Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 139: What Leaves… and What Awakens

[House Veyrhold—The Next Day—Departure]

Morning did not arrive gently. It came with a pale, muted light—soft across the stone walls of Veyrhold, yet carrying a weight that could not be ignored.

The estate stood in stillness. Outside, the imperial carriage stood prepared. Its structure gleamed beneath the early light, draped in deep silks and marked unmistakably with the crest of Zahryssar.

The serpent insignia caught the wind—flowing like water across the air alive. Zahryssar guards stood in formation—silent, disciplined, and unmoving.

Waiting.

Everything was ready, and yet no one rushed, because departures like these were never hurried. They were... endured. Levin stood at the front steps of Veyrhold still and composed.

But not untouched before him—Duke Aren, not as the Duke and not as a lord of the empire, but as a father.

Levin stepped forward, and for a moment he allowed himself to close the distance; he embraced him, not tightly, not desperately but firmly.

"I will write," Levin said quietly, his voice steady, though softer than usual. "...You will hear from me."

Aren’s hand came to rest against his back.

"You had better," his voice was low and measured. "Or I will assume Zahryssar has decided to keep you for itself."

A faint breath left Levin, not quite a laugh. "...It already has."

They separated. Levin looked at him—just once—as if there were something more he wished to say. Something unfinished, but before the words could form—Aren spoke.

"Do not trouble yourself over her."

Levin stilled.

Aren’s gaze did not waver.

"Sending her away..." he continued, his voice calm, but carrying a weight of finality, "...was the right decision... Perhaps the only right one we have made... regarding her."

Silence settled between them.

Levin nodded once because there was nothing left to question. "...Yes."

And then, from behind, a voice entered.

"It is time." Zeramet’s voice came low and unhurried. "...We must leave, consort."

Levin turned, and there he stood. The Malik of Zahryssar was waiting for him. Levin did not hesitate; he stepped away, saying, "I should leave."

Duke Aren nodded, and he stepped down the steps of Veyrhold. Each step was measured, each step final. He did not look back, not once. Just as he had not looked back on the day he left this house as a bride.

But this time there was no uncertainty in his steps, no hesitation in his breath, because this time he was not being taken; he was returning.

At the final step, Zeramet’s hand reached for his. Levin placed his hand in his, and this time he did not walk alone.

Zeramet guided him forward—not ahead, not behind, but beside him. The carriage doors opened. Levin stepped inside. Zeramet followed.

And then—SHUT.

The sound echoed finally outside—the wheels turned, and the carriage moved. The Zahryssar banner rose with the wind—coiling, flowing, alive.

And just like that—Levin Veyrhold left.

And as the carriage carried him farther from Veyrhold, something else traveled with him: not regret, but resolve. He strengthened the Thalryn; he stood against his own sister, and when he goes back...he is ready to strike the most dangerous and hidden traitor of Zahryssar.

***

[Imperial Carriage of Zahryssar — Two Days Later — On the Road to Zahryssar]

The wheels did not rush.

They rolled—steady, rhythmic, and unyielding—cutting through the long stretch of forest as sunlight flickered between branches like fractured gold.

Inside the carriage silence reigned.

Levin sat by the window still and composed. His chin rested lightly against his hand, his gaze lowered outward—but his mind... was nowhere near the passing trees.

’As soon as I reach the palace...’ His thoughts moved, slow and deliberate. ’The first thing... will be Nabuarsh. There is no doubt left; he is the traitor, but doubt... is not proof.’

The carriage shifted gently beneath him, but Levin did not move.

’Nabuarsh is not a minor serpent; he stands close to Zeramet, trusted, seen, and respected. To accuse him without evidence...’

His fingers tightened.

’...is to place Zeramet in a position where he must choose between his empire...and me, and there’s no doubt he will choose his empire over me, and I will not allow that.’

Silence deepened.

’So I will not accuse. I will prove it.’

And then—a shift in warmth.

As Zeramet stirred, the massive silver serpent coiled loosely around him shifted, scales brushing softly against silk as he moved. His head lifted lazily, then lowered—resting against Levin’s shoulder from behind.

A soft nudge brushed against his cheek, possessive and familiar.

"What weighs upon you... consort?"

His voice was low, still thick with sleep. Levin glanced at him, the tension in his gaze smoothing—just slightly.

"Did you sleep well?"

Zeramet’s golden eyes half-lidded, his tongue flicked briefly in the air.

"I slept... well enough," he murmured, his voice soft but steady. Then, quieter—"...but you did not."

Levin said nothing. Zeramet’s gaze sharpened—just a fraction.

"You were thinking about something. Are you concerned about something?"

Not a question. Levin exhaled softly, turning his gaze back toward the window.

"Nothing of concern; it has been two months since I left Zahryssar." His voice lowered. "I can already imagine... the weight of what awaits us."

Zeramet shifted again, coils adjusting more securely around him—not restricting, not binding, just holding.

"Lady Arinaya would not allow disorder to take root," he said calmly. "The palace will stand as it did."

A faint pause, then, quieter—

"...And if it does not..." His head tilted slightly, brushing Levin’s shoulder. "...then I will stand beside you while you restore it."

Levin’s lips curved faintly.

"We shall see about that," he said softly.

A moment passed, then—Levin turned. "May I request access to the oldest parchments of Zahryssar?"

Zeramet blinked once and slowly. "...The oldest records? What draws your interest toward such dust and forgotten ink, my consort?"

Levin’s expression did not change.

"Curiosity." A simple word, too simple. "I wish to understand Zahryssar... beyond what is spoken and... beyond what is shown."

Zeramet watched him longer than necessary, then—a slow exhale left him.

"...You may." His voice lowered, certain and absolute. "As my consort and Malika... there is nothing within Zahryssar that is beyond your reach."

A faint shift.

"No chamber. No record. No truth."

Levin inclined his head slightly.

"...Thank you."

Zeramet’s eyes softened—just slightly. Then, without warning, he shifted again, sliding closer. His coils tightened just enough to pull Levin back against him, his head lowering once more against his shoulder.

"...Do not think too much on burdening yourself with duties, consort; you are already carrying something valuable inside you. That is enough... for now."

Levin did not respond; his gaze returned to the window, but this time it did not soften. Because beneath the calm beneath the quiet warmth...

A plan had already begun to take shape.

Old parchments... Old loyalties and old betrayals might help him get the proof. His fingers rested lightly against Zeramet’s scales.

Gentle and unassuming, but his thoughts are sharp.

’I will find it. Every thread. Every lie. Every hidden root, and when I did, I would not hesitate.’

Outside, the forest thinned; the road stretched forward toward Zahryssar. And within the carriage—one serpent slept and one human prepared to hunt.

***

[Silthara Palace — Same Time]

The corridors of Silthara did not echo, they absorbed. Every step, every whisper, every shift of silk was swallowed by stone carved long before the present throne ever existed.

Lady Arinaya stepped out of the Malika’s office, the doors closing behind her with a soft, final hush. Scrolls had been reviewed, and yet—her mind had not quieted.

She had taken no more than a few steps when a figure approached from the far end of the corridor.

A Female knight in armor.

"I greet Lady Arinaya." she bowed deeply, her gaze lowered—not to her face, but to the crest upon her chest.

House Varoth.

A faint pause.

"...A knight of House Varoth," she said, her tone calm but edged with quiet inquiry. "What are you doing here when your lord walks beside the Malik himself. What summons you here... in his absence?"

The knight did not rise fully. "My Lady... I carry word entrusted directly by Lord Sharukh Varoth."

That alone shifted the air, not tension, not yet but attention.

"Speak."

"The rites of Lady Samhira have been completed," she said steadily. "As commanded. Her body has been returned to Zahryssar and laid to rest in accordance with imperial law."

Arinaya nodded once, measured and expected.

"And House Naharash?" she asked.

"Seized." No hesitation. "Their estate, their assets, their records... all have been confiscated and transferred under Malika’s imperial authority."

A flicker of approval passed through her gaze.

"Yes," she said quietly. "The council reports reached me yesterday."

Her head tilted slightly.

"...So why," she continued, voice lowering just enough to sharpen, "do you stand before me to repeat what has already been done?"

The knight did not falter. Instead—she reached forward, and presented a sealed parchment.

"We received... another directive, my Lady."

That was new. Arinaya’s fingers took the parchment slowly.Her eyes narrowed—just slightly—as she broke the seal.

Silence settled as she read, once, then again and for the first time—her expression changed.

"...The daughter of Lady Samhira..." she murmured, a pause. "...is to be placed under the Malika?"

The knight inclined her head.

"Yes, my Lady. Since there’s a law that states...."

Arinaya exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing lightly against her temple.

"...Of course," she said under her breath. "...the law."

Her voice steadied again.

"To take the life of a child..." she continued, quieter now, "...is to invite the wrath of the gods themselves...Even when the parent was a traitor."

She lowered the parchment. Her gaze distant now—not uncertain, but calculating.

"...A remnant of a fallen house," she murmured. "...placed into the hands of the Malika."

A dangerous position. For the child, for the court and for the future.

Arinaya straightened.

"Very well." Her voice returned to its usual clarity. "Until the Malika arrives, the child will not be moved further."

She handed the parchment back.

"Place her within the guest chambers." A pause. "Not the lower wing. The eastern chambers."

A deliberate choice, not confinement, not comfort something in between.

"She will be guarded," Arinaya continued, "but not treated as a prisoner...And no one is to speak to her without my permission."

The knight bowed deeper. "As you command, Lady Arinaya."

she turned, and left. Silence returned. But this time—it lingered differently. Arinaya remained where she stood, her gaze resting somewhere unseen.

"...A child," she murmured faintly. A breath passed. "...placed into the hands of the one who destroyed her house. I wonder...whether she will see justice."

Or something else entirely, jer eyes lowered.

"...Or whether she will grow to hate malika for it."

No answer came, only silence, and the distant, inevitable approach of Zahryssar’s rulers—Returning.