novelraw Chapter 148: A Taste That Should Not Exist
Chapter 148: A Taste That Should Not Exist
[Silthara Palace — Emperor’s Chamber — The Same Day]
The chamber did not breathe loudly. It held its breath. Golden light slipped through the carved lattice of the high windows, resting across stone and silk alike—but at the center of it all, nothing moved.
Zeramet sat upon the lower diwan, still and unshaken.
Levin remained within his arms. One arm supported his back. The other rested across from him—protective, instinctive, and unyielding. His gaze remained fixed beyond the window, the sky endless, but his thoughts were not.
Then a shift, small and faint.
Levin stirred, and a slow breath parted his lips. His lashes trembled—and opened. The first thing he saw—it was not the chamber, not the light.
Chest.
His brows furrowed faintly as his cheek rested against it, still softened by sleep. His fingers shifted slightly against the fabric beneath him.
"...Zer..." His voice came hoarse and soft.
Zeramet’s gaze dropped instantly; the stillness broke.
"...You are awake." His voice lowered—quieter than command, closer to something else.
Levin blinked slowly, lifting his head, and only then he realized. He was not lying down, he was on him.
"...What—" Levin paused, his voice still rough with sleep. "...What is this...?Why am I?"
Zeramet’s lips curved faintly, his hand lifted, brushing gently beneath Levin’s eye, then along his cheek.
"...Did you sleep well?"
Levin exhaled softly. "...I did...I feel... lighter now."
Zeramet watched him carefully.
"...Good."
Levin shifted slightly, sitting up beside him now—though not far as he asked quietly, "...Why are we here? When did I—"
Zeramet did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached for the cool crystal glass beside him.
"...Drink first."
Levin blinked but did not argue; he accepted it and sipped slowly. The water settled but something inside him did not.
Zeramet watched every movement and every breath as he said calmly,
"...You fell into a deep sleep while working; it was...not a light rest...So I brought you here."
Levin lowered the glass slowly.
"...I see." A faint crease formed between his brows. "...Is there something wrong with me?"
The question came out quieter and more carefully. His hand moved—almost unconsciously—to his abdomen.
"...The children..." Zeramet’s gaze followed the movement, then softened. "...They are safe and they are growing well."
His hand lifted. Rested over Levin’s warm and steady abdomen.
"...Since they are growing inside you, they are taking more energy from you, and that is the reason for your exhaustion."
Levin searched his face. "...Are you certain?"
Zeramet’s arm moved—sliding around his shoulders, drawing him closer without force.
"...Everything is as it should be." His thumb brushed once, slow and reassuring. "...Trust me."
Levin held his gaze a moment longer, and then he nodded and leaned. His head rested against Zeramet’s shoulder.
"...From today," Zeramet said quietly, "you will not overwork yourself...No excessive sword training, it will drain your energy too much and you might faint."
Levin exhaled faintly. "...Sword practice eases my mind."
Zeramet glanced at him. "...Then you will ease it without exhausting your body, warm-ups and nothing more."
Levin hesitated, then nodded. "...Very well."
And then—
KNOCK. KNOCK.
"Malik...may I enter?" Iru voice came from behind the door.
"...Enter."
The doors opened, and Iru stepped in, followed by attendants bearing trays, careful and measured. The scent arrived first, sweet, warm, and layered.
Honeyed dates glazed with saffron. Milk is thickened with crushed pistachios and rose. Soft wheat cakes filled with date cream and spiced butter.
And a small bowl of unusual crushed ice. Mixed with tamarind, pomegranate salt... and something faintly bitter.
The trays were arranged.
Perfectly.
"I have instructed the kitchens to prepare... alternatives," Iru said, bowing slightly. "Something that may better suit Malika’s condition and taste."
Levin glanced at the spread, and immediately his breath tightened. "...I do not wish—"
"Consort." Zeramet’s voice cut in, not harsh but firm. "...You will eat; you haven’t eaten since last night; it’s not good for your health."
Levin stilled and then sighed faintly. "...But nothing feels right; everything tastes... wrong."
"Why don’t you look at the dishes and maybe something will suit your tatse, just...try," Zeramet remarked after observing him.
Levin hesitated and then reached, not for the rich dishes, not for the sweets, but—the strange one.
Levin held it; he studied it. Then, without ceremony, he tilted the small vial Iru had prepared... Letting the thin stream of spiced curry essence fall over the ice.
It hissed softly upon contact, cold meeting heat. sharp meeting sharper, a contradiction.
Levin brought it closer, paused, and then tasted. A moment passed; his lashes lowered slightly.
"...This..." Another small bite, slow and measured. "...This is not... unpleasant."
Iru, standing a step behind, allowed himself the faintest curve of satisfaction.
"It cuts through the weight," he said softly. "The sour steadies the breath... and the cold quiets the unrest within the body."
Levin did not respond immediately; he took another bite, and this time without hesitation.
"...Strange," he murmured. A faint exhale followed. "...But...good."
Zeramet had remained still. His gaze remained fixed on Levin—not the dish, not the servants... only him. The way he ate. The way his body, for once, did not resist.
A slow smirk touched his lips. "...You truly intend to eat that?"
Levin glanced at him briefly. "...I already am."
Zeramet leaned slightly closer, curiosity slipping beneath his usual composure. "...Then allow me."
Levin raised a brow.
"...Allow you?"
"...To understand what madness has been holding your taste."
Before Levin could respond, Zeramet gestured faintly. "...Feed me."
A pause, then—Levin did. He scooped a small portion and brought it toward him. Zeramet accepted it without hesitation.
And then he froze completely; his expression did not shift at first, not immediately, but his body stilled in a way that was... unnatural.
His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed slightly, and then—
"...—"
A sharp breath.
Iru stepped forward instantly, already holding a cloth. "You may—spit it here, Malik."
Zeramet did not argue; he turned slightly and did exactly that. A rare thing. A king... spitting out food like a man ambushed.
"...What is—" he exhaled sharply, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and offense, "...how can you eat this, consort?"
Levin blinked at him once, then calmly took another bite. "...It tastes good."
Silence.
A faint sound escaped from somewhere behind.
Iru turned his head. An attendant covered their mouth. Iru lowered his gaze—but not before the faintest amusement slipped through.
And then—soft, restrained chuckles filled the room, careful and controlled but undeniable.
Zeramet stared at Levin, who repeated the word as if it had betrayed him. "...Good?"
Levin nodded, completely unbothered. "...Very."
Another bite, casual and effortless. As if he had not just fed a king something that nearly offended his existence. Zeramet leaned back slightly, still recovering, his expression caught between disbelief and reluctant amusement.
"...Your children," he muttered under his breath, "...have declared war on taste itself."
Levin exhaled softly—almost a laugh. "...Then you should consider yourself fortunate."
Zeramet glanced at him.
"...Why?"
Levin tilted his head slightly. "...Because they have not declared war on you."
A pause.
Then—Zeramet huffed faintly, a low sound that almost resembled a laugh. The chamber softened, not into silence but into something warmer and lighter.
For a brief moment, there was no court, no traitors, no danger lurking beneath stone and shadow.
A consort with impossible cravings, a king defeated by a single bite, and a room that, for once, allowed itself to breathe.
***
[House Karzath — The Same Night]
The night did not settle easily over House Karzath. It lingered—heavy, watchful... as though the earth itself had been disturbed and had yet to forgive it. Torches burned low along the stone paths. Shadows stretched long and uneven, clinging to pillars and walls like silent witnesses.
At the center of the training grounds—The disturbance had already been taken, Covered, Removed But not erased.
The knights of House Varoth stood in quiet formation as the remains were carefully lifted, sealed within dark cloth and iron bindings. No one spoke loudly. No one lingered longer than necessary.
Because death—when uncovered like this—was not meant to be discussed. It was meant to be feared. Sharukh Varoth stepped forward, his presence steady, controlled—unshaken by what lay beneath the wrappings.
"My Lady," he said, his voice low yet firm, carrying the weight of authority without arrogance, "the remains will be taken under imperial seal."
A pause.
"They will be examined...thoroughly." His gaze lifted briefly to meet hers—not casually, not lightly. "...And the truth will be returned to you."
Lady Arinaya stood composed, though the tension had not fully left her shoulders.
"...You have my gratitude," she replied, her tone measured, though fatigue traced beneath it. "You answered my summons without delay."
Sharukh inclined his head slightly.
"It was not a summons," he corrected calmly. "...It was an urgency, and such matters...are not ignored."
His eyes shifted once—toward the ground where the body had been unearthed. "...You have done well to report it immediately."
Arinaya did not respond because praise did not settle easily over unease.
Sharukh stepped back. "We will proceed at once, may the night remain...gentle upon your house."
And just like that—He turned. The Varoth knights followed, carrying with them not just a body—but the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Silence returned but it did not comfort. Lady Arinaya exhaled slowly, her fingers lifting to her temple, pressing lightly as though to quiet the echo of what she had seen.
"...What a burden this day has been," she murmured faintly. "...And I have not even stepped within Silthara once."
The frustration was quiet controlled but present. She turned, and stopped and a figure stood before her—unannounced, unmoving, dark, still and watching.
Serath Min
Her brows drew together slightly.
"...Serath Min." Her voice sharpened—not with alarm, but with displeasure. "...What brings you here?"
For a moment he did not answer. His gaze lingered on her—too long, too still... something beneath it flickering dangerously.
Then—It vanished like a blade hidden beneath silk. He bowed smooth and controlled.
"I must ask forgiveness, my lady," he said, his voice lowering into something measured, almost gentle. "I did not intend to startle you. I merely came...to inquire of your well-being."
Arinaya stilled.
"...My well-being?"
The words carried quiet disbelief.
"You remained beneath the sun for many hours," he continued, tone careful, respectful—too careful. "...Such strain is not meant for one of your standing."
Silence. Then her gaze sharpened.
"...How strange."
He did not move.
"...You have served within this house for years," she continued, her voice calm—but edged now. "...and yet I do not recall you ever concerning yourself with my condition."
A pause.
"...Why now?"
That lingered. For just a moment—Too long and then—he smiled, soft, polished and false.
"My lady wounds me with such words," he replied lightly. "Concern has always existed...only circumstance restrained its expression, the High Ensi demands much of those beneath him."
Arinaya watched him longer this time, measuring, weighing, and finding something off. Then she stepped past him without pause.
Without acknowledgment.
"You need not concern yourself with me," she said simply, her voice returning to its composed authority. "Attend to your duties...serve your master well."
And just like that—She walked on, leaving him behind. The air shifted, subtly and dangerously. Serath Min did not move at first, he stood where she had left him, still and silent.
Then slowly his head turned. His gaze followed her retreating figure and this time—there was no mask, no courtesy, no restraint only—something dark, something patient and something that did not forgive.
"...Troublesome," he murmured under his breath, voice dropping into something colder... truer.
A faint smile curved his lips, not warm, not kind.
"...This omega... sees more than she should." His eyes narrowed slightly. "...Then perhaps...she must be taught where sight should end."
The torches flickered, the night deepened, and somewhere within House Karzath—another thread tightened, quietly, dangerously and unseen.