Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 112: The Weight of the Crown

[Zahryssar Empire — Imperial Palace — Night]

Night had fallen over Zahryssar.

The golden towers of Silthara Palace stood beneath the dark desert sky, their tips glowing faintly under the light of the twin moons. The court had long been dismissed, yet the air inside the palace still carried the weight of the words spoken that evening.

The corridors were silent; only the distant sound of guards’ spears striking stone echoed occasionally, steady, disciplined, and unchanged.

Inside the emperor’s private chamber, the lamps burned low. Zeramet stood near the tall open window, his hands folded behind his back, his gaze fixed on the endless desert beyond the palace walls.

He had not removed his court robes; he had not spoken since leaving the hall. On the table behind him lay the parchments from the council.

The report about the vault, the request from Samhira, the seal of the western empire, and the law scroll Rakhane mentioned.

For a long time, Zeramet did not move; he stood near the window, his back straight, his hands folded behind him, his gaze lost in the endless darkness of the desert.

The torches flickered softly, yet the air felt suffocating.

Then—

"Are you still thinking about the High Ensi’s words, Malik?"

The voice came from behind.

Zeramet did not turn immediately; the door had opened without sound.

Arkhazunn stood near the entrance, his eyes sharp as ever. Beside him stood Naburash, his posture straight, his head lowered in respect.

Both bowed.

Zeramet’s eyes shifted slightly, then he spoke without looking at them.

"...It seems the High Ensi has grown tired of living." His voice was calm, too calm. "Now I am wondering... what kind of death would suit him best."

The words fell into the room like cold iron.

Naburash glanced once toward Arkhazunn, then stepped forward and bowed again, deeper this time, "Malik... forgive me for crossing the line of my station."

Zeramet’s gaze turned slowly toward him, cold and dangerous, "Then do not cross it."

Naburash did not step back.

"...I must."

The torches trembled slightly. "What the High Ensi spoke in the court... was not spoken out of insolence."

A pause.

"It was spoken out of fear for Zahryssar."

Zeramet’s eyes narrowed, "...Choose your next words carefully."

Naburash lowered his head further, but his voice did not shake. "You may strike me down where I stand, Malik... and I will accept it as honor, but the law of Zahryssar does not bend for the heart of its ruler."

The air grew colder.

"You love Malika with all your soul... even every soldier knows this." A faint flicker passed through Zeramet’s eyes. "But the throne was never built for one love alone."

Silence.

Then Zeramet spoke; his golden eyes glowed faintly in the dim light. "...It seems you also wish to die tonight, Naburash."

Naburash bowed even deeper, "If my death serves the empire... then I welcome it."

Before Zeramet could speak again, Arkhazunn stepped forward.

"That is enough." His voice was calm but firm.

Zeramet’s gaze moved to him. Arkhazunn met his eyes without fear. "He speaks the truth, Malik... even if the truth tastes like poison."

A long silence followed.

Arkhazunn continued slowly. "You remember the history of Zahryssar better than anyone. When Malika Ninsara carried the royal blood... the court swore the empire would belong to her line forever."

Zeramet’s jaw tightened.

Arkhazunn went on.

"And yet, every child she bore was lost; the throne did not pass to her blood. It passed to the son of a concubine."

Naburash lowered his gaze.

Arkhazunn’s voice grew quieter, heavier.

"Emperor Saqira drowned the palace in blood because the nobles poisoned her mind against her." The chamber felt colder.

"Malika Ninsara gave her life for Zahryssar... her honor, her loyalty, her sacrifice..." He looked directly at Zeramet. "And still... no emperor after her carried her blood."

Silence.

Zeramet’s fingers curled slowly behind his back as his voice was low and sharp. "My consort and our fate are not like Malika Ninsara’s, and my children will not die like hers."

The flame in the lamp bent violently.

"I will make sure of it."

Naburash spoke again, carefully. "Malik... no man controls the future. Not even the Serpent Emperor."

Zeramet’s gaze snapped toward him. "And that is why the law was written."

Arkhazunn finished the sentence. "So that Zahryssar would never stand one death away from ruin again."

A long silence.

Long enough for the sound of the wind outside to fill the chamber. Zeramet turned away from them, his eyes returning to the dark desert beyond the window.

"...Leave."

Neither moved; his voice rose, not loud but filled with something far heavier than anger.

"GET OUT."

The torches shook; the air itself seemed to recoil. Naburash immediately bowed and stepped back. Arkhazunn remained for a moment longer, watching the emperor’s back.

Then he sighed quietly, "...I will begin the preparations."

Zeramet did not turn. "...Preparations for what."

Arkhazunn answered without hesitation.

"For the concubines."

Zeramet’s fist clenched so tightly the veins in his hand rose like cords. For a moment, it seemed the entire chamber might shatter, but he said nothing.

Arkhazunn lowered his head once more.

"...Forgive me, Malik, but Zahryssar comes first before Malika."

Then he turned, and Naburash followed.

The door closed and silence returned, heavy and unmoving. Zeramet remained standing by the window, his breathing slow and controlled, yet the tension in his shoulders had not eased.

His eyes closed, and in the darkness behind his eyelids, Levin’s face appeared, calm, gentle, and trusting.

His lips moved, barely a whisper.

"...First the vault..." A pause. "...Now the concubines..."

His fingers tightened against the stone frame of the window.

"...Why..." The wind howled across the desert. "...Why is the crown forcing me... to stand against my consort?"

The lamp flickered, and in the palace of Zahryssar, the Serpent Emperor stood alone—not defeated by enemies, not wounded by war, but crushed beneath the weight of his throne.

***

[House Karzath — The Same Night — Rakhane’s Office]

Night lay heavy over the noble quarter of Zahryssar.

Unlike the imperial palace, where silence carried discipline, the halls of House Karzath breathed with a darker stillness — the kind that belonged not to order, but to secrets.

Inside the private office of High Ensi Rakhane, the lamps burned low, their light tinted red by the silk covers hanging over them. Scrolls lay scattered across the long table, maps half-rolled, seals broken, reports opened and left unattended — as if the room itself had no need to hide what it already controlled.

Rakhane sat lazily upon the low couch near the window, one arm resting over the backrest, the other holding a crystal cup of dark wine.

His posture was relaxed.

Too relaxed for a man who had just challenged the emperor in open court.

The black patch over one eye cast a sharp shadow across his face, making his smirk look even colder as he slowly swirled the wine inside the cup.

Across from him stood Serath-min.

Or rather — the man known in Zahryssar as Serath-min, but the one who truly knew his name called him Azhrakaal.

He leaned against the pillar with careless ease, his own cup in hand, watching the wine move in Rakhane’s glass with a faint, amused smile.

"So...," Azhrakaal said softly, his voice smooth as silk, "It seems the game we started has finally begun to move."

Rakhane did not look at him immediately, he lifted the cup slightly, watching the dark liquid turn like blood beneath the lamp.

"...Not begun," he murmured, his lips curved slowly. "It has begun to breathe."

Azhrakaal smirked faintly, "The court was entertaining tonight."

Rakhane gave a quiet, humorless chuckle.

"More than entertaining." He finally turned his head, his single visible eye sharp and bright. "The emperor stood exactly where I wanted him to stand."

Azhrakaal raised a brow, "And where is that?"

Rakhane leaned back deeper into the couch.

"Between the throne... and the man he loves." A slow smile spread across his face. "There is no more dangerous place for a ruler to stand."

Azhrakaal took a sip of his wine.

"And the matter of concubines...?"

Rakhane’s smirk widened.

"...Ah." He rolled the word slowly on his tongue, as if savoring it. "The most beautiful part of the plan."

He lifted the cup slightly, staring at the wine as if it were the future itself. "When the Malika hears of this... the seed will be planted."

Azhrakaal watched him carefully. "The seed of doubt."

Rakhane nodded once.

"Yes."

His voice lowered.

"Nothing wounds a consort more deeply than the thought of sharing his husband... especially when he carries that husband’s child inside him."

He took a slow sip.

"The more the emperor is forced to act as a ruler... the more the consort will begin to wonder if love alone is enough to hold him."

Azhrakaal smiled faintly.

"And doubt... once born... does not need help to grow."

Rakhane glanced at him with approval, "You understand it well."

Azhrakaal walked closer, setting his cup on the table before speaking again. "Everything moves exactly as we wished."

His eyes darkened slightly.

"The court pressures the emperor... the law binds him... the nobles whisper..." A pause. "And the consort is far away... in another empire... surrounded by enemies he does not yet see."

Rakhane gave a quiet hum of satisfaction.

"Yes."

But Azhrakaal’s smile faded slightly, "...Except for one thing."

Rakhane’s eye shifted toward him.

"The child."

Silence fell for a moment.

Azhrakaal continued, slower now. "We have heard no word of weakness... no sign of loss... no rumor of illness."

His gaze hardened faintly.

"The poison should have begun its work by now."

Rakhane’s fingers stopped moving around the cup, "...You told me it would take time."

Azhrakaal nodded.

"It will." He lifted his cup again, though his expression was less certain than before. "The poison I prepared was not meant to kill at once."

His voice dropped.

"It was meant to weaken... slowly... quietly... until the body itself begins to betray the life it carries."

Rakhane’s eye narrowed, "And yet the child still lives."

Azhrakaal took a sip, then exhaled.

"...For now."

A long silence followed.

The lamp flame trembled. Rakhane leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on his knee, the smile returning to his lips — colder than before.

"It does not matter."

Azhrakaal looked at him.

Rakhane’s voice lowered to a whisper.

"If the poison does not break the child..." His eye gleamed. "...then the throne will break the parents."

The room fell quiet.

Azhrakaal smirked again, slower this time. "You truly are cruel, High Ensi."

Rakhane leaned back, completely at ease.

"No."

He lifted the cup once more.

"I am patient." The wine turned dark under the lamp. "And patience... always wins against love."

Outside, the night of Zahryssar stretched endlessly —And somewhere far beyond the desert, in the cold lands of Thalryn, the ones they spoke of had no idea how tightly the net was already closing.