novelraw Chapter 144: The Bold Child of a Fallen House
Chapter 144: The Bold Child of a Fallen House
[Silthara Palace — Malika’s Private Courtyard — Continuation]
Silence did not break. It sank. Deeper... heavier... settling into the very bones of the courtyard.
The name still lingered.
Zyraeth Naharash.
Levin’s gaze did not leave Nayra, but something within it had shifted—not confusion, not surprise, but recognition. A fragment of the past—long buried beneath judgment and decree—had just risen... and now stood before him.
"...So," Levin spoke at last, his voice quiet, measured, yet carrying weight enough to still breath itself, "...you believe your mother stood against the throne...because of your sister?"
Nayra nodded. Innocent and certain.
"Yes," she said softly and then without hesitation. "...Because the Malik killed my sister."
The air broke. A sharp inhale echoed through the courtyard; attendants stiffened. Iru’s gaze snapped forward. Arinaya’s fingers curled slightly.
And then—"What."
The voice did not rise. It dropped, cold, heavy, and unforgiving.
"What did you say?"
Zeramet, he stood behind them now, unannounced and unyielding. Every head lowered instantly. The courtyard yielded to his presence without command.
He stepped forward, slow and measured. Each step was pressing authority into the ground beneath him.
"...I killed who?"
His voice lowered further, not anger, not yet, but something far more dangerous.
Nayra froze; her body trembled, but she did not immediately bow. Levin’s gaze flickered upward—meeting Zeramet’s for the briefest moment—then returned to Nayra.
And within that silence, Levin’s thoughts moved.
’So this is it...the root of it all. Lady Samhira did not act blindly... She believed. She believed her daughter was killed...by him or was not ready to belive they were killed by black serpents.’
A slow breath left Levin, and then—Zeramet’s gaze dropped.
"...And what," he murmured, tone shifting into something colder, sharper, "...is this small creature doing so close to my consort?"
A pause, then—
"...Who allowed this insect into my space?"
Nayra’s head snapped up immediately, offended.
"I am not an insect!" she said, her voice small—but burning. "I am a serpent!"
A faint scoff left Zeramet, low, amused, and cruel in its elegance.
"...Not yet." His gaze lingered on her, assessing.
"Unformed serpents," he continued lazily, "are no different from insects until they learn their place."
A sharp silence followed. Nayra’s eyes widened, and her lips parted, completely offended. She stared at him directly.
Zeramet’s smirk deepened.
"...Do they not teach you," he said softly, dangerously, "...that one does not look directly into the eyes of the Malik of Zahryssar?"
That hit her.
Nayra froze, and then slowly her gaze dropped, and silence returned. Zeramet’s expression remained pleased until—
"...It seems," Levin’s voice entered, cool, even, and edged with something sharper beneath, "...the Malik finds amusement in provoking children."
The air shifted. Zeramet stilled, then coughed lightly once.
"...I was merely observing," he said, tone adjusting—though not entirely.
Levin’s gaze did not soften. Zeramet cleared his throat slightly, then—
"...So...this... is Lady Nayra?"
Arinaya stepped forward at once, bowing her head.
"Yes, Malik." Her voice was steady and measured. "The daughter of Lady Samhira."
Silence followed. Zeramet’s gaze returned to the child, not amused now, not dismissive. Evaluating, because suddenly—she was no longer just a child.
She was a question, and in this palace, questions were far more dangerous than answers.
Zeramet did not remain standing; he moved, and then he sat beside Levin, close enough that their presence became one axis of power. His arm rested along the back of the diwan, his posture relaxed—yet nothing about him was unguarded.
His golden gaze returned to the child.
"I have heard," Zeramet began, his voice lower now, smoother—like something coiled beneath silk, "that despite your age...you possess a mind that does not match it."
Nayra blinked, then straightened.
"Yes." No hesitation. "...My mother taught me everything."
Zeramet watched her longer than necessary, then he nodded.
"...Good." The word came simply, but it carried weight. "Then you will be tested."
Silence shifted.
Nayra’s fingers tightened slightly.
"If you prove capable," Zeramet continued, his tone calm and decisive, "you will be placed under imperial studies, you will be trained, and in time...you will serve the empire."
The words settled like a law already written.
Nayra hesitated, just for a moment. "...And if I refuse?"
The courtyard stilled again. Zeramet did not pause, did not soften.
"...Then you will be raised as a commoner."
His voice did not rise; it did not threaten. It simply declared. "You will be provided for until adulthood...food. Shelter. Coin, but nothing more."
Nayra’s breath slowed.
"...Will I..." She hesitated. "...have to live alone?"
Zeramet’s gaze did not waver. "...You will; you have no other choice."
Silence followed.
Nayra lowered her gaze, for the first time not defiant and not sharp. Just...quiet. Then slowly—she lifted her head again.
Her eyes moved not to Zeramet but to Levin, and something changed.
"...Then I will pass the test." Her voice steadied. "I will study, and one day..."
Her chin lifted.
"...I will become a Malika."
Silence, then—Levin’s eyes widened with amusement, and Zeramet scoffed low and amused.
"...A Malika?" He turned his head slightly, looking at her fully now. "Do you believe such a position is obtained through desire alone?"
Nayra did not answer. Zeramet leaned back slightly.
"To become a Malika..." His voice slowed and measured. "...you must stand beside a Malik, and I...am already bound."
His eyes turned to Levin and then returned to her.
"...And I do not take insects as consorts."
A sharp inhale. Nayra’s eyes widened.
—
"—I am not an insect!" She snapped again, her voice rising despite herself. "...And I have no desire to become your consort."
Levin chuckled faintly, and Zeramet’s lips curved. "...You insist on repeating that."
She huffed, visibly offended. "I will marry a prince."
That paused him, and then a quiet breath of amusement left him.
"...You cannot."
Her brows furrowed instantly.
"I will." A beat. "I will find one."
Zeramet let out a faint, disbelieving scoff. "...And where do you intend to find such a prince?"
Nayra folded her arms. "Somewhere in this empire...Or the next."
That—That made something shift. Just slightly. Zeramet’s eyes narrowed, not in dismissal but in interest.
"...Bold," he murmured.
Beside him, Levin said nothing, but his gaze...had changed, because somewhere within that childish defiance—within that stubborn, unyielding will... Lay something...not yet formed.
But not insignificant, and though no one spoke it, the future...had just stirred.
***
[Silthara Palace — Malika’s Private Courtyard — Later]
The courtyard had quieted, Not into peace But into something softer and something... watchful.
Nayra had been taken away. Her small figure disappearing beyond carved arches, her questions lingering far longer than her presence.
Only two remained.
Zeramet and Levin.
The silence between them was not empty. It was full.
Zeramet moved first. He shifted closer—without hesitation, without formality—and his arm slid around Levin’s waist, drawing him gently back against him.
Not force, not claim but familiarity.
"...She is a bold child." His voice came low, thoughtful now—not mocking, not dismissive. "A rare thing...to stand before power and not bend."
Levin exhaled softly, his body eased—just slightly—as he allowed himself to rest back against Zeramet’s shoulder.
"...Or perhaps," Levin murmured, his voice quieter, edged with something knowing, "...she does not yet understand what power truly is."
A faint breath of amusement brushed against his ear.
"Even so," Zeramet said, his tone deepening, "those who question early...either break...or become something far more dangerous."
Silence followed.
Levin’s gaze lowered.
"...And what do you intend for her?"
Zeramet’s hand moved—absently, thoughtfully—his thumb brushing slow arcs against Levin’s side.
"She will not be discarded." His voice settled—firm, already decided. "She will be placed...near the throne."
Levin stilled.
"Close to the one who will inherit it." Zeramet continued, his gaze drifting forward—not distant, but calculating.
"Our child...One of them who will take the throne...she will stand beside that child."
Levin’s breath slowed.
"Just as..." Zeramet’s tone lowered slightly. "...Nabuarsh stood beside me."
That shifted everything. Levin’s body stilled beneath his touch. Slowly he turned his head.
"...Nabuarsh? Did he grew togethe with you?"
Zeramet did not notice the shift, or perhaps—he did, and chose not to show it.
"...No." His thumb continued its idle movement. "He did not stand beside me as a child...but from the moment I took the throne."
Levin’s gaze sharpened.
"...From your youth?"
Zeramet exhaled slowly.
"...From the time I ended my sibilings." The words came without hesitation without weight. "...The princes. The princesses. Every claim that stood before me, after that he stood behind me and served me."
Silence.
Levin did not react outwardly, but inside something aligned.
"...I see."
Two simple words but beneath them—A direction had already formed.
Then—Zeramet’s hand shifted from Levin’s side to under his shirts to his abdomen.
Gentle
"...It has begun showing." His voice lowered—softer now.
Levin’s gaze dropped, the change was slight but barely visible, but it was there.
"...Yes," Levin answered quietly.
Zeramet’s palm moved slowly—carefully—across the faint curve, not possession but Reverence.
"...You carry more than heirs." His voice softened further. "...You carry what will outlive us both."
Levin’s lashes lowered slightly and Zeramet leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing Levin’s temple.
"I hope..." A pause. "...they inherit your strength."
His thumb traced once more. "...and your mind or perhaps...your defiance."
Levin smiled soft and faint.
"...Let us hope they do not inherit mine entirely." A quiet exhale—almost a laugh. "Then they would rule too easily."
Silence returned but it was no longer heavy. It was... warm. And yet within that warmth—Levin’s thoughts moved, sharp and precise.
’From the moment he took the throne...From his youth...From the deaths of the princes and princesses...’ His gaze lowered slightly. ’That is where it begins.’
A faint breath left him.
’That is where I will look.’
And as Zeramet’s hand remained over his abdomen, protective and unaware. Levin had already taken his first step—Into the past.
"...Ah."
Zeramet’s voice broke through the stillness, softer now—almost thoughtful. His hand moved, slipping into the folds of his robe before withdrawing a small object, held carefully between his fingers.
"...Arkhazunn has completed it."
Levin’s gaze lifted to a pendant, at its center—a heart. The Sirrash Omega queen heart and It pulsed faintly.
"The Sirrash heart," Zeramet murmured, his tone lowering into something almost reverent.
Levin watched it with quiet understanding. Zeramet leaned closer nd placed it around Levin’s neck. The metal was cool at first touch. Then—It warmed.
"Since you’re the owner of the Sirrash heart...From this moment," Zeramet said, his voice steady, deliberate, as though binding law rather than offering protection,
"...this will answer to you."
Levin’s fingers lifted instinctively, brushing against the pendant resting against his skin.
"...If danger reaches you..." Zeramet continued, his gaze unwavering, "...time itself will halt...And nothing—nothing will be permitted to touch you."
Silence.
Levin’s fingers lingered against the faint pulse beneath the metal. "...A relic that bends time, I still cannot believe something like this exist.
Zeramet’s gaze softened. Just slightly.
"Seems like it was never meant for anyone else. You are its rightful bearer."
Then his hand lifted careful, and he slipped the pendant beneath Levin’s garments, hiding it from sight.
"...Let it remain unseen." His voice lowered again. "...There are traitors eyes within these walls that do not yet know where to look."
Levin’s gaze flickered upward.
"...You speak," he said quietly, measured, "...as though you already know who watches."
A faint smile touched Zeramet’s lips, not warm, not cold but certain. "...I know enough."
He did not explain further. Instead he leaned forward, and pressed a kiss against Levin’s forehead..
"...Remain well, my consort." His voice dropped softer than before. "...The heirs you carry...are not ordinary serpents, the danger will never pass until they grow up."
Levin looked at him directly. "...I know."
The words were quiet but they carried resolve. Zeramet studied him for a moment longer, then withdrew and as the courtyard settled once more—Between protection...Between secrets...Between past and future—
Something unseen tightened within the palace walls because while one guarded...The other had begun to search, nd when those two paths met—The empire itself would tremble.