Serpent Emperor's Bride

Chapter 154: Nothing Valuable Goes Missing Alone

[Sarytharn Capital — The Wine Shop — The Next Day]

The wine shop roared with life. Laughter spilled like cheap liquor, coins clinked, and voices tangled, but beneath it another world existed. Behind a concealed door—past stacked barrels and false walls.

A chamber quiet, measured, and waiting. At the center is a table, and around it is silence. Levin sat cloaked in shadow, a black hood drawn low, a dark veil masking his face—yet nothing about him was hidden.

Beside him, Lady Arinaya was composed despite the remnants of recent wounds; behind Raevahn stood silent and watchful.

And near the door a beast. Asha lay stretched, golden eyes half-lidded but aware of everything. Across from them are two figures, Raviel and Zyvera.

They had been talking moments ago; now they were not, because the air had changed. Raviel leaned forward slightly, studying the veiled figure before him, eyes sharp and untrusting.

"...You expect me to believe ..." He said slowly, "...that the Malika of Zahryssar sits in my wine shop?"

Levin did not move.

"...Belief is not required." His voice was calm, low, and dangerous in its certainty. "...Recognition is."

Raviel’s jaw tightened. "...And if I refuse to recognize?"

A faint pause and then—Levin tilted his head just slightly. "...Then I will have you arrested by my knight right now and have this establishment reduced to ash before your next breath finishes. Maybe...this will prove my identity."

The room froze; even the air seemed to still. Raviel blinked once, then twice, and then he stood abruptly and bowed deep.

"...I greet the Mother of the Empire." Beside him, Zyvera followed instantly, lower and sharper.

Raviel did not rise immediately. "...Forgive my ignorance, Malika... It is not often that power chooses to walk unguarded into shadow."

Levin’s gaze remained steady. "... Power does not fear shadow... It uses it."

Silence.

Raviel straightened slowly. "...You honor my establishment beyond its worth, Malika, though I fear it is far too unrefined for such presence."

Levin’s voice came without delay—"It will suffice."

A small flicker of humor passed through Arinaya’s eyes. Just briefly because even in shadow, Levin remained Levin. Raviel cleared his throat slightly.

"...Then—" A careful pause. "...how may this humble dealer be of service?"

Levin leaned back slow and deliberate. "...I am not here for service...I am here for truth."

The words settled heavier than coin ever could. Zyvera’s gaze sharpened. Raviel’s smile faded.

"...Truth," he repeated softly. "...That is rarely requested without consequence."

Levin’s eyes did not leave him. "...Then consider this a costly request."

Silence, and then Levin spoke.

"...Nabuarsh."

The name landed and stayed. Raviel’s fingers stilled against the table. Zyvera’s gaze flickered—just once.

Levin continued, "...the closest aide to the Malik...a serpent who rose too perfectly...I want to know about his Alpha, one who marked him. I want to know every little detail about his Alpha."

Zyvera stared at Levin and then exhaled slowly"... That information does not exist in any official record."

Levin’s lips curved faintly. "...That is why I am here."

Raviel leaned back slightly now and studied him. "...You aim directly at the throat of the empire, Malika."

Levin’s gaze did not shift. "...No...I aim at what has been hiding beneath it and more."

The room tightened.

"...Why..." Levin continued, "...did the previous Malik choose him? Out of all serpents...why was Nabuarsh placed beside Malik?"

Zyvera’s expression changed slightly because that—that question was not simple. Raviel’s voice lowered. "...You are not asking for information...You are asking for history that was buried."

Levin inclined his head just slightly, saying, "...Then dig."

Silence, and then—Raviel smiled slow and sharp. "I apologize I might be overstepping, but...you do not ask like a ruler, Malika...You ask like a hunter."

Levin’s gaze darkened. "...And I do not miss."

Silence followed, heavy and final.

Zyvera stepped forward slightly. "...This will not be quick."

Levin nodded once. "...It does not need to be...It needs to be correct."

Raviel inclined his head. "... Then we accept, and when truth surfaces—"

Levin cut in, saying, "You are allowed to enter the Silthara Palace and...bring what you find to me directly, and I will ensure you are paid enough to make honesty worth more than betrayal."

Silence stretched.

Then Raviel lowered his head once more. "...As you command, Malika."

And just like that, the agreement was sealed, not with ink, not with gold but with risk.

***

[Sarytharn Capital — Great Market Quarter — Shortly After]

The market of Sarytharn did not merely live.

It roared.

Voices overlapped in a dozen tones and accents. Merchants cried out from beneath striped awnings. Bronze bells rang from mule harnesses. Spices rose in the air thick as memory—cinnamon, saffron, roasted dates, smoke, hot bread, and sweet fermented fruit.

Silks swayed overhead like banners of smaller kingdoms.

Coins changed hands.

Children ran.

Serpents bargained and beneath it all—the capital breathed with the confidence of a people who believed their empire could not be shaken.

Levin walked through it veiled and hooded, dark cloth hiding his features, his posture quiet enough to pass and composed enough to never invite insult. Beside him walked Arinaya, cloaked no less carefully, and a step behind them followed Raevahn, silent and watchful.

For a while Levin said nothing, he simply looked. At baskets heavy with figs and pomegranates. At jewelers displaying cuffs and anklets of worked gold. At women laughing over bolts of dyed silk. At old serpents drinking in shade and arguing over trade.

At boys chasing each other between carts while their mothers shouted warnings after them.

At life.

At Zahryssar.

Not the throne, not the court but the serpent beneath it. A serpent well-fed, well-clothed, and unafraid to spend coin in broad daylight.

Arinaya glanced at him once. "...You are quieter than usual, Malika."

Levin’s gaze remained on the market road ahead. "...I was thinking they live well."

Arinaya followed his gaze. A merchant was handing sweet cakes to a child while another woman laughed at something her husband had said as Arinaya answered shortly,

"...Under Malik Zeramet, yes...no one can deny that."

Levin did not answer but his eyes lingered, because empires were not judged only by war. They were judged by markets that remained full.

By children who remained fed, by nights that remained unbroken. Then a scent caught him, sharp and cool. Sweet in a strange way, not heavy like syrup, not soft like dates. It slipped through the air cleanly, with a bright tartness that cut through every other smell in the market.

Levin slowed.

Raevahn noticed first.

"...Malika?"

Levin turned his head slightly toward a small outer restaurant at the corner of the street. Its awning was faded blue, and bunches of pale green fruit hung from a rope at the entrance. On a low table, those same fruits had been sliced open and mixed into shaved ice, herbs, and salt.

"...What fruit is that?" Levin asked.

The restaurant keeper, an elderly serpent with silver bangles around both wrists, looked up at once.

"...Ah, my lord has a good nose," she said with a grin. "...That is zarym. Sour enough to wake the dead and cold enough to calm a fever."

Arinaya’s mouth curved faintly. Raevahn looked unconvinced.

Levin stepped closer, the fruit was strange indeed—green on the outside, but once cut, its flesh glowed a pale gold, with tiny pink seeds running through it like jeweled veins.

"...It smells clean," Levin murmured.

The woman beamed.

"...Then your body has chosen well. Pregnant serpents, fevered children, overworked merchants—everyone comes for zarym once summer settles in."

Raevahn coughed softly into his fist and looked away. Arinaya’s eyes flickered toward Levin but said nothing.

Levin, as if he had not noticed either reaction, asked calmly, "...How is it served?"

The woman lifted a clay bowl proudly.

"...Crushed over ice with mountain salt, mint, and tamar bark." Then she lowered her voice like a conspirator. "...If your tongue is strange these days, this one will still obey you."

Arinaya very deliberately looked away so her expression would not betray amusement.

Levin tilted his head.

"...One bowl."

Raevahn stepped forward immediately. "I will taste it first."

The woman blinked, offended. "...What do you take my stall for—some gutter poisoner?"

Arinaya’s shoulders shifted with a barely hidden laugh. Levin said dryly, "...Let him taste it. It will comfort him more than me."

The woman huffed but handed the bowl over. Raevahn took a cautious spoonful, he paused and then blinked.

"...It is...good."

The woman threw her hands up. "...Of course it is good. I have sold this since before you were born."

Levin accepted the bowl at last and tasted it, cold and bright. Sharp enough to cut through the heaviness that had lingered for days.

His lashes lowered slightly.

"...This..." He took another spoonful. "...is good."

The woman leaned closer immediately.

"...I knew it."

Arinaya murmured under her breath, "...That makes two strange foods in two days."

Levin ignored her completely and for a brief, almost dangerous moment—The Malika of Zahryssar stood in the middle of the market, eating shaved zarym from a clay bowl like any ordinary noble passing through.

Then voices rose from the next stall, not loud enough to command the market but sharp enough to pull attention.

"...I am telling you, the eastern road is cursed."

"That is nonsense. It’s not cursed, it’s thieves."

"Thieves do not leave claw marks larger than a cart wheel!"

Levin’s spoon stilled.

The speakers were two merchants near a spice stall, both red-faced from argument. One of them slapped a folded notice against the counter.

"...Three caravans gone missing in twelve days, and now they say some wild thing roams beyond the eastern crossings."

The second scoffed.

"...Wild thing? They said the same when the marsh wolves came."

"This is no wolf. My cousin’s husband saw the tracks himself. Human-shaped—but too large. Like an irc from old battle songs."

"Ircs do not walk Zahryssar."

"Then what is taking the merchants?"

The spice seller, who had clearly grown tired of overhearing them, cut in from behind his jars.

"...Whatever it is, I care less for beasts and more for the fools who stop carts pretending to offer help. Those village jackals rob a caravan first, and then something worse follows after."

Levin’s gaze sharpened.

Arinaya heard it too.

Raevahn stood just slightly taller, and then another voice joined in from farther down the lane, this time from a crier standing atop a low crate with rolled papers in both hands.

"Hear it—hear it—great theft in the capital! A pink diamond of immense worth stolen in the night! Jewel of queens, treasure of empires, vanished without trace!"

That turned half the market in his direction.

"A pink diamond?"

"They say it was alive."

"Alive? It’s a stone, fool."

"No, no—I heard it came from an egg!"

"An egg? What kind of egg births diamonds?"

The crier lifted the notice higher.

"Reward promised for any word leading to its return!"

The market surged with fresh chatter. Missing merchants in the east. A roaming beast or irc. A stolen pink diamond worth a fortune.

Three different rumors—and yet in a city like Sarytharn, rumors did not remain separate for long.

Levin lowered the empty bowl slightly and looked across the market, beyond the noise, beyond the movement, toward the streets where wealth and shadow crossed each other every hour.

"...Interesting," he said quietly.

Arinaya glanced at him.

"...The east?"

Levin nodded once.

"...And the diamond."

Raevahn’s eyes moved across the crowd. "...Do you think they are connected?"

Levin’s gaze remained fixed ahead. "...In a capital like this...nothing valuable goes missing alone."

The old restaurant keeper leaned closer, wiping her hands on her apron.

"...You should buy another bowl if you plan to solve all the city’s trouble while standing in front of my shop."

For the first time that morning, Levin almost smiled. "...Then perhaps I should."

And as the market continued to roar around them—With laughter, greed, gossip, and warning—The capital of Zahryssar had already begun to offer its truths, not through council, not through parchment, but through the mouths of those who lived closest to the ground.

Beside him—Lady Arinaya leaned slightly closer, her voice lowered barely a whisper beneath the noise.

"...Malika...we should return before the palace realizes you are gone and before the Malik does."

Silence.

That was enough.

Levin exhaled faintly not in reluctance but in acknowledgment and they all walked away from there towards Silthara where Zeramet has already unleashed his fury all over the silthara.