Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 44: Venom at the Consort’s Table

[Silthara Palace—Ancestral Hall—The Next Day]

Morning light spilled across Levin’s table in soft gold ribbons, warm and gentle compared to last night’s storm. Outside the open lattice windows, birds trilled their morning hymns, hopping along the stone railings.

On the floor, Asha and Lyserph were rolling over each other—two small, scaled palace creatures purring and nipping playfully. Levin couldn’t help the quiet smile tugging at his lips.

Then his hand drifted to his abdomen.

"The recent incident put me in a strain... but after last night... I don’t feel that uncomfortable tug anymore."

Heat blossomed faintly on his cheeks as the memory rose without warning.

Zeramet. Kneeling.

Kneeling for him.

The Serpent Emperor, bowing his proud head to Levin’s trembling hands.

"I never thought... he would kneel for me... and would apologize," Levin murmured internally, chest softening.

A blush warmed the shadow under his veil—

"Malika."

Naburash’s voice slid into the hall, calm but carrying the weight of duty. Levin straightened at once.

"I... apologize," Levin said softly. "I drifted."

"It is an honor for a consort to think deeply," Naburash replied with a respectful bow. "Today, Malika... I will show you the breadth of what our empire commands."

Levin nodded.

With a careful sweep of his arms, Naburash unfurled a massive scroll across the table. The parchment spread out like a living tapestry—its gold-leaf borders glimmering like morning sun on a river of ink. Serpent-shaped rivers curved gracefully, mountains rose like jagged obsidian fangs, and each dominion was stamped with sigils older than recorded time.

Naburash placed his fingers on the northern region.

"First—Khashir Plateau."

His tone deepened, almost ceremonial.

"Here lie the gold mines of Zahryssar—cut deep into the ribs of Blackspire Ridge. The veins run so ancient that even our great-grandfathers said they were carved by the first serpents, who shed sunlight instead of scales.

These mines feed the imperial treasury, Malika. They forge our coins...fund our armies...and keep our empire’s heart beating."

Levin traced the shimmering ink with his eyes—mountains shaped like coiled serpents sleeping beneath snow.

Naburash’s finger glided downward.

"Second—Marast Dunes."

"Beneath these dunes," he continued, "lie the diamond veins—older than the oldest tablet in the Palace Archive. From their depths we draw the black diamonds—harder than truth, brighter than a fallen star.

These gems... Malika... is the reason every throne in the West bows when Zahryssar speaks."

Levin inhaled softly and nodded. He could almost feel the heat of the desert wind through the ink.

"Third—Veshahr Basin."

Naburash tapped the serpentine bend of the great river.

"This basin births the river that coils through three kingdoms. Every drop is life, every wave is tribute. Nations kneel for this water."

His hand slid to the center.

"Fourth—Silthara Heartland."

"The palace you sit in rests upon the stone roots of ancient serpents. Here we weave ceremonial silk, press lotus oil, and guard the imperial libraries—every scroll, every history, every judgment recorded since the dawn of Zahryssar."

Levin’s eyes lingered on the painted lotus farms—silver brushstrokes catching the morning light.

Naburash pointed west.

"Fifth—Qassir Iron Range."

"All the empire’s steel is born here. The spears of our cavalry. The shields of our warriors. The blades that guard your very doorstep."

His hand drifted south.

"Sixth—Irad Coast."

"This coast is the empire’s breath. Here the sea brings emerald caravans, incense traders, and wandering scholars. Every salt-laden wind carries wealth into our ports."

At last, Naburash’s finger hovered over the smallest region—the east. The parchment there was darker, the sigil older, and the ink... almost bruised.

He exhaled slowly.

"And seventh—The Forsaken March."

"A land Zahryssar owns..." His voice deepened, dropping like a stone into still water. "...but does not control."

Levin’s brows furrowed. "We own but do not control? What does it mean?"

Nabusrash inhaled slowly—an old breath, as if dredged from the depths of a story elders were reluctant to tell.

"Malika... this is a cursed land," he said solemnly. "A place poisoned by the blood of the Black Serpents."

His words felt heavy, ancient—like dust shaking loose from a tomb.

"After the war with Malika Ninsara, the Black Serpents fled eastward and burrowed into the March. Since then, no ordinary serpent—nor serpent-born—sets foot there. Even the earth shuns its own shadow."

Levin’s gaze traced the darkened border on the map.

The Black Serpents...huh? Since my arrival, I’ve only heard of black serpents attempting to harm the Serpentians and me.

Whispers of old legends stirred in his mind.

He murmured, "I wonder how dangerous they are?"

Naburash’s eyes flicked toward him.

"Dangerous, Malika? They are death wrapped in scales. Their poison does not merely kill—" he lifted two fingers, tapping the map lightly, "—it unravels. Flesh, bone, spirit. Even their own kin perish under their venom."

A chill stirred the air.

’No wonder the land was called forsaken.’

Naburash’s voice softened, turning almost into a chant—like an archivist reciting forbidden history.

"No crops grow where their shadows coil. No wind sings there. The March remains untouched, unclaimed... a scar the empire pretends not to feel."

He paused.

"But..." A slight hesitance touched his tone. "...there are rumors."

Levin glanced up, "What rumors?"

Naburash lowered his head slightly, "That this land hides the largest veins of Mana Stones in all the known realms."

Levin’s eyes widened, breath catching.

"Mana stones? This land holds mana stones?" His voice almost whispered, reverent and shocked."They are priceless. Sacred. Rare."

Naburash nodded, his expression grave.

"Indeed, Malika. Mana stones cannot be mined, cannot be traded, and cannot be grown. They are born only where the world’s veins run closest to the gods."

His finger tightened over the map, "The March is such a place."

Levin stared at the territory—dark ink, serpent-like markings, and old scars of war drawn into its soil.

Mana stones... a treasure beyond kingdoms.

He knew their worth even in distant lands: for warriors, they strengthened blades until they could split stone like fruit. For mages, they could fuel rituals, forge talismans, or reshape the very boundaries of human ability.

For alchemists, they could birth medicines or poisons that changed destinies.

Levin murmured, almost to himself, "A stone that can alter a kingdom’s fate... a single shard worth more than a caravan of gold."

Naburash inclined his head.

"That is why the Black Serpents grew powerful. Their venom... their sorcery... their strength—drawn from the stones beneath their feet."

His voice darkened.

"And that is why the Forsaken Lord watches Zahryssar with hungry eyes. As long as the March remains unclaimed, he controls the stones... and through them, the shadows."

Levin exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the map’s edge, "So this land... we claim its borders... but not its heart."

"Precisely, Malika," Naburash said, bowing. "The map shows ownership, but the land itself obeys no banner. Not ours... not anyone’s."

Levin swallowed.

A cursed land swollen with magic. A forgotten dominion trembling with ancient venom. An empire that could not reclaim what it technically owned.

And at its center—mana stones powerful enough to uplift or destroy nations.

***

[Throne Room — Same Time]

The throne room simmered with low murmurs, nobles whispering behind embroidered sleeves and jeweled collars. Sunlight spilled across polished obsidian tiles, catching on the bronze serpent statues coiled around the pillars as if even they were listening.

Upon the elevated throne, Zeramet sat—broad-shouldered, golden-eyed, yet unusually still. His mind was nowhere in the room. He exhaled long and slow, palm dragging across his jaw.

"Is that why the elders always warned... ’A ruler must never decide in rage’?"

Another heavy sigh left him, so loud that half the council stiffened.

"How did I allow fury to wedge distance between us...? Levin... my moonflower... in pain...because I—"

He muttered under his breath, voice low enough to vibrate through the marble throne:

"I suppose...I am a mad serpent after all."

The entire court froze.

A noble in the second row nearly choked on his own breath, another dropped his scroll.Even the high priest’s eyelid twitched violently.

Malik Zeramet—Conqueror of Six Kingdoms, Lord of Zahryssar, He-Who-Does-Not-Bend—calling himself crazy?

A rare, trembling silence spread like ripples in a still pool.

Only one man reacted differently.

Arkhazunn slowly, discreetly allowed a tiny smile to stretch beneath his smile.

He cleared his throat softly, "Ahem..."

Every noble snapped straight.

Arkhazunn continued in a smooth, diplomatic tone: "Perhaps... we may return to matters less perilous than the Malik’s self-reflection."

A few nobles swallowed hard, wanted to laugh but did not. He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes twinkling.

"I believe the council was discussing the Tournament of Sunsteel, which is held at the end of every summer."

The nobles all nodded at once—like a flock of birds startled into perfect synchronization. Arkhazunn turned respectfully toward the throne, "Malik... am I correct?" 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

Zeramet’s eyes blinked once, slowly. As if returning from a long voyage through his own guilt.

He stared at Arkhazunn.

Then, "...What?"

A wave of hushed horror swept the room. Several nobles exchanged wide-eyed glances.

The Malik’s mind is not with us—Is he thinking of the Malika—Is he unwell?Distracted?Dangerous? All of the above?

Arkhazunn exhaled, shoulders dropping in the dignified despair of a man used to cleaning up the emperor’s emotional storms.

With utmost patience, he repeated: "It is time to hold the tournament, Malik. The tradition demands it. The warriors are preparing. The banners need the royal decree."

Still distracted, Zeramet’s response came out flat, "Tournament? Warriors? Decree? Hm."

Then something clicked.

His eyes widened—bright, sharp, alive, "The tournament... the one where the victor presents a Golden Rose to his beloved..."

A memory surged: the ancient rite, the golden blossom forged in sacred flame, the declaration before thousands.

Zeramet’s heart thudded once—heavy. He rose from his throne with sudden purpose.

"Prepare for the tournament," he commanded, voice cutting clean through the chamber.

Robes rustled as nobles bowed deeply. But they all heard the next words— a low murmur meant only for himself, yet echoing in the hall like fate.

"I will win this tournament... for my consort."

Heads lowered farther; lips hid soft, knowing smiles. Arkhazunn folded his hands behind his back, amusement warming his ancient eyes.

’He is truly undone...and completely, helplessly fallen.’

The council silently rejoiced.

For a Malik who fights for love is a Malik who will burn the world for his empire.

***

[... Meanwhile — Royal Kitchens]

The clamor of pots, steam, and sizzling oils filled the vast kitchen halls, the air heavy with spices and lotus broth.

"This tray is for the Consort," the head chef announced, stern as a general. "It must be tested thrice before it leaves the kitchens."

"Yes, Master Chef!" the attendants chorused, bowing sharply.

Testing spoons clinked. Seals were checked. Herbs scanned. Each dish passed through strict hands—no hint of bitterness, no trace of poison, no tampered scent.

Only then was the tray released.

***

[Ancestral Hall — Later]

Levin remained seated at the long stone table, wholly absorbed in the map of Zahryssar—his fingers tracing coastlines, dominion symbols, ancient serpent seals.

His veil glowed softly under the morning sun, and the hall seemed to breathe around him.

A gentle knock broke the silence, "Consort... I have brought your lunch."

Iru’s familiar voice drifted in.

"Come in," Levin replied.

Asha and Lyserph immediately perked up—chirping, tails twitching, bouncing toward him as though declaring their hunger to the world.

Levin laughed softly, patting their little heads, "Are you two hungry as well?"

They chirped louder. Iru entered with four attendants, carrying trays fragrant with warm spices and fresh bread.

"We have brought your lunch, Consort," Iru said, setting the first tray down.

As always, he tested every dish—first taste, second test of scent, third inspection of color and texture.

Levin watched absently...until his gaze caught on one of the attendants behind Iru.

A girl he had never seen before. Her hands trembled—subtle at first, then violently enough that the silver ladle she held rattled against the tray.

Sweat glistened at her temples despite the cool breeze drifting through the carved windows.

Levin’s eyes narrowed beneath the veil, ’Who is she? She wasn’t here yesterday... nor the day before.’

The girl gulped hard, throat bobbing visibly, her gaze avoided his. ’Something is wrong... her aura feels... off.’

Iru finished testing the last dish.

"Everything is safe, Consort," he declared, stepping back with a respectful bow.

But Levin barely heard him, his attention stayed fixed—sharp, unwavering—on the trembling girl standing behind the trays.

He could feel an odd charge around her. A faint pressure prickling beneath his skin—like a serpent sensing another serpent’s venom hidden beneath a cloak.

’That girl... there is something she is trying to hide. Something dangerous.’

The hall felt suddenly colder. Asha and Lyserph pressed closer to Levin’s legs, feathers flattening uneasily.

The unfamiliar attendant’s trembling grew. A drop of sweat slid down her cheek, and Levin’s eyes—soft minutes ago—now hardened like polished obsidian.

He knew.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.