Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 46: The Malika Who Sees the Hidden Fang

[Emperor’s Chamber—Later]

SPLASH!!

Water rippled violently inside the carved obsidian bowl as Zeramet plunged the cloth into it. He wrung it once, droplets running down his forearm, then reached for Levin’s hands with a gentleness that contrasted painfully with his earlier fury.

The emperor’s chambers were silent.

The attendants stood at a respectful distance—heads bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the marble floor. Even their breaths felt afraid to disturb the air.

Only Levin remained motionless, perched on the edge of the couch—dagger long gone, but something sharper lingering in his gaze.

His mind was not in the room.

’They were definitely not the true assassins... A real assassin doesn’t tremble like a storm-touched leaf.’

Zeramet began to wipe the dried blood from Levin’s fingers, slow and deliberate. The rough warrior’s hands moved with almost ceremonial tenderness.

His low voice rumbled into the quiet, "Show me your face."

Levin finally lifted his eyes.

Zeramet cupped his cheek, lifting his veil slightly, and wiped the faint smear of blood from the soft skin beneath. His thumb lingered—warm, grounding, protective.

"I am grateful," Zeramet murmured, "that your instinct moved faster than her weapon. It... eases something in me. Knowing my consort can protect himself."

Levin smiled faintly, a small, soft curve of lips—fleeting but real.

"Thank you."

But Zeramet leaned closer, forehead nearly brushing Levin’s, golden eyes dark with a deeper vow.

"Do not misunderstand me, Consort..." his voice dropped to a low hum, "...seeing that blood on your hands—whether yours or another’s—I do not wish for my consort to be in danger again. Not even for a breath."

Levin exhaled softly, then turned to the attendants, "Leave us... all of you."

They bowed instantly. Sandals whispered across polished stone. The doors shut with a deep thoom, sealing the world out.

Only the Malik and the Malika remained. Only two heartbeats in the dim quiet. Zeramet stroked Levin’s cheek once more and asked, voice gentler now, "Did something else happen, consort? Your eyes... they have not rested since the hall."

Levin lowered his gaze briefly, then looked up.

"I feel," he said slowly, carefully, "that the real threat never moved."

A thin strand of silence stretched between them.

Zeramet’s jaw tightened, "What do you mean?"

Levin folded his hands in his lap, "I mean that both sisters behaved wrongly...but only one dared strike at me."

He paused.

"And the other—the one who did not attack—felt more afraid of being watched than of being caught."

Zeramet’s eyes narrowed; he absorbed the words like scripture, like prophecy. Levin continued, voice low, threading through the chamber like smoke, "They were not true assassins, Zer. They were merely hands...guided by a voice that was not in the hall."

Zeramet exhaled through his teeth—a harsh, controlled breath, "Hm...I heard one trembled like a leaf in winter...and the other hid her intent too well. That means—"

Levin cut him off gently.

"It means someone else is inside this palace. Someone tied to the Black Serpents. Someone hiding themselves well enough to slip past every eye."

Zeramet’s fist clenched around nothing—hard enough that the leather of his gauntlet creaked. "I will send guards to every corner. I will search every hall, every chamber, every—"

But Levin touched his hand, soft, warm, and firm. Zeramet stopped as if struck by a spell. His breath stilled. His eyes softened.

Levin shook his head slowly.

"Not now, Zer. The true assassin will already be alert. If we move too quickly, we will scare him deeper into shadow. He will slip between our fingers."

He intertwined their fingers gently, grounding him.

"We must wait...for the right moment to strike."

Zeramet’s breath trembled against Levin’s veil.

A king who commanded six kingdoms. A man who bowed to no one, but in this moment—he listened to his consort.

His voice lowered into something ancient, intimate, and filled with restrained fire.

"Then I will wait." His forehead touched Levin’s again. "But when the moment comes..." he whispered, "...I will tear him from the shadows myself."

Levin closed his eyes for a heartbeat. Outside the window, the palace wind howled—not in warning, but in witness, because the assassin hiding in the palace had no idea the Malik and Malika were now hunting him together.

***

[Silthara Palace—Outside the Ancestral Hall—Moments Later]

The marble steps glistened beneath the afternoon sun as two guards dragged the assassin’s corpse away. Her blood left a dark trail across the polished stone, a final mark of treachery.

Naburash stood in the doorway like a carved guardian idol—stern, silent, and unyielding.

"Throw her into the Ashkarath Wilds," he commanded coldly, his voice carrying through the courtyard like a blade dipped in frost. "Let the beasts feast well today. They need not hunt their own."

The guards bowed and hauled the body toward the dense forest bordering Silthara—Ashkarath Wilds, the place where lost souls disappeared and hungry shadows thrived.

Naburash watched them go, unblinking, then a calm voice slid behind him, "At least be less cruel to a dead serpent."

Naburash didn’t turn immediately; he knew that voice. Arkhazunn approached with measured steps, his long robes whispering against the stone.

His presence was soft... but his eyes were far too sharp. Naburash finally turned, expression unreadable.

He gestured toward the attendants hovering nearby, "Wipe the hall clean with hot water. Scrub the stone until it remembers no blood."

The attendants bowed and rushed inside; only then did Naburash begin walking down the corridor, voice flat but heavy, "The one who attacks the Mother of the Empire deserves no mercy... not in life, and not after death."

Arkhazunn followed him quietly, his voice lowered—soft, almost teasing, but with something aching beneath, "Strange. I thought you disliked the Malika. Has the Malika changed your mind, Naburash?"

Naburash halted; he did not face Arkhazunn—but the sun reflected in his eyes, turning them gold and hollow.

"I was wrong about him," he murmured. "The day Lord Urzan blessed him...the day the winds bent for him...the day the palace trembled at his presence...I understood."

He exhaled softly.

"This Malika will become the true Mother of Zahryssar. He is not weak like the consorts that fill our histories."

Arkhazunn’s lips curved into a small, knowing smirk, "So... you believe that after Malika Ninsara—"

"Yes."

Naburash cut him off. "Malika Levin will be the greatest Malika after Ninsara, but unlike her...he will not be killed by his husband. I will protect Malika Levin with everything I have—even if it demands sacrificing mysel—"

Before he could finish, Arkhazunn shot forward and grabbed his wrist—a rare, instinctive gesture breaking centuries of their discipline.

"STOP."

Arkhazunn’s eyes shone with something raw. "Do not speak of sacrificing yourself. I cannot—I cannot bear hearing such words from you."

Naburash looked at him at last.

Two old souls, two guardians of the empire, two men bound by fate and history—and something far more fragile. For a brief moment, their eyes held each other like a forgotten prayer.

Then Naburash’s gaze dimmed, and he pulled his hand away.

Gently—but firmly—"Do not touch me as you wish, Mage. You know I belong to someone."

Arkhazunn’s expression cracked—pain flickering briefly, like a lamp guttering in the wind. He stepped back, the distance between them suddenly vast.

"I apologize," he whispered.

A pause.

A painful, lingering breath.

"But..." His voice trembled. "The one you belong to... that man has already abandoned you. He betrayed you, he left our people, and he is no longer of our kin."

Naburash flinched—barely noticeable, but real.

Arkhazunn pressed gently, "It is time you—"

"Please." Naburash turned away sharply, voice cracking on the edge of restraint. "Stop mentioning my husband, Mage. Even if he does not belong to me...it does not mean I belong to another."

Arkhazunn’s throat tightened.

His heart ached with unspoken words, unwritten confessions, and years of silent longing.

He watched Naburash walk away—down the long, sunlit corridor, his shadow stretched thin and lonely against the stone.

Arkhazunn remained behind, alone in the hallway, surrounded only by echoing footsteps and a love he had carried quietly...for far too long.

He whispered—soft, as if speaking to a memory, "Until when... will you carry that wound, Naburash?"

No answer returned.

Only the far-off groan of shifting pillars.

He exhaled sharply, ruffled his hair in frustration—a rare break in the calm façade of the Tower Mage—and turned away.

His silhouette melted into the corridor’s golden light.

***

[The Forsaken March — The Black Serpent’s Domain]

The dense, cursed land stretched endless beneath a sky choked with smoke and violet dust.Ashkarath trees—twisted and bone-white—rose like skeletal fingers clawing at the heavens.The ground shimmered faintly with toxic mana, pulsing like dying embers.

In the midst of this poisoned expanse stood a dark throne of scaled stone—massive, ancient, carved from the remains of a colossal serpent that once devoured kingdoms.

Upon it sat Azhrakhaal, the Forsaken Lord. His presence bent the air around him.

Cold.Silent.Predatory.

A trembling messenger—skin pale, fangs chattering—knelt before him in the sand.

"M-My Lord..." His voice shook like a dying leaf. "O-our assassin... she... she failed. The Malika—the consort of Malik Zeramet—he is still... he is still alive."

Silence.

Dead.Utter.Suffocating.

Azhrakhaal’s eyes—black as starless night—lifted slowly, fixing on the terrified messenger.The air grew colder. Mana coiled like venomous smoke around his boots.

Then he rose.

One slow step.

Another.

And—S T O M P — !!!!!

His heel crashed into the messenger’s skull. Bone cracked—sand exploded—and the man’s face was forced deep into the earth. The messenger thrashed, clawed at the soil, choked on dust and blood,his limbs convulsing violently—But Azhrakhaal did not lift his foot.

He pressed deeper.

Deeper.

Until the trembling stopped. Until the whimpers faded into the soil. Until the messenger lay still.

Dead.

Only then did Azhrakhaal step back, dusting a streak of blood off his heel with aristocratic disdain. He spoke without looking at the corpse:

"Clean this."

Two dark knights—clad in scale-forged armor, eyes glowing with corrupted mana—bowed and dragged the broken serpent-body away.

Azhrakhaal moved back to his throne and sat, the stone groaning under his weight. His voice slithered into the air, cold and commanding:

"Summon...Ra’shath. Tell him his Malik calls for him."

The dark knights stiffened—fear flickering at the dangerous name—but bowed nevertheless. "As you command, my Lord."

As they left, Azhrakhaal leaned back, tapping a blackened claw against the throne’s armrest.A faint smile—thin and venomous—curved his lips.

"Zahryssar’s new Malika..." he murmured, almost amused. "What manner of creature is he...that he refuses to die?"

A soft laugh rumbled from his chest, low and chilling, "This... becomes interesting."

The wind howled over the cursed sands—as if the land itself trembled at what was coming.