Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 26: The Curse of the Empty Throne

[Silthara Palace—Later]

The palace felt the tremor before any attendant even understood what was happening.

Silver scales scraped violently against marble as Zeramet’s colossal serpent body stormed through the gates, guards thrown aside like sand.

Doors slammed open, lanterns shattered, servants scrambled back in terror, and in the center of his coils—

Levin.

Barely conscious, bleeding, held as though the world could steal him away.

Iru’s face paled.

"Consort!" His voice broke as he ran.

Lyseraph clung desperately to Levin’s wounded side, releasing faint bursts of silver energy to keep him stable.

Zeramet didn’t stop moving; he barreled down the palace corridors, destroying anything too slow to move aside.

As he reached their private chamber—

"Bring hot water! Clean cloth! Move!" Iru shouted, shoving servants aside. Attendants sprinted, tripping over themselves, and then—

BOOM—Silver light burst outward.

Zeramet shifted into human form with terrifying speed, catching Levin against his chest as though he would vanish if he loosened his grip for a single breath.

His voice erupted—deep, lethal:

"GET THE HIGH PRIEST NOW!" His words cracked like thunder. "IF HE ISN’T HERE IN THE NEXT MOMENT, I WILL TEAR HIS TEMPLE DOWN STONE BY STONE!"

Servants flinched, several collapsing to their knees; Levin blinked weakly, vision hazy. Everything around him was noise—heat—blur.

His breath trembled, and his heart pounded unevenly. Zeramet lowered his head immediately, voice softening only for him—"Stay with me, Consort. Look at me."

Levin’s fingers twitched around Zeramet’s sleeve.

Zeramet’s jaw clenched, panic breaking through his normally unshakable calm. "I’m here. You’re safe; just breathe and don’t you dare close your eyes."

Attendants rushed in with boiling water and linen.

Then came the High Priests—panting, pale, and genuinely afraid.

They took one look at Levin’s wound—and dropped to their knees.

The eldest priest swallowed hard. "Malik...the dagger that pierced him—it’s infused with Queen venom. We must begin the emergency ritual now or—"

Zeramet’s eyes snapped toward him.

"Then START." A low, shaking growl colored his words. "If you waste another second, I’ll rip the venom out myself—through your throat."

The priests scrambled, spilling half their satchels, hands shaking as they pulled out incense, ointments, and runes, but Zeramet didn’t look at them again.

He held Levin’s face in both hands—gently, reverently—a terrifying contrast to the fury burning behind him.

"Consort," Zeramet whispered, forehead brushing Levin’s. "You stay awake. Do you hear me? Stay with me."

Levin exhaled weakly, eyelids fluttering. A crack split through Zeramet’s control. His hands shook around Levin, the mighty Emperor trembling with fear he refused to show anyone else.

Behind them, priests whispered frantic prayers, attendants rushed, and the palace trembled with the weight of the Emperor’s anger.

But Zeramet only cared about one thing: His Consort.

Only his breath, only the faint rise and fall of his chest, only the life he refused to lose.

Then—The High Priest lifted his staff.

Golden sigils flared across the floor.

The air thickened, shimmering like heated glass as the ritual circle ignited. Runes spiraled beneath Levin, glowing so brightly the attendants shielded their eyes.

The priests began chanting—Ancient, low, rhythmic words that carried power in every syllable, "By the sand... by the scale...By breath... by blood...Heal... bind... restore..."

Light poured from their palms, gathering at Levin’s wound. A tingling warmth spread through his abdomen first—soft, glowing threads weaving into flesh.

Levin barely understood the sensation; the world around him blurred—shapes melting, voices thickening.

’It..Tingles... warm...’ His eyes fluttered. ’...so sleepy...’

The warmth wrapped around his mind, pulling him downward, and with a final soft breath, his body relaxed completely.

His eyes closed and he fell into deep, silent sleep.

The High Priest let out a long, exhausted sigh. He bowed low, forehead to the floor.

"Malik... it is done. The Malika is healed, he has only fallen into sleep from the exhaustion of the pain and venom."

Zeramet exhaled shakily; relief and terror hovered in equal measure. He brushed Levin’s cheek with his thumb—slow, reverent—his voice barely above a breath, "When will he wake?"

The priest straightened nervously. "In some hours... perhaps more. The body must recover its strength naturally."

Zeramet nodded.

Then the priest hesitated. "...But, Malik... once he wakes... you must ensure he is not overburdened." 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

Zeramet’s eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a soft, dangerous note, "What do you mean, priest?"

The priest swallowed hard, avoiding the Emperor’s eyes, and cleared his throat.

"The wounds have healed, yes—but the body remembers pain. The exhaustion lingers. Activities that strain the body—physical burden, emotional stress, or... intimate exertions—should be avoided."

Zeramet went still, very still.

The priest’s voice shrank to a whisper, "For a few days, Malik. At least a few allow the body to rest. Or he may reopen the internal strain."

Zeramet exhaled sharply—half a sigh, half a growl, "I understand."

The temperature in the room dipped sharply. His golden eyes lowered again to Levin, tracing the faint marks of pain still clinging to his expression.

Then—

"Get out."

Quiet.Soft.Unmistakably lethal.

The priests didn’t dare argue. They bowed so quickly they nearly stumbled, gathering their tools before rushing out with trembling speed.

The attendants hurried after them.

Leaving behind only the Emperor—and the unconscious consort lying in his arms.

The doors shut and the silence fell.

Zeramet pulled Levin against his chest, his voice breaking into a whisper only Levin could hear, "You scared me, consort... more than any beast ever has. I thought I would be forced to bury another of my consorts."

Levin didn’t hear it, but the walls did, and they remembered.

***

[Flashback—Zahryssar—Years Ago]

Before the empire feared Zeramet Karash, they pitied him, not openly—never openly; no one dared pity the Silver Serpent Emperor.

But behind closed doors, in shadowed halls and dim taverns, whispers slithered through the continent like smoke:

"Another consort died.""Maybe the Silver Emperor is cursed.""He devours his mates.""No one survives his side.""Do not send your child—he will bury them by dawn."

Rumors twisted like vines:

Some said the Emperor’s venom was too strong, others whispered his serpentine heat devoured the hearts of weaker mates, others swore the palace itself consumed them, and some, in trembling voices, said the Emperor loved too fiercely...and the desert punished him for it.

But one thing was certain:

Zeramet Karash had buried every consort he ever received.

All seventeen of them.

Male. Female. Beta. Omega. From noble lineages, from allied houses, from foreign kingdoms attempting to bind the empire in marriage ties.

None survived the first month, and so, a legend was born: "The Silver Serpent has a heart that brings death."

But the truth was far crueler.

Zeramet hadn’t killed a single one of them.

He had watched them die.

One by one—in their sleep, in their baths, in the gardens, on feather-soft cushions,with no struggle... no wounds... no sound.

Their bodies were cold before dawn, as if life had slipped away without resistance.

No poison, no marks, no signs of violence, just... stillness.

A curse in silence.

And every time—every time—Zeramet carried them himself, wrapped in white cloth, laid them beneath the desert stone, and lowered them with his own hands.

No noble attended those burials, only a grieving boy and a grieving serpent.

And the palace whispered:

"The desert rejects all his mates.""He is destined to rule alone.""No one can survive the Silver Serpent’s side; he is a tyrant."

And every burial carved Zeramet deeper; every loss turned the gentle boy into something sharp and closed and distant.

The throne room lay drowned in moonlight—cold, silver, merciless. Zeramet sat upon the high serpent throne, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of memory and a crown that had demanded too many burials from a boy barely grown.

Naburash knelt before him, holding an ivory scroll bound with Thalryn’s crest.

Zeramet broke the seal, scanned the words, and his jaw tightened.

"A marriage proposal," he muttered. "From House Veyrhold of the Thalryn Empire."

The offer was clear: Help them to end the war, and a promise to send a bride.

Zeramet lowered the scroll, cold anger flickered in his gaze.

"I reject this proposal," he said flatly.

Silence.

"Malik..." Nabuarsh stepped forward and bowed deeply. "This house has promised peace, and a bride. And Zahryssar... needs a Malika."

Zeramet’s head snapped toward him, golden eyes flashing, "I said I don’t need a consort."

His voice cracked—not with rage, but with grief, "I am not ready to bury another with my own hands."

Nabuarsh swallowed but did not retreat, his voice was quiet—yet unyielding. "Forgive my boldness, Malik... but a land without its Malika is like a child without a mother."

Zeramet looked away sharply.

Nabuarsh continued, stepping closer to the throne.

"You have given Zahryssar strength. You have given it peace. But a throne without a queen is incomplete. Our festivals lack their light. Our temples lack blessing. And our people..." he paused, eyes softening, "feel abandoned."

Zeramet’s fingers dug into the throne’s armrest and Nabuarsh bowed deeper, forehead nearly touching the steps below the throne.

"Let us hope Urzan sends one who survives and if you allow it, I will personally fetch the bride. But please..." he lifted his head slightly, voice trembling with sincerity, "do not let Zahryssar remain motherless."

For a long moment, Zeramet said nothing, the moon painted him in silver loneliness.

Finally... he exhaled, a painful, resigned breath.

"Fine, bring the consort." His eyes darkened. "But listen well, Nabuarsh."

Nabuarsh bowed.

"If I lose this one too—" Zeramet’s voice lowered, dangerous, broken, "—then let Zahryssar remain motherless forever. I will not sacrifice another daughter or son for the empire’s hope... nor my own selfish desire to not be alone."

Nabuarsh bowed deeper, "As you command, Malik."

He left quietly, the echo of his footsteps fading into the dark.

Zeramet remained alone, he turned toward the open window, where the desert wind slipped through the curtains. His hand lifted, running through his hair with tired frustration.

His eyes lifted to the moon—distant, cold, uncaring.

"I hope..." he whispered into the empty room, "...this one survives."

The moon offered no answer.

Only silence.

And the promise of a fate yet unwritten.