Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 122: Cold Night, Colder Throne

[Thalryn Empire — Veyrhold House — Levin’s Chamber — Night]

The night over the Northern Empire was silent.

Snow lay unmoving beyond the balcony, the pale moonlight spilling across the stone floor of Levin’s chamber in long silver lines. The fire in the hearth burned low, its warmth soft, steady, and peaceful—the kind of quiet night that should have brought rest.

Levin lay on the bed, covered in heavy blankets, his breathing slow. To anyone who looked at him, he seemed asleep.

Peaceful and still, but he was not.

His fingers were tangled tightly in the sheets beneath him, knuckles pale from the pressure. Sweat clung to his temples, sliding down his neck despite the cold air in the room.

His brows were drawn together as if he were fighting something unseen. A nightmare, and this time... it would not let him wake easily.

***

[Levin’s Nightmare]

He was standing in Silthara Palace.

The familiar chamber stood before him—the very room he once shared with Zeramet. The same carved pillars, the same curtains, the same low bed draped in black and gold silk.

Everything looked exactly as it had been.

Too exact, and too quiet.

Levin took a step forward. The sound of his footsteps did not echo, and the air felt thick and heavy, like the palace itself did not want him there.

"...Zer...?"

His voice came out faint, almost swallowed by the silence; there was no answer. The curtains moved slightly, though there was no wind.

He walked closer to the bed, and then he stopped.

His breath caught in his throat.

Someone was there.

On the bed.

Zeramet lay against the pillows, his silver hair spread across the dark sheets, his arm wrapped around someone resting against his chest.

An omega.

Young and soft. Curled against him as if that place had always belonged to her.

Levin froze where he stood, for a moment, his mind refusing to understand what he was seeing.

Zeramet leaned down slowly, his hand lifting the omega’s chin, his expression calm, almost gentle—the same expression Levin had once seen only when they were alone.

He pressed his lips to hers, not hurried but forced. Familiar, as if he had done it a thousand times.

Levin’s fingers trembled.

"...Zer... what are you... doing...?"

His voice broke, but neither of them reacted; he tried to step forward, but his body would not move.

His feet would not leave the floor. It was as if the chamber itself had chained him in place, forcing him to watch.

Zeramet pulled the omega closer, his hand sliding around her waist, holding her the way he used to hold Levin when the nights were quiet and the palace was asleep.

Levin’s chest tightened painfully. The omega laughed softly, her hand resting over Zeramet’s shoulder as if she belonged there.

As if Levin had never existed, as if that bed had never been his. His nails dug into his palm.

Then Zeramet’s eyes lifted, slowly. Cold gold met Levin’s gaze across the room, and this time he saw him.

A faint smile curved on Zeramet’s lips, not warm, not loving, but sharp, cruel, and amused.

"Well..." his voice echoed strangely in the chamber, deeper than it should have been, as if the walls themselves were speaking with him.

"...Long time, consort."

Levin’s breath stopped.

Zeramet tilted his head slightly, his arm still around the omega.

"Why are you standing there?" A pause; his smile widened just enough to hurt. "Come closer."

Levin tried to move, but his body still would not obey. Zeramet watched him struggle, his eyes dark with something that did not look like love anymore.

"...Or..." he continued softly, "...did you think this place would stay empty without you?"

The omega laughed again, leaning against Zeramet as if she had every right.

Zeramet’s gaze never left Levin. His words echoed, louder and distorted.

The room began to twist, and the walls stretched. The bed seemed farther away and closer at the same time.

Levin’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it would tear out of his chest.

Zeramet only smiled, and then the omega turned her head.

For a moment it was a stranger, then another, then another.

Concubines.

Many.

All lying where Levin once had been, all looking at him, all smiling and all laughing.

The sound filled the chamber like a scream. Zeramet’s voice came again, deeper, darker.

"You came as a consort." A pause. "And you forgot... a Malik of Zahryssar never belongs to one."

The floor cracked beneath Levin’s feet. The chamber collapsed into darkness, and Zeramet’s eyes were the last thing he saw.

Cold, distant, and unreachable.

***

[Back to Present — Levin’s Chamber]

Levin gasped awake.

"Hah—!"

He sat up suddenly, his whole body shaking, his breath coming fast and uneven as if he had been running.

His hand flew to his chest; his heart was pounding wildly, too fast and too hard. Sweat soaked his hair, his night robe clinging to his skin. His fingers trembled as he tried to steady his breathing, but the image would not leave his mind.

The bed, the laughter, and that smile.

His hand moved to his stomach without thinking, pressing lightly against it as if to remind himself he was still here.

Still alive and holding something that matters. His shoulders shook once before he forced himself to breathe slower.

"...It was just a dream..."

The words left his lips quietly, too quietly.

His eyes did not believe them.

Levin sat at the edge of the bed, his hands resting on his knees, his breathing finally slowing, yet the heaviness inside his chest refused to fade. The cold air from the half-open balcony brushed against his face, carrying the scent of snow and pine into the room.

He stared at the floor for a long moment, then he stood, slowly. As if his body felt heavier than before.

His bare feet touched the cold stone, and he walked toward the balcony without making a sound. The curtain moved slightly when he stepped outside, the night air biting against his skin, but he did not react.

He placed both hands on the stone railing and looked down. The ground below lay frozen, pale under the moonlight, the garden silent, the trees stiff with frost.

Everything looked cold, still and empty. For a moment, he kept staring as if the frozen ground was not outside.

As if the cold was inside him.

"...He’s the Malik of Zahryssar..." His voice was barely a breath. "...An emperor."

A pause, the wind passed softly through his hair, but his eyes did not move.

"Him having concubines... should not bother me." His fingers tightened slowly against the railing and the stone felt colder.

"...It is the law."

Another pause, his jaw clenched faintly.

"...It is the throne."

The words sounded right, they sounded logical. They sounded like something he himself had said many times.

And yet—

His chest tightened painfully, his breath caught for a moment before he forced it out again.

"...Then why..."

His voice broke slightly, but no tears came, he only stood there.

Silent. Staring at the frozen ground as if the frost below was nothing compared to what had settled inside him.

"...Why does it feel like I was thrown away..."

The wind moved again, no answer came. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, forcing his expression back to calm, back to the mask he wore in court, back to the face that never showed weakness.

"...Enough." He whispered to himself. "You chose this."

His hand moved slowly to his stomach, resting there lightly.

"And now... I choose them." His fingers pressed slightly against the fabric. "...Not him."

The night remained silent, and the cold did not leave.

***

[The Next Day — Zahryssar Empire — Silthara Palace — Court Hall]

The court of Zahryssar was filled with heat, not from fire, not from the desert sun outside the high golden windows, but from the tension that had settled over the hall since the matter of the vault began.

The nobles stood in two rows along the black stone floor, their robes heavy with gold and serpent symbols, their heads lowered, their voices careful.

At the top of the hall, upon the high throne carved with the ancient coils of the first serpent kings, sat Zeramet Karash.

Still and silent. One arm resting on the armrest, fingers tapping once... then stopping, his eyes were on the hall, but his mind was not.

’...It has been too long.’ The thought came without warning. ’No letter... no report... nothing. I wonder how you are, consort...’

His gaze drifted for a moment, unfocused, the voices in the court becoming distant noise.

Then—

"...Malik."

The word pulled him back. Sharukh Varoth stepped forward, bowing deeply.

"Lady Samhira’s report regarding the vault... does not match the border records even in the second report."

A faint murmur moved through the hall.

Sharukh continued carefully.

"The vault does not belong to the Western Empire, Malik. The land was once Thalryn’s... and the treaty never granted it fully to the west, no matter how many times we look, it feels as if....western is trying to steal the vault away."

Zeramet did not move, his eyes shifted slowly toward Lady Samhira, cold and unreadable. Before she could speak, Arkhazunn stepped forward as well, folding his arms behind his back.

"I must agree." His voice was calm, but firm.

"Forgive me, Lady Samhira... but it feels as if you are urging the throne to stand with the west without giving the full truth and valid reason."

The nobles glanced at each other and the air grew heavier.

Lady Samhira lowered her head quickly, "I only wished to protect the empire, Malik."

Rakhane stepped forward before she could finish, his patched eye dark.

"High Mage speaks from caution, Malik." He bowed slightly. "The Western Empire is stronger than Thalryn. If war begins, standing with the stronger side will protect Zahryssar. Lady Samhira only wishes to prevent unnecessary loss."

Silence, because...the reason is absurd.

Zeramet’s fingers stopped tapping, sowly—He leaned forward, his golden eyes lifted fully. Cold and dangerous.

The hall fell completely quiet.

"...Tomorrow." His voice was low, but it struck the chamber harder than a shout. "We leave at dawn."

Every noble stiffened.

Zeramet continued, each word measured like a blade.

"I will go to the border myself." A murmur of shock moved through the court. "I will examine the vault with my own eyes... in the presence of both empires."

He stood, the sound of the throne steps echoed through the hall as his long robes slid over the stone.

"And I will decide... where Zahryssar stands."

He walked down one step, then another. His gaze moved to Lady Samhira. Sharp and piercing.

"And if I find that this court has been played like a child’s game..." The air felt suddenly colder. "...If I see even a shadow of deceit... especially one that dares to move against my consort..."

Lady Samhira’s hands trembled.

Zeramet stopped directly before her. His voice dropped to a whisper only the nearest nobles could hear.

"I will cut the head from the body myself."

Her breath stopped. Zeramet’s eyes darkened further.

"So hold your neck carefully... while you still have it."

Silence crushed the hall, he turned away without another word. His cloak swept behind him like a shadow of a serpent sliding across the floor.

Arkhazunn and Sharukh stepped after him immediately and no one dared to speak. Behind them, Lady Samhira stood frozen, her face pale, her knees almost giving way.

And Rakhane—Rakhane did not move. His fist clenched slowly inside his sleeve, his eye burning as he watched the Serpent Emperor walk away.

Because the more Zeramet spoke...The more it became clear, this was no longer about the vault.

This was about his consort, Now.