Serpent Emperor's Bride

Chapter 147: What Even Kings Cannot Control

[House Karzath — Later — The Same Morning]

The halls of House Karzath did not tremble easily, but that morning They did.

Rakhane walked through them like a storm given flesh.

His presence did not merely arrive—it spread. Dark pheromones coiled outward from him, thick, suffocating, laced with something corrosive. The very air seemed to recoil.

Attendants dropped to their knees before he even reached them. Some did not dare breathe.

Others could not, because what moved through those halls was not a noble. It was wrath.

SLAM—!!!

The doors of his chamber crashed open against the stone. Inside, Serath Min stood by the window, unbothered. Smoke curled lazily from his fingers, the scent sharp, intoxicating—poison refined into indulgence. Morning light cut across his figure, but it did not soften him.

It outlined him, like something that did not belong to the day.

Rakhane stepped in, and the doors shut behind him, slowly and deliberately. His one visible eye burned—feral, unstable—while the other remained swallowed beneath that blackened pitch, as though something inside it had long since rotted.

Serath Min did not turn immediately.

"...You look displeased," he murmured, exhaling smoke into the light. "Has something—"

SLAP—!!!

The sound cracked like bone. Serath Min’s head snapped to the side, before the impact could settle—

PUNCH—!!!

His body staggered a step back, blood splitting across his lip, staining pale skin in a thin, deliberate line.

Silence fell, heavy and violent. Rakhane stood over him, chest rising, breath uneven—not from weakness, from fury.

"You brainless... black serpent." The words were not shouted, they were spat.

For a moment nothing and then—Serath Min’s hand moved fast. His fingers seized Rakhane by the collar and yanked him forward—hard enough to wrinkle fabric, hard enough to test bone.

Their faces came inches apart, and then his pheromones erupted, not like Rakhane’s, worse and darker and thicker. A suffocating, venomous presence that did not merely choke the air—it claimed it.

Walls. Floor. Breath itself.

Everything bowed to it, everything—except Rakhane.

"How dare you..." Serath Min’s voice dropped, no longer smooth—no longer veiled.

It cracked.

"...How dare a mere High Ensi lay hands upon me?" His grip tightened. "...Do you forget what stands before you?"

A pause.

Then—

"A king. The Black Serpent King!!!"

Rakhane did not flinch, did not pull away. Instead, he smiled, crooked, mocking. Ugly in its truth.

"A king?" he echoed softly, then leaned closer.

"...No," a whisper cutting. "You are what remains when a king is thrown out like filth...Is that not so?"

His eye darkened further.

"...Or should I say Malika Ninsarara saw through you long before the rest of us ever had the chance?"

That—that struck. Something in Serath Min snapped; his grip tightened further.

"Careful," the word came, low and deadly. "High ensi ..."

His breath brushed against Rakhane’s face, cold and venom-laced.

"...If I wished... I could end you with nothing more than a drop from my tongue."

Rakhane’s smile widened, unbothered and unimpressed. "...Then why haven’t you?"

A pause and then—he tilted his head slightly.

"...Or is it that even now... you require my hands to finish what you cannot?"

Silence was sharp, and then Rakhane spoke again, slower this time, measured, cruel.

"...Tell me something, Serath Min." A faint tilt of his chin. "...Is this how you kill?...Or is this how you bury your mistakes?"

Serath Min’s brows furrowed—just slightly. "...Speak clearly."

Rakhane’s smile vanished completely.

"The body of the real Serath Min." Silence, then something colder settled in. "...has been found."

For the first time Serath Min stilled, not outwardly, not completely but enough.

"...Impossible." The word came quieter, too controlled. Rakhane’s grip twisted into his robe now, returning the force. "Oh, it is very possible...You buried him like a fool."

His voice dropped lower.

"...So shallow that...the rot began and...the scent was spread, and because of that the ground was opened."

Serath Min’s expression darkened rapidly.

"...No..." A whisper, more to himself than anyone else. "... I buried it deep enough ..."

"You buried it carelessly." Rakhane cut in, cold and precise. "...And now your carelessness has reached my house."

His voice sharpened.

"Those useless knights followed the stench like dogs, and what did they do?" A humorless laugh. "They ran to Alina instead of me."

Serath Min’s grip loosened. Just slightly, Rakhane leaned in, final and deadly.

"And now...House Varoth has been summoned." Silence crushed the room. "...The imperial have been informed."

That—that changed everything. Rakhane’s voice dropped to something almost... quiet.

"...Do you understand what that means?...If that body is confirmed..." His eye burned. "... Serath Min is dead... And you will be revealed and become nothing more than a mask."

Silence, long, heavy, and unforgiving.

Rakhane released him slowly and deliberately.

"...So tell me now, oh king..." His tone turned mocking again, dangerously calm. "...what exactly do you intend to do...when your throne is exposed to be built on a corpse?"

And for the first time, the room did not belong to Azahrakaal; it tilted ever so slightly.

***

[Silthara Palace — Malika’s Chamber — Later]

"...Malika... Malika..."

The voice came from far away, distant and distorted for Levin. As though it had to cross layers of water to reach him.

"...Malika—please—wake up..."

Levin’s lashes trembled, heavy.

Too heavy.

A faint breath slipped past his lips as his eyes opened—just slightly. Shapes moved, blurred. Serpents—rushing, shifting, shadows crossing light.

Voices overlapped, urgent and uncontrolled.

"Call the physician—!Bring Physician Naram—now—!Malika—please—!"

Iru’s voice was breaking. For the first time—not composed, not controlled.

Levin tried to focus as his voice barely formed, "...It’s...too loud..."

A whisper. Almost nothing.

"...I need to inform the Malik—"

Raevahn’s voice cut through—sharp, decisive.

Footsteps—fast and leaving.

Levin’s vision flickered and darkened. The ceiling blurred, the world tilted—and then—Nothing.

***

[Moments Later—Continuation]

"Move."

The command did not rise. It cut. Physician Naram entered like a blade drawn from its sheath, calm, precise and unyielding.

Servants parted instantly. Space was cleared. Air shifted. Levin lay upon the lower diwan—still. Too still, his skin was pale, breath shallow. Naram dropped beside him without hesitation.

His fingers pressed at Levin’s wrist, paused and shifted to the throat. Then lower, his palm hovered briefly over Levin’s abdomen—And stilled.

"...Hmm."

A sound, low and measured. Not comfort, not yet concern but... calculation.

"His pulse is unstable," Naram said quietly. "His body is... resisting something."

Iru stepped forward immediately. "...Resisting what, Physician?"

Before Naram could answer—The doors burst open.

"CONSORT!!!!"

Zeramet, he did not enter. He arrived, fast and uncontained. His presence struck the room like a storm breaking stone. His gaze fell and froze.

Levin unconscious, pale and unmoving.

"...Consort." The word came lower than breath, he crossed the distance in a single stride and dropped beside him. His hand reached instantly—lifting Levin’s face slightly, fingers brushing against his cheek.

Cold.

Too cold.

"What happened?" The question was not asked. It was demanded.

Naram did not look away from Levin as he answered. "...He collapsed...but not from any injury."

Zeramet’s gaze snapped to him. "...Then from what?"

Silence was brief and heavy. Naram’s hand moved again—resting carefully over Levin’s abdomen. His expression shifted, not panic. Something worse and recognition.

"I knew Malika will go through this...This is not simple exhaustion, Malik." His voice lowered. "...Nor is it illness."

Zeramet’s grip tightened slightly against Levin’s shoulder. "...Speak clearly."

Naram exhaled slowly, measured and deliberate.

"...The Malika is carrying golden-blood offspring."

The room stilled. Even breath seemed to halt.

"And that—" Naram continued, "—changes everything."

His gaze lifted now—meeting Zeramet’s. "For a human carrying Serpent’s flesh... this would already be a burden and it adds a bonus burden for an Alpha—"

His voice dropped.

"...it is unnatural."

Zeramet’s expression hardened dangerously.

Naram continued. "The first months... did not show severe symptoms...Because the formation had only begun."

His hand pressed slightly more firmly.

"...But now...since the eggs are growing."

Iru’s breath caught.Raevahn, standing at the doorway, stilled completely.

"...His body," Naram said quietly, "—is bearing too much than he should as a human and Alpha."

Silence, heavy, sacred and dangerous.

"His Alpha body..." Naram continued, "...does not yield easily...It resists."

Zeramet’s voice dropped, low and sharp.

"...Resists what?"

Naram’s gaze darkened slightly. "...The transformation...The expansion and...The demand."

His fingers tightened slightly over Levin’s abdomen. "...Golden blood... does not grow quietly."

Zeramet’s hand moved instinctively—covering Levin’s abdomen, protective and unconscious.

Naram continued. "...It drains relentlessly, more than intended...His energy is being consumed faster than his body can replenish it."

Iru whispered—"...That is why he refused food..."

Naram nodded faintly. "...His body no longer recognizes what it once needed."

"...It is redirecting everything... toward survival."

Zeramet’s jaw tightened. "...Will he stabilize?"

Silence.

A long one.

Then—

"...For now." Naram answered. "...Yes."

But he did not stop there.

"...However—" The word settled like a blade.

Zeramet’s gaze sharpened instantly. "...However what?"

Naram did not soften it. "...At this rate...the Malika might not carry to full term."

The air dropped.

"...He may be forced..." Naram’s voice lowered further. "...to deliver early."

Zeramet stilled completely. "...How early?"

Naram’s answer came without hesitation. "...Within three months."

Silence, an absolute silence.

"...The eggs will be expelled prematurely because his body cannot sustain them longer."

Zeramet’s hand tightened over Levin’s. "...And if that happens?"

His voice was quieter now but more dangerous than before.

Naram’s gaze did not waver.

"...Then both the Malika...and the heirs...will stand at the edge of death."

Silence did not follow. It collapsed.

Zeramet lowered his head slightly. For a fleeting moment, the Malik of Zahryssar did not look like a ruler. He looked like a man standing before something he could not strike down.

Then—Physician Naram spoke again.

"...Malik."

His voice was steady, grounded and unshaken. "...Do not allow fear to take root before necessity demands it...I anticipated this."

That alone shifted the room, not relief but attention.

Zeramet’s gaze lifted slowly.

"...Explain."

Naram inclined his head slightly. "I have not remained idle since the moment the Malika conceived."

His tone deepened—not pride, not arrogance, but certainty.

"...The old scriptures—those buried beneath temple law... those forbidden even to most physicians—I have read them all."

Iru stilled.

Raevahn’s posture tightened. Naram continued.

"...An Alpha bearing golden blood... forces the body into a state of contradiction...It fights... and it creates... at the same time." His gaze lowered briefly to Levin. "...That conflict is what weakens him."

Zeramet’s hand did not leave Levin. "...And how is it resolved?"

Naram answered without hesitation.

"...It is not resolved, It is balanced, the Malika does not need more medicine he needs stability." His gaze lifted again—directly to Zeramet.

"...Your presence and...Your pheromones," Naram continued, voice low and deliberate, "are not merely dominance." "...They are anchoring, binding, sustaining."

A pause.

"...If you remain close...If your presence surrounds him...the eggs will stabilize, his body will resist less."

Silence stretched.

Heavy.

But this time—It held something else, possibility. Zeramet exhaled slowly. A faint shift passed through the room.

Subtle but real. Then—Zeramet’s gaze lowered once more to Levin. Fragile in a way the world had never been allowed to see.

"...If I had known..." His voice dropped quieter. "that it would demand this much of you..."

His fingers brushed faintly against Levin’s cheek.

"...I would not have asked for a child."

The words settled softly but they carried weight enough to silence even the walls. No one spoke, no one dared, because the Malik—had just revealed something he never allowed to surface.

Regret but only for a moment.

Then—It was gone.

Zeramet straightened without another word—He moved. His arms slid beneath Levin—lifting him effortlessly, carefully, as though holding something far more fragile than power ever allowed.

Levin stirred faintly just enoug, and then—Instinctively—He relaxed, settling into Zeramet’s hold. As though even unconscious—He knew where safety was.

Zeramet’s hold tightened.

"Raevahn." His voice returned.

Raevahn stepped forward instantly. "My Malik."

"Inform the council, there will be no session held."

"It will be done." Raevahn nodded.

Zeramet turned, the doors opened before him and h walked out—Carrying not just the Malika—But the future of Zahryssar itself.

Behind him—The chamber remained and within his arms—Levin rested, unaware, unknowing, but not alone.