Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 32: Arrival of Snow into Sand

[On the Way to Zahryssar Empire—Inside the Carriage]

Sunlight spilled gently into the carriage, painting warm gold across the embroidered seats. The desert winds were still distant; for now, crisp mountain air mingled with the faint scent of winter herbs.

Duke Aren Veyrhold sat by the window, gazing at the horizon where snow met sand. His face—usually a stone mask of nobility—held something rare:

Warmth, softness, a father’s quiet happiness.

Not a smile... But something deeper.

Aelira watched him from the opposite seat, legs crossed with poise, her silks shifting like frost-kissed petals. She tilted her head, studying the uncharacteristic tenderness on her father’s face.

"It has been a long time," she said gently, "since I have seen such an expression from you, Father."

Duke Aren blinked, pulled from his thoughts, and turned toward her. His voice, when it came, was low and steady—carrying the weight of a man who had spent years keeping his emotions buried.

"A month," he murmured. "It has been a full month since Levin left this house. For twenty years, he never stayed away longer than a single week."

Aelira’s lips tightened, and her father continued, eyes returning to the road ahead. "And now... after only a month’s absence, I find myself counting the days like an anxious youth. Ridiculous, isn’t it?"

Aelira swallowed softly. "...Father, do you miss him that much?"

Duke Aren exhaled—slow, warm, almost fragile. "Levin is my only son, Aelira. My only heir. And though I gave him away with honor... the silence of this house without him feels... strange."

Something flickered in Aelira’s gaze—jealousy, longing, love, resentment... all at once.

Duke Aren continued, his tone deepening with sincerity, "I do not know how Zahryssar treats him. Whether he eats well. Sleeps well or whether he has found his footing there."

He paused, voice softening.

"I only hope... he has not been cold."

Aelira clenched her fist and gazed out the window, saying, "The sun is burning my skin here..." 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

Duke said, "You should protect yourself."

She nodded and said, "Yes, Father."

***

[Zahryssar Empire—Silthara Palace—Later]

The desert breeze drifted through the carved alabaster latticework, warm and fragrant with sand, myrrh, and distant temple incense. It curled around the chamber where Levin stood, still and tense, while attendants moved around him like jeweled birds attending a sacred statue.

The rustle of Zahryssarian silk—layer upon layer of deep indigo, gold thread, and desert-white linens—filled the room.

"Please, raise your hands, Consort," Iru murmured with respectful gentleness.

Levin obeyed, lifting his arms, though his bright blue gaze kept sliding sideways—toward the source of heat lounging behind him.

Zeramet.

The Serpent Emperor leaned against a gilded pillar with the lazy, predatory ease of a desert panther. His robe hung open at the chest, a thin shawl draped over bronzed shoulders; the sigils of the royal line gleamed faintly against his skin. Smoke curled from his cigar in slow coils, catching the sunlight like threads of molten gold.

His eyes never left Levin, not even for a blink.

’Does he not have an empire to govern? Edicts to seal? Armies awaiting command? Why must he... stand there like that... looking like that...?’

Levin’s brow twitched, and the attendants, catching that tiny spark of distress, immediately pretended to be blind—refusing to look between Consort and Emperor again.

Only those with no sense of self-preservation would watch an imperial romance unfold.

Iru returned, bowing as he held up a diaphanous face veil woven with fine gold strands, "Consort... your veil for receiving esteemed guests."

Levin blinked. "Must I wear this before my own family?"

Before Iru could reply, Zeramet exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke and answered in a tone deceptively idle—yet carrying the absolute weight of imperial decree, "You will not wear it, Consort."

He didn’t lift his gaze from Levin, didn’t shift an inch—yet the command rippled through the room like a desert storm. Iru instantly folded the veil away and bowed.

"Dismiss," Zeramet added, voice dropping lower, deeper.

The attendants bowed to the floor and left with haste, leaving the chamber steeped in hush, heat, and sunlight.

Only the Emperor and his Consort remained.

Zeramet patted the floor mattresses beside him, "Come here, Consort."

Levin stepped forward. His bare feet brushed the cool, inlaid tiles as he approached and settled by Zeramet’s side. The Emperor lifted a hand, slow and deliberate, fingers threading through Levin’s hair to push it behind his ear.

The silver serpent earrings—mark of imperial marriage, symbol of the Eternal Union—glimmered under his touch, swaying like twin moons as his thumb brushed the curve of Levin’s jaw.

"Are you eager to meet your household, Consort?" Zeramet’s voice carried the calm weight of an emperor who ruled half the fertile crescent.

The scented smoke of the qalam-root cigar curled around him like a languid serpent.

Levin glanced at him, lowering his gaze with restrained courtesy. "Yes."

"Mm." Zeramet’s hum was deep, almost pleased. Then, softer—"Yet it saddens me."

Levin looked up as Zeramet’s eyes studied him with a focus that bordered on claiming.

"That I know so little," the Emperor murmured, brushing the pad of his thumb along Levin’s jawline, "of the lineage that shaped my consort."

Levin’s lashes quivered. He bowed his head, "There is little worthy of exaltation, Zer. We are but three—Father, Sister, and I. Along with the old butler, the maids, and the sworn knights who have served House Veyrhold since its founding."

Zeramet exhaled a slow ribbon of smoke, nodding.

Then---

"Your sister..." His tone was measured and searching. "I have heard she is an omega?"

Levin’s body went rigid. His pulse leapt. ’Why speak of Aelira?’

He forced composure into his voice, "Yes, Aelira is an omega. The cherished star of our House."

Zeramet nodded thoughtfully and lifted the cigar back to his lips. "Then tell me—why did she not present herself as the bride?"

The question struck like a spear to the heart.

Levin’s breath stalled, his stomach tightened painfully, ’Why I am hating this conversation?’

His gaze fell, fragile as cracked clay. Zeramet noticed instantly, the shift in aura. The withdrawal. The way the consort’s spirit seemed to fold in on itself.

"Consort," he murmured, leaning close, voice a low tide, "why do you turn your eyes from me?"

Levin parted his lips—whether to answer or to deny this talk—A sharp knock broke the moment.

Iru stepped inside quickly, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the tiled floor, "Forgive the interruption, Malik. House Veyrhold’s caravan has entered the capital. They will arrive at Silthara Palace shortly."

Zeramet acknowledged him with a single nod, then he rose, the long obsidian folds of his imperial robe whispering against the marble.

"Come," he said, the command velvet yet unyielding. "We shall greet your kin together."

Levin hesitated—heart tangled in the wrong fear, the wrong jealousy, and the wrong comparison—but he followed him, saying, "...Yes."

Zeramet extended his hand.

Levin placed his own into it—warmth, overwhelming and protective, closing around his fingers as if sealing a vow.

Together, they stepped out of the incense-laden chamber to meet House Veyrhold. Unaware—so painfully unaware—that Zeramet’s question had nothing to do with desiring his sister.

***

[Later — The Main Gate of Silthara Palace]

The colossal gates of Silthara Palace groaned apart—G R A A A N— a thunderous, ancient sound, like the awakening hiss of some primordial serpent slumbering beneath Zahryssar’s shifting sands.

Sunlight poured through the widening gap, striking marble and armor alike. Two long ranks of the Red Knights stood in unbroken formation—shield plates gleaming like sunstruck copper, spearheads sharp as desert mirages. Not a single helm moved. Not a single breath broke formation.

At their front stood Zeramet.

Tall, severe and almost myth-bound beneath the desert radiance.

The golden imperial shawl draped over his shoulders shimmered like living fire, stirring with the hot wind. His aura stretched far across the palace threshold—an invisible, crushing sovereignty that made even the heat itself bow.

Beside him stood Levin.

Silver serpent earrings glimmered at his ears while pale desert-colored ceremonial robes draped elegantly over him. His posture remained composed yet the faint quiver at his fingertips betrayed the turmoil knotting within his chest.

A soft whisper of heated ground shifted as the Veyrhold carriage approached.

Its lacquered doors bore the sigil of House Veyrhold—a frost-winged sword etched over mountains of eternal snow. A stark, cold emblem in this blazing land.

The carriage halted.

Duke Aren Veyrhold descended first, each step precise, noble, echoing with northern dignity. His fur-lined mantle flapped in the hot breeze—Thalryn’s winter elegance clashing against Zahryssar’s burning might.

Yet even a duke—war-seasoned, unyielding, revered in northern courts—stopped dead.

His breath hitched.

"The Emperor... stands at the gate... for us?" he whispered, stunned.

They had expected a chamberlain, perhaps an imperial advisor—if honored, never the Serpent Emperor himself.

But before Duke Aren could gather his thoughts, the carriage shifted—and Aelira stepped down after him.

Her violet eyes glittered beneath the sunlight, sharp as gemstones, bright as crescent moons on snow. She touched the marble path—and froze.

Not from fear., not from awe of power, but from something deeper—breath-stealing, primal—an instinctive shock that tightened her chest and rooted her feet in place.

For the first time in her life, she saw Zeramet Karash as he truly was:

Not a rumor, not a political whisper carried by diplomats, not the stern name inked in state reports. But a man of ancient blood, standing tall beneath the blazing sky, golden eyes like twin suns, posture carved from stone and divinity.

Aelira’s pulse stuttered painfully, ’This man... this is the Serpent Emperor of Zahryssar...?’

The desert heat pressed against her skin—yet a cold shiver slid down her spine, a contradictory rush that left her breathless.

’Why... why does he appear so... mesmerizing?’

The word drowned before it could fully form, swallowed by instinct and shock.

His presence was overwhelming—beautiful the way a sunlit blade is beautiful, and dangerous for exactly the same reason.

Duke Aren and Aelira bowed.

"We greet His Radiance, Sovereign of the Sun Empire," they intoned.

Zeramet’s lips curved into faint smile.

"Raise your heads," he said, voice deep as desert stone. "A father should not bow so low to his own son’s husband."

Duke Aren blinked—momentarily stunned, he had expected strict formality, perhaps indifference.But this...?

He lifted his head and met Levin’s gaze. His son’s eyes, usually guarded in public, were warm—quietly, unmistakably warm—standing beside the emperor and he smiled faintly.

"I am honored, Your Radiance," he said, bowing again but not as deeply. "Honored to be acknowledged as your father-in-law."

Zeramet’s smile sharpened, just a hint of amusement curling at its edges. He slid an arm around Levin’s waist—a steady, possessive hold, not hidden from any watching eyes.

"You shaped the man who stands at my side," Zeramet said, voice dropping to a tone that resonated through marble and bone. "For that, Duke Aren, you deserve respect... and gratitude."

Levin flushed faintly, caught off-guard by the open display—while the Duke’s eyes widened as realization settled like a warm tide:

’He is beyond the rumors, beyond the court whispers.’

Duke Aren allowed himself a small, relieved smile, but Aelira—Her breath caught for an entirely different reason. Her gaze had fallen—not on Zeramet’s face, nor on his golden eyes—but on the Emperor’s hand.

The one settled firmly around Levin’s waist.

Possessive. Claiming. Unapologetic.

Aelira’s fingers tightened around her mantle.

’He is beyond rumors...’ she repeated in her mind, but with a very different tone.

And yet—another thought whispered beneath it, sharper, unwelcome, impossible:

’Why does it feel... disturbing to see him hold brother so closely?’

She swallowed hard, unable to tear her gaze away.

The Emperor’s thumb brushed Levin’s hip in a small, intimate movement—one no foreign eye should have witnessed—and Aelira felt her heart skip, twist, and fall in the same breath.

She was aware, painfully aware, that something inside her had shifted, and that it should not have.