Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 43: The Night the Malik Knelt

[Silthara Palace—Ancestral Hall —Continuation]

The moon hung high above Silthara Palace—white, round, perfect—its cold light spilling like fallen milk through the carved lattice windows of the Ancestral Hall.

The vast chamber breathed silence.

Only the faint murmur of turning scrolls and the soft hiss of oil lamps kept Levin company. He sat at the long central table—alone. Ink-stained parchments lay scattered around him, their ancient symbols shimmering like dried blood beneath the lantern glow.

Another ache twisted in his lower abdomen.

Sharp, sudden, and deep.

Levin’s breath trembled—"Hh—..."—but he straightened his back, jaw tightening with stubborn resolve.

’I must endure... there is no other way.’

He dipped the quill again, but the words on the scroll blurred. Doubled. Tilted. His vision swam, and a cold sweat trickled down the curve of his spine.

Still—he tried to continue.

Still—he fought through the pain.

Still—he had no idea that the entire palace was awake with a different storm.

***

[Hallway—Same time]

Zeramet strode through the corridor like a storm draped in silver. His heartbeat hammered against his ribs. His pheromone—thick, smoky, heavy with worry—spilled behind him in faint waves.

He was nearly at the Ancestral Hall when a robed figure stepped into his path.

Naburash.

He bowed instantly, spine folding in sharp respect.

"Malik," he greeted, breath unsteady. "Why are you—"

"I am here," Zeramet growled, voice low and thunder-slick, "to take back my consort. My consort will not burn himself alive learning the Malika’s authority in ten nights."

The torches flickered violently—his aura crackling like heated obsidian, but Naburash did not move aside. He bowed lower, fists clenched tight against the floor.

"I apologize, Malik... but now the Malika must learn it within ten nights."

Zeramet’s eyes sharpened—cold, lethal, and furious. "...What?"

Naburash’s voice trembled as he forced himself to speak.

"Forgive me, Malik... but the rumors have already swept across Zahryssar. Every noble, every priest, every merchant knows that Malika Levin will take his authority in ten nights."

Zeramet’s jaw locked.

"And you dare imply," he snarled softly, "that my decree... cannot be undone?"

Naburash swallowed hard.

"I dare imply nothing, Malik. I speak only of consequences." He bowed again, even deeper. "If we withdraw the announcement now... if the Malika steps back... every serpentian will question his strength. His right to be Malika. His worth."

Zeramet’s aura surged—a blast of black lotus power trembling through the hall.

Naburash held his ground.

"Malik..." he whispered, voice raw, "your wrath protected the Malika today. But if he falters now—your wrath cannot protect his name."

Zeramet stiffened, his fingers curled slowly into a fist at his side.

"Do you know," he said, voice dropping to a dangerous calm, "...that you tread very near death, Naburash?"

Naburash did not lift his head, "I know, Malik."

Silence.

Long, cold, and razor-sharp.

Then Zeramet’s voice, soft and lethal: "So...I cannot take back my decree, huh?"

Naburash inhaled deeply, as though gathering courage from ancient stone.

"Yes, Malika Levin agreed publicly before High Ensi Rakhane, before knights and attendants. If we change the order now... it will appear as though Malik Zeramet is shielding a weak consort."

Zeramet’s pupils narrowed like a serpent’s at night.

"And Zahryssar’s people," Naburash continued, "do not expect weakness in the mother of the empire."

Zeramet exhaled through his teeth—a sound like a blade dragged across stone.

"So you tell me..." Zeramet murmured, golden eyes burning with cold logic and hot fear, "that my consort must bleed to uphold my throne."

Naburash flinched. "Not for your throne, Malik...but for his dignity."

Something inside Zeramet shattered, softly and quietly, like a whispered truth hitting a pride too ancient to bend. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

Naburash finished in a whisper:

"To undo the decree now... would wound the Malika far more deeply than any threshold ever could."

Silence thickened around them—the kind of silence that carried history, guilt, and unspoken truths. Zeramet dragged a hand through his hair, frustration ripping through him.

"I should not have let jealousy—rage—cloud my mind..." he muttered, voice heavy with regret.

Naburash did not respond aloud, but his bowed head said, ’At least he understands and sees his fault.’

Zeramet inhaled sharply, then commanded, "Move. I shall meet my consort—and no one shall follow."

Naburash bowed deeply, "Yes, Malik."

Then he stepped aside.

As Zeramet entered the Ancestral Hall, the doors closed behind him with a deep echo that rolled through the chamber like distant thunder. The moment he stepped inside, the world seemed to still. Moonlight poured over the scrolls and stone floor like a silver blessing—or a cold reminder.

And there... at the center table... Levin. His head rested on his folded arms, eyes closed, as though exhaustion had finally claimed him.

A faint tremor moved through him—not from sleep, but from pain.

Zeramet stepped forward quietly. The sound of his footfall—soft but heavy—made Levin’s shoulders stiffen.

He opened his eyes and lifted his head, and instead of relief...instead of warmth... His face showed nothing.

Blank.Carefully blank, as if protecting himself.

’Why is he here?’ Levin wondered, chest tightening.

Zeramet tried to speak, but the words broke somewhere in his throat. He took a step forward. Levin’s foot slid back—instinctive, small, but enough.

The Malik’s chest tightened.

And then—he moved, not forward, but down.

KNEEL.

The emperor, the conqueror of six kingdoms, dropped to his knees before his consort. A sound left Levin—a gasp, faint, panicked—as he stepped forward instinctively.

"Y–Your Radiance—what—what are you doing?!"

Zeramet lifted Levin’s hand with a reverence that felt like prayer. He pressed it against his cheek—his warm skin against Levin’s trembling fingers.

His voice dropped into a deep—soft as sand, heavy as stone, breaking as river-clay beneath a storm.

"My consort..." he whispered. eyes closing briefly as if the words pained him, "...forgive this husband of yours."

Levin froze.

Zeramet opened his eyes—golden, burning, raw.

"I have wronged you," he said, voice trembling, "...with rage born of jealousy. I let envy drown the care. I should have wrapped around you."

Levin’s throat tightened, and he tried to pull his hand back.

Zeramet held it gently, not forcefully, and shook his head.

"No," he murmured. "Do not withdraw from me...not you."

Levin stammered, "Your Radiance...this—this is not right. The Malik of Zahryssar cannot kneel—not to anyone—"

But Zeramet raised his head slowly, and his voice was a whisper that shook the walls, "A Malik may kneel...for his Malika."

Levin’s breath stopped, and Zeramet bowed lower—forehead nearly touching Levin’s hand, "A husband may kneel for the heart that anchors him."

His voice cracked—a deep fissure of regret, "I failed you, my moonflower. I failed to hold you when your body writhed in its second threshold. I failed to soothe the pain that only my presence can calm."

Levin’s stomach twisted—not from pain this time but from emotion so sharp it wounded.

Zeramet lifted his gaze again, golden eyes softened by something so vulnerable—Levin had never seen it in him, "Forgive me...for abandoning you to your suffering. Forgive me...for letting another man’s words turn me from your side."

He bowed again—lower still, "As your husband...as your mate...as the one who vowed to shield you—I beg your forgiveness."

The hall held its breath.

The lamps flickered.

Levin stared down at him—this powerful man kneeling at his feet, his voice trembling, his pride shattered willingly, and for the first time since last night—Levin felt heat prick behind his eyes.

Because in that moment, the mighty emperor looked not like a tyrant but like a husband terrifiedof losing the mate he cares for.

Levin’s breath shattered in his chest. He had never seen Zeramet kneel, yet here he was—on the cold stone floor, kneeling at Levin’s feet, only for him.

The hall seemed to breathe with them, quiet, soft, and sacred.

Levin’s voice—when it emerged—trembled like a thread about to break, "Your Radiance...please... stand..."

But Zeramet didn’t rise; he bowed his head lower, "Not until my consort forgives me."

The words were reverent, soft and almost... broken. Levin stared at him—the unshakeable emperor—kneeling on cold stone with devotion carved into every line of his body.

A faint smile trembled at the corner of Levin’s lips, "I forgive you... Your Radiance."

The effect was immediate.

Zeramet exhaled—shuddering—relief cascading through his shoulders.And then—

YANK—!

Levin’s breath escaped in a startled gasp as Zeramet seized his wrist, pulled him forward in one smooth motion, and seated him firmly onto his lap—strong arms wrapping around his waist as though reclaiming something sacred.

Levin’s cheeks flushed brilliantly beneath the veil, "Y-Your Radiance...!"

Zeramet leaned in, resting his forehead against Levin’s sternum, inhaling the familiar, fragile scent of ink and lotus clinging to his robes.

"Thank you—for your forgiveness. It soothes wounds I did not know I carried."

Levin swallowed, his fingers hovered awkwardly before settling on Zeramet’s broad shoulders.

"B-but... your radinace you know..." Levin whispered, "you cannot withdraw the order now. The rumors..."

Zeramet closed his eyes, voice low and heavy with regret.

"I know. I regret every breath taken in anger... every word I uttered in envy, but the decree is cast. The empire watches."

He pressed closer—like a serpent coiling around its moon, "But there is one thing I can do. I can extend the time—"

"No."

Zeramet froze.

"Do not extend it. I can handle ten nights. I will not cower behind a longer deadline," Levin said.

Zeramet stared at him—moonlight painting his golden eyes with a softness rare and dangerous from the window.

Then he lowered one hand and rested it upon Levin’s abdomen— over the place where the new womb formed, where pain pulsed through Levin like a hidden storm.

His touch was gentle. Reverent, "Then at least... allow me to calm the pain I gave you. Allow me to do what a mate must, Please allow me... to soothe you."

Levin inhaled shakily and closed his eyes.

"...Yes."

A whisper.

A surrender.

Zeramet held him closer, pheromones beginning to warm the air like soft sandalwood fire.

The Malik of Zahryssar—the Serpent Emperor feared across kingdoms— knelt for the first time in his life.

And he knelt only for him.

Only for Levin, only for his consort, only for his moonflower.

***

[Silthara Palace — Opposite Wing — A Dark Hallway]

Far from the warm glow of the ancestral lamps, far from the moonlit serenity of their reconciliation—another shadow stirred. A dim corridor—narrow, cold, carved from stone that never saw sunlight or moonlight— lay silent except for a faint drip of water echoing from somewhere far below.

In that darkness, a man stood perfectly still.

His entire form was wrapped in a long, white veil—not a corner of skin visible, not an eyelash revealed. The faint lamplight caught on something sharp in his hand—a glimmer of silver.

A needle.

Long, thin, wickedly barbed, smeared with something faintly violet. He rolled it between his fingers, lowering his head.

His whisper broke the stillness like a blade sliding across skin, "It is time...for you to mourn another consort, Malik of Zahryssar."

A soft hiss echoed through the corridor, like serpents coiling beneath the stone.

"And this time, the empire shall bleed with you."

The light flickered—And his silhouette melted back into the darkness.

A shadow sent by the Forsaken Lord.

A shadow moving toward Levin, toward the Malika who had only just begun his ten nights. Toward the heart the emperor had finally reclaimed.