Continuation]

The great bronze doors shuddered like beasts being forced open. Light from the high windows spilled across the polished sandstone floor, glowing over carvings of serpents, lotus petals, and ancient Zahryssarian kings.

The hall fell silent—because the Malik and the Malika entered.

Zeramet walked first, cold, tyrannical, like a storm wearing a crown. Every step carried the weight of a sovereign who never forgave disrespect.

Behind him, Levin moved with quiet grace, the veil brushing his cheeks, his presence soft yet radiant like a pale moon trailing a blazing sun.

They reached the dais.

The moment they stood upon the twin steps,High Ensi Rakhane Karzath bowed so low the ends of his robes grazed the floor.

"I greet the Malik and Malika of Zahryssar."

Zeramet’s gaze snapped toward him—a glare sharp enough to strip flesh. Levin, sensing the tension spike, glanced at his husband.

Zeramet did not speak, did not blink. He walked past Rakhane with the cold finality of an executioner passing an already-dead man, and took his throne—legs crossing elegantly, like a serpent coiling in preparation to strike.

Levin stood at his side.

Zeramet leaned back into the throne carved with obsidian serpents, one hand resting casually on the armrest, the other tapping his finger in a slow, threatening rhythm.

His golden eyes stayed fixed on Rakhane.

"Lift your head, High Ensi."

Rakhane obeyed; he looked first at Zeramet... then at Levin, and just as he did every time... his gaze lingered too long. Too boldly. Too hungrily.

Zeramet’s voice cracked through the air.

"HIGH ENSI RAKHANE—DIRECT YOUR EYES TO YOUR MALIK."

The walls quivered with the force of it.

Rakhane did not flinch; he just lifted his gaze to Zeramet. A faint, polished smile tugged at his lips.

"I apologize, Malik," Rakhane said smoothly. "But I am here to seek the audience of Malika Levin."

Zeramet did not nod; he did not even breathe differently. He only spoke in a tone cold enough to frost the marble beneath his feet:

"And you requested a private audience with my consort...High Ensi Rakhane..." His lip curled in lethal disdain. "...I was not aware your House Karzath nursed a death wish."

The temperature of the hall plummeted.

Knights stiffened, but Rakhane—bold serpent that he was—opened his mouth again.

"Malik," he said slowly, "the matter I bring pertains directly to the Malika’s authority, and thus—"

"Thus you dared summon him alone?" Zeramet’s voice thundered so loudly the bronze bowls of flame flickered violently.

Rakhane finally lifted his head fully... yet still his gaze flicked toward Levin.

"I meant no disrespect," he said.

But the chill only deepened; before Zeramet could crush him with another wave of fury, Levin stepped forward slightly, the veil swaying.

"High Ensi Rakhane..." Levin said softly. "I understand the matter concerns my authority, but I have not yet stepped fully into those responsibilities."

Rakhane’s lips curved faintly, like a man aware he was stepping on forbidden sand—and relishing it.

"You are correct, Malika," he said. "But forgive me if this sounds harsh... It is time you did."

Zeramet’s fingers clenched on the armrest.

Rakhane continued—and every word was a drop of poison: "If the Malika does not begin taking up the duties of your position... the serpentians may soon believe you serve your role only in the night chambers."

The knights outside the hall gasped, an audible ripple of disbelief and terror.

And then—Zeramet Snaps

"HIGH ENSI RAKHANE!"

Zeramet rose with the force of a sandstorm breaking loose. In one smooth, terrifying motion, he unsheathed his sword—

SCHHHRRRR—

The obsidian blade gleamed with ancient runes. He stepped down the dais, towering over Rakhane, and pressed the blade directly to his throat.

Guards froze; attendants trembled. Even the flames seemed to stop moving.

"How dare you," Zeramet hissed. Each word a dagger of molten fury. "How dare you lay such filth upon my consort’s name."

Rakhane did not tremble; he simply lowered his eyes saying, "I speak only truth, Malik."

Zeramet’s hand tightened, the blade cutting a whisper of blood from Rakhane’s skin.

"I should slice out that venomous tongue—" Zeramet snarled, "—and nail it to the palace gate as a warning."

His arm lifted—ready to strike—but a gentle hand caught his wrist.

Levin.

"Your Radiance... please."

His voice was soft, not pleading and definitely not weak. Soft—like a hand placed upon a rampaging beast’s heart.

Zeramet froze for one breath.

Two.

Then he exhaled—slowly, the fire retreating but not extinguished. He lowered the sword—but only barely.

He turned to Rakhane, eyes narrowed to murderous slits.

"High Ensi RRakhane..." he said, voice low enough to kill a man’s courage. "You have not only offended the Malik and Malika of this empire..." He stepped closer, shadows curling around him like serpents. "...but dared to meddle in the private matters of husband and wife."

Rakhane kept his head bowed, but his smile sharpened.

"I am aware, Malik, and I accept your wrath." He paused. "But bitter as my words are... they remain truth."

Zeramet’s aura surged again—a tidal wave of black lotus power threatening to suffocate the hall.

Rakhane continued, voice rising above death: "You may cut my throat today, Malik and You may silence me."

His eyes turned briefly—boldly—toward Levin.

"But tomorrow... the entire empire will begin to question the role of their Malika. You may strike me down, Malik...but you cannot slaughter the whispers of thousands."

Zeramet’s rage burned hot and silent.

Rakhane inclined his head respectfully and finished: "As the mother of the empire... I suggest Malika begin taking his rightful authority before others dare ask shameful questions."

He bowed—slow and deliberate.

Too deep to be respectful and too bold to be innocent.

All pressure crashed down upon Zeramet, and the temperature of the hall dropped to the frost of death.

Zeramet’s sword—still at Rakhane’s throat—trembled, a hair’s breadth away from cutting.

One more breath, one more word, one more insult—and the High Ensi would leave the hall without a head.

Levin stood between them, soft, silent, and veiled, but radiating the calm strength of a moon who knows he can pull tides with a single sigh.

Inside, his thoughts swirled:

’High Ensi has crossed the line...but he is not wrong. I must step forward. I am Malika and I must bear my crown—not hide behind it.’

Levin finally looked up at Zeramet, "Your Radiance—"

The emperor spun toward him with a fury Levin had never seen directed at him. Golden eyes burning like molten suns.

"DO NOT CONSORT!" Zeramet roared; the flames in the hall shuddered violently. "I WILL NOT HAVE MY CONSORT AGREEING WITH ANOTHER ALPHA SERPENT!"

The entire hall recoiled, knights stepped back, even Rakhane’s smug smile flickered for half a heartbeat.

Levin did not flinch, but this was the first time he had seen Zeramet’s gaze on him with fury; behind the veil, his eyes sharpened with quiet iron but he did not choose to be silent.

"Your Radiance," Levin said, voice low—but steady enough to silence the halls of kings. "I must step into my authority, and I must hear the High Ensi’s purpose."

Rakhane’s lips curved again—subtle, dangerous, and amused.

He admired that steel.

Zeramet saw that admiration. It made his temperature spike to volcanic wrath. His fist clenched on the sword hilt until the leather creaked.

He snarled—not at Rakhane this time, but at the air, at the universe, at the idea of his consort agreeing to another Serpent.

"SUMMON NABURASH—IMMEDIATELY!!"

His voice cracked the silence like a deity’s command. The guards leapt into motion, practically stumbling over each other to escape the storm brewing in the hall.

Levin lowered his eyes—not out of obedience, but to maintain peace. The hall was quiet enough to hear hearts racing.

Moments later, the doors burst open. Naburash hurried in, robes swaying, face stiff with worry.

He bowed deeply, "Malik... you have summoned me?"

Zeramet’s eyes burned with the fury to share the attention of his consort.

"Your Malika," Zeramet said, voice calm now but cold as obsidian ice, "...has decided to take his authority."

Naburash’s head snapped toward Levin—a relief breaking through his calm as the Malika decided to take his authority, but---

Zeramet continued:

"So from this moment onward, you will teach him everything. Every duty, every decree, every history, and every law that binds the mother of the empire."

He stepped closer, rage still trembling in his shoulders.

"And you will ensure..." His voice dropped to a deadly whisper— "...that he learns in ten nights."

Naburash blinked—slowly, horrified, "M-Malik... ten nights? No one can learn the full authority of the Malika—not in ten ni—"

Zeramet snapped forward, voice slicing the air like a whip, "DO YOU THINK I AM ASKING YOU, NABURASH?"

The hall froze.

Zeramet towered over the mage, aura spiraling with lethal dominance.

"This is an order," he growled. "A command from your emperor."

He turned slightly, his golden gaze flicking possessively toward Levin, "Make sure my consort learns the true meaning of being the mother of Zahryssar."

His final words fell like a royal edict carved into stone, "Ten nights, no more."

And without waiting for replies—without acknowledging Rakhane, without softening toward Levin, without so much as looking back—the Serpent Emperor turned on his heel and left the hall in a storm of silk, shadow, and fury.

The bronze doors boomed shut behind him; the room exhaled as though released from the jaws of a beast.

Levin remained still.

Naburash bowed to him, shaken but respectful.

Rakhane lifted his gaze—smiling dangerous and far too intrigued. The tension in the hall lingered like smoke, and the Malika...had just taken his first step into power.

Rakhane inhaled slowly, he pressed a hand to his chest, bowing again, "I offer my apologies, Malika. I had no intention to—"

But Levin cut him off, his voice—calm, smooth, and cold as polished moonstone—sliced the hall’s silence.

"Come after ten nights, High Ensi."

Rakhane’s shoulders stiffened, his head snapped up in disbelief, "Malika, I—"

Levin continued walking forward, veil swaying like a blade of white flame. His voice dropped—quiet, soft, but laced with a tyrant’s promise.

"You already dared to utter nonsense before His Radiance today."

Rakhane flinched.

Levin halted directly in front of him—close enough that Rakhane could see the cold gleam behind the veil.

"This time, your blood did not stain my palace floors, but next time... I will not stop my husband from letting it spill."

His tone did not rise, he did not shout, he did not threaten, he simply stated it as truth.

As a decree, as a man finally stepping into the role of Malika. Rakhane’s lips parted—just slightly—caught off guard by the blade hidden beneath Levin’s gentleness.

Levin turned away from him, veil sweeping softly as he stepped toward Naburash.

"Let’s go," Levin said, his voice returned to calm composure, though firm. "We have no time to waste, Naburash."

Naburash bowed immediately, "Yes, Malika."

He cast one final look—sharp and disapproving—toward the High Ensi before following Levin out.

Then—THUD!!!

The massive bronze doors slammed shut behind them with the force of thunder.

The hall echoed and the silence swallowed everything.

High Ensi Rakhane remained frozen where he stood. Then—slowly—too slowly—a smirk curved the corner of his mouth.

Soft.Sinister.Intrigued.

"...I must say," he murmured to no one, "...the Malika carries a power that can pique the interest of many."

His eyes gleamed with dangerous amusement.

"Very well then, Levin Karash... let us see what kind of ’mother of the empire’ you will become."