Serpent Emperor's Bride

Chapter 145: Ashes That Refused to Die

[House Karzath — The Same Night]

The chamber did not breathe like a place of governance. It suffocated. Thick smoke coiled through the air—heavy, bitter, and intoxicating—clinging to velvet drapes and carved stone like something unwilling to leave. The scent was not merely indulgent.

It was poison.

At the center of it—Rakhane.

Reclined upon the lower diwan, one leg stretched, the other bent carelessly, as though the world itself had become beneath him. A pipe rested between his fingers, its embers glowing faintly as he inhaled slowly... Deeply and deliberately.

Wine followed.

Dark red. Thick. Spilled lazily along the rim of his cup as he tipped it back, uncaring.

Decay dressed as pleasure. An attendant stepped forward, trembling slightly as she replaced the empty bottle with a fresh one.

She inhaled just once, and that was enough. Her body stiffened. Her breath hitched—then broke unevenly. A faint tremor ran through her limbs, her fingers tightening around the tray as her vision blurred.

Too strong, too toxic, and too much.

"Leave." The voice cut clean through the suffocating haze, cold, effortless, and commanding.

She didn’t look up, didn’t dare. She dropped into a bow and stumbled back—almost running—as she escaped the chamber.

The door closed, soft and final.

And then—he entered.

Serath Min...aka...Azahrakaal.

He stepped into the poison as if stepping into the air, unbothered and unaffected. The smoke curled around him—not clinging... but parting. As though recognizing something far more dangerous than itself.

His gaze settled on Rakhane, and slowly a smile formed, wicked, measured, and hungry.

’Good...’ Everything unfolds as it should. Destroying him...will help me to destroy that silver serpent.’

. . .

. . .

"...You indulge deeper each night," Azahrakaal murmured, his voice smooth, almost amused as he moved forward. "Tell me, High Ensi...are you drowning...or preparing?"

Rakhane did not answer immediately, another inhale, another slow exhale. Smoke spilled from his lips like something alive.

"...What is the update?" His voice came low, roughened but steady.

Azahrakaal sat beside him, close, as he said softly,

"The serpent that works for me...moves. He prepares...another strike, and...this time I am sure he will definitely harm the Malika of this empire."

Rakhane’s eyes flickered, not fear, not surprise something sharper.

"...Strike?" A pause, then his gaze turned, slow and dangerous. "You will not harm my Levin."

The words were not loud, but they carried weight, possession, and obsession. Azahrakaal looked at him, and for a moment—something dark flickered behind his dark eyes.

Then he smiled, soft and false.

"Of course..." he said smoothly. "Have I not honored every word I have given you?"

A tilt of his head, almost respectful as he continued, voice lowering, "The consort...will remain untouched. His children, however...are not part of your desire."

Rakhane inhaled again—slower this time and deeper.

"...You keep failing," he muttered. Smoke curled between them. "...Again and again."

His grip tightened slightly around the pipe.

"...Even desire grows weary of failure."

Azahrakaal stilled, just for a fraction. "...What are you suggesting?"

Rakhane’s gaze lowered—distant and calculating—as he said slowly, "...Perhaps it is time I take what I want...myself."

A faint smirk touched his lips.

"And leave your schemes to rot, or... just forget about Levin. After all, eyeing a married person is a crime."

That—that shifted the air.

"No."

The word came sharper this time, faster, almost—too fast.

Rakhane’s eyes lifted and narrowed. Azahrakaal smiled again, but this time—there was tension beneath it.

"Do not abandon your purpose now, High Ensi..." he said, voice softer—persuasive. "That human is such beauty...such rarity...there is no alpha within this empire who rivals him."

His eyes darkened.

"...To let such a creature slip away..." A whisper. "...would be a sin."

Rakhane’s gaze hardened.

"And if you tire of him..." Azahrakaal added lightly, "...then I will gladly keep him but as my slave, after all..." There is nothing in this world...that I allow to exist beyond my reach."

That—broke something.

GRAB—

Rakhane’s hand shot forward—his fist tangling into Azahrakaal’s collar, yanking him close, too close. Their breaths collided.

"Watch your tongue, you disgusting rot of the serpent clan." His voice dropped, cold, possessive, and violent. "Levin is mine; he will never serve a rotten snake like you as a slave; he will kneel to me and...serve me; he only...belongs to me."

Azahrakaal did not resist, did not flinch; he just smiled because...the provocation succeeded. "...Of course, that consort of his...is all yours."

And yet behind that smile something darker coiled, waiting because desire was never meant to be shared.

Silence lingered, thick and heavy, until—

"...So," Rakhane spoke again, slower this time, his voice roughened by smoke and indulgence,"What is your next move?"

Azahrakaal did not answer immediately, then—

"...This time," he said, his voice dropping—lower...colder...deliberate, "the poison will not travel through food...nor water."

Rakhane’s brows furrowed, irritation flickering beneath the haze.

"...Then how?" he demanded. "You know what it takes...to break what he carries."

Azahrakaal stopped slowly; he turned his head. Just enough for his profile to catch the dim light.

"...You are still thinking like a mortal," he said quietly. A faint smile followed, cruel and patient. "Poison does not always need to be swallowed...to destroy."

Rakhane’s eyes narrowed. "...Speak clearly."

Azahrakaal’s gaze darkened, and when he spoke again, his voice no longer sounded amused. It sounded inevitable.

"...This time," he said slowly, each word stretching like a shadow across the room, "it will move through what he cannot guard... What he cannot see... And when it reaches him...it will not strike once... It will strike twice."

Silence.

Not empty, not uncertain, but deadly.

"...Two incidents," he said, lifting a single finger, then another. "Two fractures...enough to shatter even the strongest vessel."

Rakhane’s grip tightened around his cup.

"...You are certain?"

Azahrakaal smiled, this time without warmth and without restraint.

"I do not repeat failure... Those children," he murmured, voice dropping into something darker, older, "those golden heirs...will never draw breath beneath this sky."

The room seemed to dim, the smoke thickened, and even the silence recoiled.

"...Never," he finished, and in that moment—it was no longer a plan.

It was a vow.

Rakhane exhaled slowly, the poison in his lungs curling outward as his lips curved into something darker.

"...Then do it," he said quietly.

Azahrakaal inclined his head, and beyond the walls of House Karzath—far from the poisoned air—Silthara still stood untouched.

Unaware, but not for long, because something had already begun to move—not through the blade, not through blood, but through something far more dangerous and unseen.

***

[Silthara Palace — Malika’s Office Chamber — Deep Night]

Night had already claimed the palace, it had settled—slow, inevitable—like ink sinking into water. The Malika’s chamber did not sleep. It watched.

Levin sat alone at the center of it.

Scrolls lay scattered across the long obsidian table—unrolled, overlapping, breathing with histories that had no right to awaken again. Ink faded. Names scratched. Bloodlines broken.

And yet—They spoke.

Levin’s gaze moved across them, unhurried, measured on precise portraits, of old framed in time.

Princes.

Princesses.

Faces that once stood beneath the same throne his children would inherit.

"...So," Levin murmured softly, his fingers resting upon one of the parchments, "...these are the ones you killed, Zer."

No judgment, no accusation only fact.

His eyes lifted—studying each face, one by one as he continued quietly, "The previous Malik...had eleven heirs, and only one bore silver."

Zeramet.

Levin’s fingers traced lightly across the ink. "...And every single one of them... fell by his hand."

Silence deepened, but not fully, because something did not align. Levin’s brows drew together. A parchment, different and Incomplete.

"...Strange." His fingers tapped once against the armrest, slow and thinking. "...One prince body was not recovered."

That stilled the room. Levin leaned back slightly, his gaze lowering—not outward, but inward.

"...So...there was one who escaped." The word did not rise. It settled. "...A survivor of Zeramet’s wrath."

Silence and then—

"...You dig too deep, consort."

The voice came from the door low and unhurried.

Levin did not look up immediately he already knew. Zeramet leaned against the carved frame, silver hair catching the faint light, golden eyes watching—not sharply, not suspiciously—but knowingly.

"...Silthara does not favor those who disturb its buried bones."

Levin’s gaze lifted at last as he replied calmly, "...And yet...those bones belong to the throne I stand beside."

A faint smile touched Zeramet’s lips, not amusement, not in denial but in Interest.

He stepped forward, slow and measured. Until he stood behind Levin, and then without hesitation—His arms wrapped around him, not possessive, not forceful but familiar.

"...What is my consort searching for...in the dead?" Zeramet murmured, his breath warm against Levin’s ear.

Levin did not lean back. His gaze dropped once more to the parchment.

"...Your siblings."

A pause.

Zeramet’s eyes followed lowered at the records.

The names and the deaths.

"...It is said," Levin continued, his tone unchanged, "...one of them was never found."

Silence.

Subtle.

Sharp.

"...So tell me, Zer..." Now he turned his head slightly, just enough. "...Did he survive you?"

That was the moment Zeramet stilled, not visibly, not to anyone else but Levin felt it. Behind them beyond the carved lattice something stirred. A pale shape, silent and watching.

The white serpent.

Zeramet’s gaze flickered—just for a fraction toward it and then back.

"What remains of him...was lost to fire." he said calmly, too calmly. "...An accident happened the same night, he did not survive the fire consort."

Levin’s eyes did not soften.

"I looked at the perchment of fire accident too," he said quietly. "...The remains recovered...belonged to an attendant."

Silence.

Not stretched, not broken.

Cut.

Zeramet’s arms did not tighten, did not move.

"...You read too much into ash, consort," he murmured, his voice softer now, then a shift. He leaned closer. Pressed a faint kiss against Levin’s cheek. "...Come. It is late, you should not sit so long in one place."

Care, warmth and concern were perfectly placed.

Levin turned his head fully now, looked at him and studied him not as his consort, but as something else.

A man—Who had just chosen not to answer.

"...Of course," Levin said quietly, but he did not move immediately, because his thoughts had already begun to shift.

To align.

To sharpen.

’Not an accident...Not ash...A body replaced and a silence...maintained.’ His gaze lowered once more to the parchment.

’So either he hides the truth about the prince...or he know the prince...still lives, and if that was true then somewhere— Within Zahryssar a ghost still walked, watching and waiting for his death.’

Levin stood as he said, "Let’s go."

Zeramet smiled faintly satisfied and unaware but behind Levin’s calm—The past had just opened its first door.

***

[Silthara Palace — Emperor’s Chamber — Midnight]

The imperial chamber lay wrapped in quiet, curtains drawn, lamps dimmed to a faint amber glow, and at the center—Peace.

Levin slept.

Beneath layers of silk and warmth, his breathing slow... even... untouched by the weight of the empire that pressed upon him in waking hours.

One hand rested near his abdomen, unconscious and protective.

And around him—Zeramet, half in serpent form. Silver coils curved around Levin’s body—not binding, not restraining—but shielding. His tail rested like a living barrier, holding warmth, holding presence.

Guarding.

Zeramet did not sleep, his golden eyes remained open and fixed watching Levin.

"...Should I consider this a blessing..." he murmured, his voice low—barely a breath in the stillness, "...that you are this sharp... this unyielding...Or a warning...that even I cannot keep the shadows from you?"

His gaze softened. Just slightly. "...You see too much, consort."

A faint exhale left him as he leaned back against the carved headrest, his coils shifting subtly—careful not to disturb the one within them.

And then a stir. From the edge of the chamber a pale movement slipped through the shadows.

Silent and measured.

The white serpent.

Zeramet’s eyes did not widen, did not sharpen, he only sighed. "...You never learn patience."

His coils loosened, slipping away from Levin without waking him. His hand lingered for a moment—just above Levin’s shoulder then he stepped away toward the window.

Moonlight spilled through the lattice, pale and distant.

Zeramet leaned against the stone unmoving.

"...Come out."

The white serpent stilled and then moved from shadow to form, bones shifted, scales dissolved, and a man emerged.

Sarash.

He dropped to one knee instantly, head bowed, voice low—careful not to disturb even the silence itself.

"...My Malik...The Malika..." His voice tightened—just slightly. "...He has begun to see."

Zeramet’s gaze lowered to him unchanged.

"...He knows," Sarash continued, quieter now, "...that I am not dead."

Silence followed heavy and measured.

"...What should we do?"

Zeramet did not answer immediately, his eyes shifted—once back toward the bed at Levin, sleeping and unaware.

Then back at him.

"...Did I not promise you," Zeramet said at last, his voice low—firm, unshaken, "that your death would remain buried?"

Sarash lowered his head further.

"...You did, Malik."

"Then why," Zeramet continued, his tone sharpening just enough to cut, "do you move like a frightened shadow?...Each step you take in fear...is a step closer to being found."

Sarash stilled.

Zeramet straightened slightly his presence shifted.

"Listen carefully, no one," Zeramet said, his voice dropping into something absolute, "...no one in this empire knows you still breathe...Except me."

Silence deepened.

"And it will remain that way."

Sarash’s breath slowed but not completely. "...And if the Malika discovers—?"

That was the wrong question.

Zeramet’s gaze darkened.

"I said..." his voice lowered, slower now—heavier, "...he will not find you and I do not repeat myself."

Sarash bowed deeper.

"...Forgive me, Malik."

Zeramet’s expression did not change.

"...Your task remains the same, watch and observe...There is a serpent within my walls...who breathes too freely."

The air shifted.

"Find him...and when the time comes..." His voice dropped. "...you will bring me truth."

Sarash nodded firmly. "...As you command."

He hesitated just once.

"...And my end...?"

That question was not fear. It was faith.

Zeramet looked at him, long and unblinking. "...When your purpose is fulfilled...I will grant you the death I promised."

Sarash bowed fully this time, forehead nearly touching the floor. "...Then I will not fail."

Zeramet did not respond and just like that—Sarash’s form dissolved. The white serpent returned and it slipped back into the shadows.

Gone, as if it had never been.

Silence reclaimed the chamber.

Zeramet stood there for a moment longer. Then he returned, back to the bed, back to Levin his coils wrapped around him once more, careful, protective and unbreakable.

And yet beyond that quiet—beyond that warmth—Three truths now moved within the palace.

A hidden prince, a living ghost, and a traitor and when they collided—Even Silthara...would not remain untouched.