Serpent Emperor's Bride

Chapter 168: When the Empire Began to Whisper

[Sarytharn City — Zahryssar Empire — The Next Day — Afternoon]

By noon, the city had already heard, and by the afternoon, it believed.

Sarytharn did not carry news; it devoured it. From spice stalls to silk merchants, from shaded courtyards to crowded wells, the same words moved like wind through the city—whispered first.

Then it was repeated and then sharpened. Until they became something else entirely. "They say he was dragged."

"Dragged?" another voice cut in, incredulous. "By whom?"

A pause.

Lower and heavier. "...by the Malika."

Silence followed, not long but enough. At a stall lined with copper vessels, an old merchant leaned closer, his voice hushed but eager.

"I heard it from a palace servant," he said. "They say the Malik’s closest ally—Nabuarsh—was seized in the night."

"Seized?" a younger man scoffed. "By the Red Knights?"

The merchant shook his head slowly. "No, by order of the Malika himself."

That spread faster. Near the water steps, women gathered with filled vessels and paused mid-conversation.

"They dragged him through the grand hallway," one whispered. "In front of everyone."

Another covered her mouth.

"No..."

"Yes," the first insisted. "Like a criminal. No dignity. No concealment."

A third woman, older, eyes sharper than the rest, spoke quietly: "Not like a criminal, like a warning."

Further into the market, beneath stretched fabrics that filtered the sunlight into gold and crimson, the story darkened.

"They say he was beaten," a man muttered.

"With what?"

The answer came slower and more deliberately. "A lash."

"What is so strange about that?"

Another leaned in. "This one had thorns."

The air shifted and even the wind seemed to listen. "They say the Malika did not shout, he did not rage, and he did not even raise his voice; he only... struck."

That unnerved them more. At the edge of the square, a group of guards spoke in low tones, careful not to be overheard—but not careful enough, as one muttered, "If this is true...then the Malika has overstepped."

Another shook his head as he echoed. "Overstepped? Or revealed what he truly is?"

A third glanced toward the palace walls, his voice quieter now. "Do you think the Malik allowed this?"

Silence and then—"I heard he did not stop it."

That answer carried more weight than any rumor. Near the shaded arches of a noble quarter, the tone changed again, more cautious and more divided.

"A consort has no right to lay hands on the Malik’s closest ally," one nobleman said, his voice tight with disapproval. "This is not custom. This is not law."

Another, older, leaned on his cane, eyes distant.

"Custom," he said slowly, "is what power permits, and law... bends to the throne."

The first man frowned. "But to drag him? Publicly? Like that?"

The older man’s gaze darkened as he said quietly, "Then perhaps we should ask why the throne did not protect him."

Not all voices condemned. Some watched and understood. In a narrow alley where shadows clung longer than light, a woman spoke under her breath:

"They say the Malika lost one of the children."

The man beside her stilled as he said, "...then it is not cruelty. It is grief."

She shook her head slowly as her eyes lifted. "No. It is what grief becomes... when it is not allowed to break."

And so the city split, not in open defiance but in quiet division.

Some whispered: "He is too dangerous."

Others said: "He is necessary."

Some feared, "He is worse than the Malik."

Others replied: "Then perhaps the empire needs something worse."

Above them all, the palace stood silent, unanswered, and unmoved but no longer untouched, because for the first time, the people of Zahryssar spoke a truth they did not yet fully understand: The Malik ruled the empire, but the Malika had begun to reshape it

.

And once a name becomes feared—it is no longer just spoken. It is remembered.

***

[House Ashkarin — Same Time]

The house did not echo what it contained.

Curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room from the afternoon light as though the world outside had already become too loud—too intrusive and too real. At the center, upon a low diwan surrounded by scattered scrolls and half-burned incense, sat Arkhazunn, still and silent.

Except for his hands.

They trembled not violently but enough. Enough to betray what his face refused to show. The letter in his grasp had been read.

Then read again and again as if repetition might alter its truth, but it did not. His eyes remained fixed on the ink, wide and unbelieving.

A single line echoed louder than the rest—

—Nabuarsh, seized... dragged... imprisoned—

The words blurred not from weakness but from something breaking beneath restraint. His breath faltered once, quiet and controlled, and yet his grip tightened around the parchment.

CREAKKK!!!

The door opened, soft and careful. A boy stepped inside—no, not a boy, not anymore, a serpent whose age is eighteen. On the edge of something larger.

Zayr Ashkarin.

"Brother..." Zayr began, his voice light at first, almost unaware, "Have you heard? At the palace—"

He stopped mid-step because he saw him, not the high mage, not the composed figure who bent forces and laws alike, but a man—sitting too still, holding something too tightly. Breaking without sound.

Zayr’s voice softened.

"...you know."

Not a question, but a realization, because in this empire everyone knew but did not speak, never openly but understood. Arkhazunn and the one he now could not even name without consequence.

Zayr stepped closer and carefully as he said, "Every house has been summoned. The palace calls all bloodlines to witness. Are you—"

He stopped because the question felt wrong and incomplete now. Arkhazunn did not respond immediately. His gaze lifted slowly from the letter, not to his brother but beyond him, to the sealed curtains and to the direction where the palace stood—unseen—but never unfelt.

"I have to go," he murmured.

The words came quiet but certain.

Zayr watched him. Arkhazunn’s fingers loosened—just enough for the parchment to slip slightly in his grasp; his voice lowered, fractured at the edges.

"I need to know... why." The word lingered, heavy and unanswered.

His eyes darkened.

"Why would he do this?" Arkhazunn continued, more to himself now than anyone else. "Why would he stain everything he built... with something so—"

He stopped because the next word would destroy what little remained. Instead, he swallowed it hard.

"...treacherous."

Silence filled the space between them, then became softer and more dangerous. "Why would he kill all those consorts and—"

He stopped again, this time not from restraint but from something deeper and refusal, because saying it aloud would make it real.

Arkhazunn stood slowly like a man rising from something heavier than exhaustion. His hands steadied not because the tremor had left but because he had forced it into stillness.

The high mage returned, or at least his shadow did. He lifted his hand ready to open a portal. Power gathered invisibly, precisely, and anciently, and then nothing.

The air did not bend, the space did not tear, and silence reigned again. Arkhazunn stilled. For the first time his control faltered visibly.

"...what—" The word barely escaped.

Zayr stepped forward immediately.

"I will open the portal," he said, because this he could do. He moved beside his brother, raised his hand, and murmured words older than the house itself—low, measured, woven with intention.

The air shifted subtly at first, and then it fractured. A line of light tore through space—thin, unstable—before widening into a gateway.

Beyond it the distant corridors of Silthara Palace flickered into view.

Zayr exhaled. "It’s ready; let’s go."

Arkhazunn did not move, not yet. His gaze lingered on the letter—on the name—on everything that had not yet made sense and everything that refused to.

Then quietly, almost to himself, he spoke. "If this is a lie...I will tear it apart, but if it is truth...then I will understand why."

That was all: no promises, no vows, only intent. He stepped forward through the portal without looking back.

Zayr followed, and the tear in space closed behind them as though it had never been there. The room fell silent once more but not untouched, because something had been left behind—not on the floor, not on the table—but in the air itself.

Something fragile, something unspoken, and something that had once been hope and now was breaking.

***

[Silthara Palace — The Malika’s Dressing Chamber — Late Afternoon]

Silks moved like quiet waves. Gold chimed in soft, precise notes. Incense curled upward in thin, deliberate spirals—sandal and myrrh mingling with something sharper beneath.

At the center stood Levin still. Arms slightly raised, unresisting. Attendants circled him with measured hands—fastening clasps, adjusting layered silk, settling the weight of ornaments against his form as though dressing not a man—but a position.

At his shoulder moved Iru, fingers steady as he secured the final clasp of a deep-hued mantle. Gold thread caught the light in restrained patterns—serpents coiled in symmetry, their forms precise, deliberate.

"Lift your chin, Malika," Iru murmured.

The room quieted for a breath everything stilled. Then Iru spoke again, softer this time, but carrying weight that reached deeper than silk or gold.

"Today," he said, "the serpents will question you, they will not see a sovereign, they will see a consort."

The word lingered, carefully placed and carefully chosen. As though testing whether it would hold. Levin did not turn, did not look at him His gaze remained fixed ahead—on nothing visible, and yet on something far beyond the chamber.

"Let them question," he said, his voice was calm. "No matter what they ask... no matter how they dress their doubt..."

His fingers curled slightly at his side.

"...Nabuarsh will not walk free of this."

The attendants slowed because something in his tone had shifted the air itself.

Levin’s eyes darkened.

"I will tear through every barrier placed before me," he continued, each word quieter than the last—and far more dangerous. "Every voice that rises. Every hand that interferes."

A pause, long enough to feel.

"To protect what remains..." His voice dropped. "...I will destroy whatever stands in my way."

He did not raise his voice, he did not need to because the certainty in it was heavier than any command. No one spoke after that, they finished in silence, because the Malika did not need to be announced.

He arrived.

Levin stepped forward, the doors opened. The corridor beyond stretched long lined with carved pillars and silent witnesses.

At its heart stood the statue. Malika Ninsara. Levin stopped just before her, not out of reverence, not entirely but because something in that presence—demanded acknowledgment.

His gaze lifted, studied the veil, the stillness and the silence carved into stone. For a moment nothing moved. Then he spoke low, almost a whisper.

"I will end everything...that dares to harm what is mine." His hand tightened slightly at his side. "My child...will not be taken in silence."

The corridor did not answer, the statue did not move but something in the space between shifted. Levin stepped forward, passed her and did not look back, and as he walked toward the court that awaited him—toward judgment—toward resistance—toward everything that would try to stand in his way—the palace did not prepare for defense.

It prepared—for impact, because today the Malika would not be questioned, he would be revealed.