novelraw Chapter 167: Judgment Without Mercy
Chapter 167: Judgment Without Mercy
[Silthara Palace — The Courtyard — Midnight]
The night did not move; it witnessed.
THUD.
The sound struck the courtyard like a verdict. Lyresaph released his hold, and Nabuarsh hit the stone, rolling hard across shattered petals and cracked marble.
A groan tore from his throat.
"—Ahh...!"
His body twisted, breath uneven, pain cutting through composure he had worn for years like armor. He pushed himself up slowly and unsteadily and looked up at the dragon.
Confusion flickered and then he saw them. At the edge of the broken garden stood Levin and beside him Zeramet, still and silent and unmoved.
Nabuarsh froze for a moment; pain was forgotten. Something colder replaced it; he forced himself upright—trembling—then bowed deep.
"My Malik... my Malika..." he said, his voice strained but carefully controlled. "I greet you."
He lifted his head and then he saw it. In Levin’s hand was a lash, not ordinary but barbed. Wrapped in thorns that caught the moonlight like quiet promises of blood.
Nabuarsh blinked once and then again.
"Malika..." he began, uncertainty slipping through his voice, "why... why are you carrying—"
"Drag him." Levin did not raise his voice; he did not need to.
The command cut through the air clean and absolute with no explanation and no accusation. Just a judgment.
For a heartbeat no one moved. Then Captain Varesh stepped forward, no hesitation, no question. His hand closed around Nabuarsh’s arm tight and unforgiving.
Nabuarsh flinched violently. "Malika—what is this—?"
He was cut off, not by words but by force. Varesh yanked him forward hard. Nabuarsh stumbled—barely catching himself before being dragged again, his body scraping against stone still littered with broken glass and crushed petals.
The courtyard doors opened and the hallway beyond waited. They did not go quietly; they did not go unseen as Varesh dragged him through the grand corridor—not as a prisoner, but as something already condemned.
Boots struck marble, echoing and relentless as Nabuarsh struggled to keep pace but failed. His knees hit the ground once and twice—each impact was sharper than the last.
Gasps rose soft and contained. Servants froze mid-step; attendants lowered their heads—but not before looking. Knights stood still watching.
Because no one had ever seen this before, not him.
Not like this.
The Malik’s closest ally was dragged, broken, and displayed.
"Stop—!" Nabuarsh’s voice cracked now, composure slipping with each step. "What is the meaning of this—?!"
No one answered, not Varesh, not the guards, not even the walls that carried his humiliation forward. Behind them Levin walked, slow and measured. Each step was quieter than the last. The lash rested loosely in his hand—but it did not look idle.
It looked...inevitable.
Nabuarsh twisted slightly, trying to look back to find reason to find control—and found instead Levin’s cold, empty, and final gaze.
Something in him faltered.
"Malika..." he said, voice lowering, no longer commanding—no longer certain. "If this is about the Varoth accusation, then I assure you—"
Levin stopped. Just for a moment, the entire hallway seemed to still with him. Then he spoke soft, deadly, and flat. "You speak too much."
Varesh tightened his grip and dragged harder. Nabuarsh cried out—the sound echoing down corridors that had never heard him sound like this before.
Zeramet followed behind, silent and watching. Not intervening, because this was not his judgment. This was something else entirely, something far more dangerous.
The dungeon gates loomed ahead, dark, open, and waiting. As though they had always known—who would be brought to them.
Nabuarsh’s resistance weakened, not from exhaustion but from something far worse, realization.
"Malika..." he whispered now, breath uneven, "whatever you believe... this is a mistake..."
Levin did not slow, did not stop, and did not answer because some truths are not spoken; they are delivered, and as Nabuarsh was dragged into the depths—through stone, shadow, and silence—the palace above did not erupt.
It did not panic. It did not question. It simply watched because power had shifted quietly and irreversibly.
And the Malika who once grieved in silence had now chosen something far more terrifying; he would not mourn, he would not plead, he would not forgive.
He would make the empire remember what it means to take something from him.
***
[Silthara Palace — The Dark Dungeons — Later]
The dungeon did not echo—it absorbed. Stone walls swallowed sound, and what remained was pain.
THROW.
Captain Varesh did not lower him; he cast him. Nabuarsh hit the ground hard—bone against stone, breath knocked violently from his chest.
A broken sound escaped him.
"—Ahh...!"
He curled instinctively, fingers clawing at the cold floor as his body struggled to recover from impact.
The iron gate slammed behind them finally, sealing and locking fate into place. Footsteps followed, measured and unhurried.
Levin entered, and behind him, leaning against the bars as though this were no more than an evening’s spectacle, stood Zeramet, arms folded and gaze intent.
Not stopping it, not questioning it, but watching and almost... pleased. Nabuarsh dragged in a breath, sharp, ragged, and forced himself to look up.
Pain flickered across his face, but something else remained, control or the last of it.
"My Malika..." he said, voice strained but still trying to hold form. "What have I done... to deserve this?"
Silence.
Heavy and unforgiving.
Levin stepped forward; the torchlight touched his face and revealed nothing soft, nothing broken, only something colder than grief.
"You killed one of my children." The words did not rise; they fell like a sentence already decided.
Nabuarsh froze completely. His eyes widened, shock breaking through every layer of control he had ever worn.
"...what?" The word barely formed.
"You poisoned me, and in doing so..." Levin continued, calm—too calm; his hand tightened slightly around the lash. "...you ended one of the lives I carried."
Something shifted in the room, not the air, not the light, but something deeper. Nabuarsh shook his head quickly, desperately.
"No... no, Malika—this is a misunderstanding—" His voice cracked. "I would never—"
"That alone," Levin cut in, his voice lowering into something far more dangerous, "is enough, enough to ensure that whatever remains of your life..."
His eyes locked onto Nabuarsh’s.
"...becomes worse than death."
Nabuarsh trembled now, not from pain. From something far more unfamiliar—fear.
"You must be mistaken—" he insisted, words stumbling over themselves now. "This was not me—this was Sharukh Varoth—he—"
Levin spoke a name softly and precisely.
"Nura," Nabuarsh stopped as if the name struck him; silence swallowed the space between them, and his breath caught. His gaze flickered—once—and that was all it took.
Levin saw it, and smiled, not warmly, not cruelly but with something far more final—certainty as Levin said quietly
"She may have forgotten, but her house did not. The remnants of your beginning...were still there."
Nabuarsh’s lips parted; no words came because now he understood.
Levin tilted his head slightly as he said softly as the lash shifted in his hand. "Your time, to play games or...to be someone’s puppet...has ended."
Nabuarsh’s body tensed—too late and Levin raised his hand to strike him hard.
STRRRRIIKKKKKEEEEE!!!!!!!
LAASSSSHHHHH!!!
The sound cracked through the chamber, sharp, violent, and alive. The barbed whip tore across his back, thorns biting deep, dragging skin as it ripped away.
A scream followed, raw, uncontrolled and It echoed—and died within stone.
"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Nabuarsh collapsed forward, fingers digging into the ground as pain surged through him like fire beneath flesh. Before he could recover—
ANOTHER LASSSHHHHH!!!!! STRIIIKKKKEEEDDDDD!!!
Again and this time lower and more crueler. The thorns did not just strike they held—before tearing free, blood followed warm and Immediate.
Nabuarsh gasped—his voice breaking into something no longer composed, no longer controlled.
"—Stop—!"
But Levin did not stop, he did not rush, he did not rage he lifted the lash again—slowly and deliberately.
As though measuring not how much—but how long.
"You said," Levin murmured, voice almost thoughtful, "you would never do such a thing."
STRRRIKKKKEEE!!!
Another scream sharper and broken.
"AAAAHHH!!!!"
Levin’s gaze did not shift as he stepped closer, "And yet...so many things in this palace happen without witnesses."
The lash dragged again not striking—just tracing—pressing against torn flesh, a warning and a promise.
"But tonight..." His voice lowered further. "...you will be seen."
STRIKKKEEE!!!
Nabuarsh’s body gave in, he collapsed fully, breath shattered, voice reduced to broken fragments between pain.
"Please—!"
The word escaped before pride could stop it and that—that was when something in Levin changed, subtly and completely.
His expression stilled even further.
"No," he said softly. "There will be no ’please.’ No mercy."
Behind them—Zeramet exhaled slowly, not bored, not disturbed but watching and learning.As though witnessing something... necessary.
Levin lowered the lash for a moment not out of restraint—but calculation, he crouched close enough that Nabuarsh could not look away.
"You will live," Levin said quiet and certain as his eyes darkened. "Every day, you will wake, you will remember and ynd you will beg..."
A faint pause.
"...for a death I will not give you."
Nabuarsh’s trembling did not stop. It deepened because now he understood, this was not punishment, this was time weaponized.
Levin rose, the lash hung loosely at his side—no longer raised, not because it was over but because—this was only the beginning, and behind him—Zeramet’s gaze lingered sharp and satisfied because the Malika—had not broken.
He had become something far more dangerous, and deep within the dungeon—where light barely dared to remain—a man who once moved kingdoms with whispers—now learned—what it meant...to be powerless.
Levin turned ready to walk away as though the matter behind him had already been decided... and no longer deserved his gaze and Nabuarsh struggled against breath that would not settle. Blood traced the stone beneath him, thin lines turning into something darker... heavier.
Still—he forced words out.
"I... did no such thing..." he rasped, voice breaking under its own weight. "Malika... the court... will never—"
"—The court?"
The interruption was smooth, sharp and unforgiving.
Zeramet stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Each step echoing not in sound but in authority.
"Looks like you have forgotten," Zeramet continued, his voice low, almost conversational, "that the court does not stand above the throne."
His gaze lowered to Nabuarsh cold and measured. "It kneels beneath it."
Silence swallowed the space. Zeramet tilted his head slightly.
"And beneath my consort..." he added, softer now, far more dangerous, "...it breaks."
Nabuarsh tried to speak but nothing came. Zeramet’s lips curved faintly as he said,
"It is alright, you will live long enough... to witness it, to watch how everything you built... is unmade." His gaze flicked briefly toward Levin’s retreating figure.
"And how he turns your existence... into something far worse than death."
Silence fell again not empty but sealed. Zeramet straightened as his attention shifted.
"To the matter of correction," he said.
Captain Varesh stepped forward instantly. Zeramet did not look at him, he did not need to.
"Release Sharukh Varoth," he said. "And ensure he lives."
The weight of that command settled deeper than any sentence passed earlier.
Varesh bowed. "At once, Malik."
Zeramet turned and followed. Levin had not stopped as he walked toward the exit—toward air that was not heavy with blood.
Toward distance, toward something that did not yet have a name. Zeramet closed the space between them, reaching—carefully as he took Levin’s hand.
The skin was marked, raw. Scraped where the lash had tightened too hard.
"Consort," Zeramet said quietly, his voice lowering, "you are bleeding—"
YAAANNNKKK!!!!
The motion was sharp and Immediate. Levin pulled his hand away not violently—but with something far more cutting, a distance.
He did not turn.
"It suffocates here," he said, his voice was calm but stripped of warmth, of anything that reached back.
Zeramet stopped and for the first time—he did not follow immediately, he stood there watching. Something in his expression stilled—not anger—not confusion—but something quieter and more dangerous.
Something that did not yet understand...why it had been refused.
Levin walked on, unstopping and unaffected. Raevahn fell into step behind him without a word. The dungeon gates opened, then closed and with that—he was gone.
Zeramet remained, just for a moment longer, then he turned and walked back into shadow. Behind him in the depths, a man bled.
Above a palace shifted and somewhere between them something fragile had just begun to crack.