Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 118: The Brother in the Shadows

[Silthara Palace — Emperor’s Office Chamber]

The emperor’s office was lit with sunlight.

Their flames burned low and steady, casting long shadows across the carved stone walls where ancient serpent sigils coiled from floor to ceiling. Outside, the desert lay silent, but inside the chamber the air felt heavy, as if something unseen watched from every corner.

Zeramet sat behind the obsidian desk, several parchments spread before him.

Reports from the western border. Records of the vault. Letters from the noble houses.

His golden eyes moved across the ink without hurry, his fingers resting lightly against the table as if nothing in the world could disturb his calm.

Then his breath stopped, only for a moment. His fingers tightened slightly on the parchment, the faintest crease forming beneath his hand.

His heart had skipped.

No.

Not skipped, beaten harder.

Once.

Twice.

Too loud and too sudden. His eyes narrowed faintly, and his gaze lifted from the parchment, staring at nothing in particular as the feeling passed through his chest again.

Sharp.

Unwelcome.

His Alpha instinct stirred like a beast waking from sleep.

"...Consort..." The word left his lips without thought.

Across the table, Naburash looked up at once, his brows drawing together as he studied the emperor carefully.

"...Malik?"

Zeramet did not answer; his hand moved slowly to his chest, pressing against the skin as if testing whether the feeling would return.

Inside, his thoughts moved quickly.

’Is something wrong...?’ His jaw tightened slightly. ’Why does the bond feel restless...?’

For a moment, his eyes darkened, then the sensation faded, like wind passing through an open hall.

Zeramet paused and lowered his hand. He picked up the parchment again as if nothing had happened.

"...Naburash."

"Yes, Malik."

"Bring me the old records of the Western Empire."

Naburash blinked once, "Now, Malik?"

Zeramet did not look at him.

"Yes. Now."

His voice was calm, too calm. Naburash hesitated only for a breath, then bowed deeply.

"As you command."

He turned and walked toward the door, his steps slow but careful, as if he felt the tension in the room but did not dare question it further.

The door closed, and silence returned, long and heavy. The curtains swayed once, though no wind had entered.

Zeramet did not look up; he continued reading the parchment for several breaths more.

Then his voice came, low, almost bored.

"...You can come out now."

The shadows near the far pillar shifted. At first, it looked like nothing more than darkness moving along the floor.

Then a pale shape slid across the stone.

A long, pure white serpent emerged from the shadow, its scales catching the light like polished bone. It moved without sound, gliding across the floor until it reached the center of the chamber.

The serpent lifted its head.

Its body twisted, bones cracked softly, and scales faded into skin. The shape folded into that of a man kneeling on one knee before the emperor.

Long white hair fell over his shoulders, the same one from last night.

He bowed deeply, his head lowered.

"...Malik."

Zeramet finally looked at him; his eyes were calm.

"Well?"

The man did not raise his gaze.

"I have done as you ordered." A pause. "Every name on the list."

Silence filled the chamber. Zeramet leaned back slowly in his chair, one arm resting against the carved serpent head at its side.

"And...?"

The white-haired man spoke without emotion.

"...No witnesses...No traces." His voice remained steady. "And I made certain... it will be believed to be an accident."

Zeramet’s lips curved slightly, not a smile, but something colder.

"Good."

His golden eyes darkened faintly, satisfaction passing through them like shadow across water.

"There..." He tapped the parchment once with his finger. "You have done well, Sahresh."

The name hung in the air; the white-haired man did not react. He only bowed his head lower.

Zeramet picked up another scroll, already losing interest.

"You may go."

Silence.

Sahresh did not move. Zeramet’s eyes shifted slowly back to him.

"...If you have something to say... speak." His voice sharpened slightly. "Do not waste my time standing there like a statue."

A long pause, then Sahresh spoke; his voice was low and quiet, but the words cut deeper than any blade.

"...When... are you going to kill me, Malik?"

The quill in Zeramet’s hand stopped moving, only for a moment. Ink gathered at the tip, forming a dark drop before falling onto the parchment.

He did not look up immediately.

"...Have you forgotten your oath?"

Sahresh shook his head slowly.

"No, Malik."

His eyes lifted at last, dark brown meeting burning gold.

"I would never forget."

A faint silence stretched between them.

Then Sahresh spoke again, his voice lower and heavier now.

"I would never forget the promise you made..." A breath. "...the night you slaughtered our brothers and sisters."

The air in the chamber turned cold; the curtains bent sideways as if a wind had passed through the room, though the windows were closed and the night outside lay still.

Zeramet’s hand stopped over the parchment slowly... he lifted his eyes, golden, sharp, and unreadable.

Sahresh did not bow this time.

He remained on one knee, but his head was raised, his scarred face lit by the low lamp, his dark eyes fixed directly on the emperor as if the years between them did not exist.

"...But why spare me... Elder brother?"

Silence stretched between them. Zeramet leaned back in his chair, the carved serpent head behind him catching the faint light as his coils shifted slowly across the floor.

For a moment, he did not answer.

His gaze remained on Sahresh’s face, cold and distant, as if he were looking at a memory rather than a man. 𝓯𝓻𝒆𝙚𝒘𝓮𝙗𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝒍.𝙘𝓸𝙢

Then he spoke, low, flat, and without warmth.

"Just quietly serve me, Sahresh." A faint pause. "One day... you will be honored with death."

The words settled in the chamber like iron. Sahresh’s expression did not change, but something flickered in his eyes.

Pain, or perhaps something older than pain. He lowered his gaze slowly and bowed his head again, though not as deeply as before.

"You have said those words for twelve years... brother." The title came out quieter this time; he let out a faint breath.

"I have no wish for honor." His fingers curled slightly against the stone floor. "I have no wish... for anything that remains in this palace."

Zeramet’s eyes darkened faintly, before Sahresh could continue—

"Enough."

The word cut through the room like a blade. Zeramet leaned forward slightly, his golden gaze hardening, the scent of black lotus thickening in the air.

"Your death is not yours to choose." His voice lowered.

Colder.

"You lost that right the night you failed to stand with me."

Sahresh’s shoulders stiffened. Zeramet continued, each word measured.

"Remember this well. You live because I allow it."

A long silence.

Then—

"Now go."

His eyes moved back to the parchment as if the conversation had already ended.

"And stay in the shadows where you belong. No one must know that the last of the white blood still walks this palace."

Sahresh did not move for several moments; his gaze remained on Zeramet’s face, searching for something that was no longer there.

At last, he bowed, deep and lower than before.

"As the Serpent Emperor commands." His voice returned to obedience, but the weight behind it had changed.

His body began to shift.

Skin paling, bones bending, and the long white serpent slid across the floor once more, silent as falling ash, its scales glowing faintly in the dim light.

It reached the open window and paused on the stone frame. For a moment, the serpent turned its head back.

Watching.

Not the emperor, not the throne, but the man who sat upon it. Then it slipped into the darkness outside and vanished into the night wind.

The chamber fell silent again; only the scratching of Zeramet’s quill against parchment remained.

But after a few strokes, his hand stopped. His fingers tightened slowly around the pen, his eyes unfocused for a moment, his chest rising deeper than before.

The bond flickered again, weak and unsteady.

His jaw tightened.

"...Consort..."

The name barely formed on his lips. And for the first time since Sahresh had left, the Serpent Emperor did not return to his work.

***

[Veyrhold House — Dining Chamber — Night]

The dining chamber of Veyrhold was warm with firelight, the long table set with silver plates and crystal bowls, the scent of herbs and fresh bread filling the air.

It should have felt comforting.

It did not.

The doors opened quietly, and Levin walked in.

His steps were steady, his posture straight as always, his expression calm enough that no stranger would notice anything wrong, but those who knew him well could see it.

The tiredness in his eyes, not the kind that came from training, not the kind that came from work.

Something deeper, something that did not belong to the body. Iru followed closely behind, pulling the chair out before Levin reached the table.

"Malika."

Levin gave a faint nod and sat down slowly, one hand resting briefly over his stomach before moving away as if the gesture had been unconscious.

Across the table, Duke Aren was already seated.

He had been waiting, his gaze stayed on Levin’s face longer than usual, studying him carefully, the way a father does when he knows something is wrong but does not yet know how to ask.

Aelira sat to the side, leaning back in her chair, her expression already tired, her fingers tapping lightly against the table as if the evening bored her.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Aren finally broke the silence.

"...Are you feeling better, son?"

Levin lifted his eyes slowly.

"Yes, Father."

His voice was calm, too calm.

A maid stepped forward and placed the bowl of soup in front of him, before Levin could touch it, Iru reached out quickly, taking the spoon first. He tasted the broth carefully, his eyes narrowing slightly as he checked the food.

Only after a moment did he nod.

"It is fine, Malika."

Levin took the spoon from him without looking up.

Duke Aren watched the small exchange, then spoke again, more carefully this time.

"...Physician Naram told me you fainted because of stress."

Levin’s hand paused for the smallest moment, then he continued stirring the soup as if he had not heard.

Aren frowned slightly.

"You should not push yourself this much, Levin. Exactly what happened that made you faint. In your condition—"

"I trained too much."

Levin’s voice cut in quietly.

Not loud, not rude, but firm enough to stop the words before they finished.

Aren fell silent.

Levin lifted the spoon, his gaze still lowered to the bowl.

"That is all, Father." He took a slow sip before continuing. "And... it is not unusual for someone carrying a child to feel weak."

His tone remained even, almost indifferent.

"...Especially when that person refuses to rest."

The words sounded like explanation, but something in them felt colder than truth.

Duke Aren watched him for a long moment.His eyes moved over Levin’s face, searching for something behind the calm mask.

He found it.

A lie.

Not spoken badly, not spoken carelessly. Spoken on purpose. Aren’s jaw tightened slightly, but he did not argue.

Instead, he lowered his gaze and nodded once.

"...Take care of yourself, son." His voice softened. "You are not alone anymore. You carry two lives inside you now."

Levin did not answer, he only lifted the spoon again and drank quietly, as if the words had never reached him.

The butler stepped forward after a moment, his posture perfectly straight.

"My lord... does the soup suit your taste tonight?"

Levin nodded faintly.

"Yes."

Nothing more, no smile, no complaint and no praise.

Just one word. Macrane bowed and stepped back. Silence returned to the table. Only the faint sound of spoons against porcelain could be heard.

Iru stood beside Levin, his hands folded tightly, his eyes moving to Levin again and again without meaning to.

Something was wrong, he could feel it, not in the room.

In Levin.

His thoughts whispered quietly.

’What was written in that letter...? What could make the Malika faint like that...?’

Across the table, Duke Aren wondered the same. Aelira, though she looked uninterested, had not missed a single movement since Levin entered the room. Macrane stood still near the wall, his expression calm, but his eyes sharper than usual.

The same question hung in the chamber like smoke.

No one asked it, no one dared. At the head of the table, Levin continued eating in silence, his gaze fixed on the bowl in front of him.

His face showed nothing.

But inside—his chest felt hollow, his heart still echoing with the same words.

’The Serpent Emperor has begun preparations...for concubines.’

His fingers tightened slightly around the spoon, only for a moment. Then he forced them to relax.

He took another sip.

Slow.

Controlled.

As if nothing had changed, as if nothing inside him had broken, and the dinner continued—with people at the table, and one question none of them were brave enough to speak aloud.