Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 45: When the Consort Drew His Blade

[Ancestral Hall—Continuation—Silthara Palace]

The midday sun bled through the latticework windows in molten streams, painting serpentine lines of gold across the stone floor. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams like floating embers—yet the hall felt colder than morning, as though breath itself dared not disturb the air.

Levin sat poised at the long stone table. The map of Zahryssar lay before him, rolled open like a great serpent basking in sunlight.

But he did not look at it.

Asha and Lyserph pressed tighter against his legs, their feathers bristled—tiny bodies sharpened by worry.

Levin’s gaze remained fixed.

Unbroken.

Locked onto her.

The unfamiliar attendant.

The girl’s trembling grew with every heartbeat—first a soft quiver, then a sharp tremor, then a violent shiver that made the metal tray rattle in her hand. Sweat slicked along her throat, catching light like venom on a blade.

At last, Iru wiped the tasting spoon clean and bowed.

"Everything is safe, Consort," he said with practiced certainty.

But Levin didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, and didn’t even shift his attention. His fingers curled against the edge of the table, nails faintly pressing into the stone.

"Safe...?"

The word slipped from him quietly... yet carried the weight of judgment.

’No, it’s not safe.’

His instincts whispered louder than any spoken word.

And Levin—warrior by birth, trained by battle, tempered by near-death—knew the truth of his instincts.

A warrior’s instinct does not lie.

Beside him, Lyserph raised his small head, nostrils flaring. A metallic scent—sharp, wrong, foreign—brushed against his senses. Lyserph let out a low, trembling roar. A sound too small to terrify, yet too primal to ignore.

Asha twisted in confusion, feathers puffing.

Levin’s eyes darkened beneath his veil. ’Something is wrong with that attendant.’

His fist tightened slowly.

’Is she carrying something? A hidden blade? A toxin?’

Then his voice flowed through the hall—soft as silk, cold as shadow, and sharp as sharpened obsidian.

"You."

The girl jerked—but the other attendants? They didn’t flinch. They didn’t stiffen. They didn’t sense anything strange at all.

Only Levin—and his two small companions—felt the wrongness coil in the air.

"I have not seen you in these halls before," Levin said, voice steady, deceptively gentle.

Before she could respond, one of the attendants beside her stepped forward stiffly.

"Sh-she’s my sister, Malika," the girl blurted. "It is her first day; she is only nervous."

Levin turned his gaze onto her, and the hall seemed to tighten, "Did I ask you the question?"

The words were quiet, even polite—but the tone? Cold enough to freeze the lotus fountains. The attendant flinched violently, bowing low, voice cracking.

"I—I apologize, Malika... I only wished to assist—"

Levin did not break his stare; the silence stretched. Long, heavy, and unforgiving.

Then—softly, he exhaled, "Bring me water."

Iru stepped forward immediately. "I will—"

Levin lifted his hand without looking at him. "Not you, Iru."

The hall was still as stone. He pointed—slowly, deliberately—at the trembling girl...and then her sister. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

"They will serve me today. You may step back."

The air froze around the words. The other attendants stiffened. Iru stopped mid-step, confusion tightening his expression.

"...As you say, Malika." He bowed himself back.

But even he felt something now. Something is wrong. Something dangerous lurking beneath the trembling girl’s skin.

Levin still hadn’t looked away.

His expression was gentle—but beneath that gentleness simmered a new authority. A quiet, rising power. The kind a true Malika would one day carry with ease.

His voice slipped through the hall like a blade sheathed in velvet.

"Go on," he said to the sisters. "Serve me."

The trembling girl swallowed—too hard, too quickly. Her fingers tightened around the water jug. Her breath shivered.

Asha hissed softly. Lyserph pressed against Levin’s leg as if bracing for the inevitable.

Levin’s gaze did not soften.Did not blink.Did not wander.

He waited.Calculated.Watched.

Let me see what you’re hiding... he thought, breath steady as stone.

The trembling girl stepped forward, hands shaking so violently the water inside the jug shimmered as though frightened itself.

Her sister—the calm one—lifted a silver spoon toward him.

"Malika..." she said softly, voice too controlled for a servant. Too polished. Too steady.

Levin’s eyes flicked to her, a predator wearing human skin.

Not the trembling girl.

Her, the sister. The calm one.

Levin saw it in the shift of her wrist. In the faint flick of her gaze toward his cup. In the way her fingers tightened around the spoon as if preparing for something—

And then—

A sound split the hall.

SHRIEK!!

It wasn’t hers. It was Lyserph’s, sharp and primal, like a divine warning.

Levin moved before thought, before fear, and before the threat could breathe. In a single fluid motion—

SHHHK—!

The hidden dagger snapped into his hand. A silver arc glinting like moonlight caught in a serpent’s fang.

And—

—STAB!!!!!

The blade drove clean and deep into the calm girl’s throat.

Her eyes widened—not in pain, but in shock. Not a scream—just a wet gasp, a choking rasp like dying wind. Blood blossomed outward in a violent surge—a crimson arc across the table, splattering the map, soaking the food, and staining the golden borders of Zahryssar.

The trembling attendant collapsed backward with a ragged scream:

"AAAHHHHHHHH!!!!"

Her entire body crumpled against the floor, hands trembling, eyes blown wide with terror—not at Levin, but at the corpse of her sister.

The entire hall broke into chaos.

Platters hit the floor. Attendants screamed. Iru stumbled forward, eyes wild.

"MALIKA!!!" he shouted, horrified beyond measure. "What—what have you—?!"

Levin rose slowly—not shaking, not pale, but cold.

Cold enough to freeze the hall. He withdrew the dagger with a slow, quiet whisper of metal leaving flesh. The dead girl collapsed sideways, blood pooling like dark wine beneath her cheek.

The trembling sister tried to scramble away—but Asha blocked her with a hiss so sharp it was almost a blade. Levin stepped toward the girl, dagger dripping red.

His voice came out low—calm as a temple prayer, soft as a serpent coiling around prey, but merciless beneath every syllable:

"Arrest her. She’s an assassin." The command sliced through panic like a sword.

The command hit the room like thunder. Attendants shrieked, two guards sprinted in and Iru staggered back, face drained of color.

And then—Naburash entered.

He froze at the doorway. His eyes widened at the blood, at the fallen body, and at Levin standing over a half-collapsed assassin with a dagger painted red.

Naburash inhaled—sharp, knowing, instant.

"Inform Malik immediately!" His voice cracked through the hall like a war horn.

Guards scattered. Attendants fled, but Naburash didn’t approach Levin—he bowed instead.

Low.Respectful.And horrified.

***

[Same Time—Throne Room]

The throne room buzzed like a hive filled with ceremonial planning. Scrolls unfurled, captains presented rosters. Nobles debated the positions of arena banners.

Zeramet sat on his obsidian throne, chin on his fist, eyes sharp with excitement.

"This year," he declared, voice thunder-slick, "I want the Tournament of Sunsteel to be grand. Greater than any before. Let the lower knights enter. Let even the betas prove themselves."

The nobles bowed, murmuring agreement. Zeramet smirked—dangerous, confident, intoxicating.

"It will make the victory sweeter...when I defeat the strongest among them and claim my consort’s heart before all Zahryssar."

Arkhazunn smiled faintly.

’The Malik is truly gone... Utterly taken by him...’

Then—BRUST!!!!!!

The doors slammed open. A guard ran in—breathless, skidding to his knees on polished stone.

"Malik!!" he shouted, voice cracking. "There has been an assassination attempt—on the Malika."

Gasps erupted.

Zeramet’s heart didn’t stop—it exploded. His eyes snapped open—wild, golden, and predatory.

Arkhazunn stepped forward, panic tightening his voice, "What—how is that possible—? The kitchens are sealed, the palace gates—"

But he did not finish, because Zeramet did not hear another word. He was already moving. The throne shook behind him as he shot forward. Nobles stumbled out of his path. Servants pressed against the walls.

He ran—not like a king, not like a warrior—but like a beast whose mate had been threatened again.

Fast. Unthinking, driven by something older than power. Older than the empire.

Driven by fear.

The kind of fear that could turn a Malik into a storm. Guards sprinted behind him, struggling to keep up.

Arkhazunn shouted orders, yelling, "Call the captain immediately."The hall dissolved into chaos. But Zeramet’s mind burned with one thought—one name—one heartbeat—

"LEVIN."

The corridors blurred around him.

His aura surged—thick, suffocating, lethal—burning the air like black lotus smoke. Walls trembled under the pressure of his power. Every footstep cracked through the palace like rolling thunder.

***

[Ancestral Hall — Moments Later]

B R U S T — !!

The doors of the Ancestral Hall slammed open so violently that the hinges screamed. The sudden gust of force extinguished two nearby oil lamps, plunging the corners of the hall into shadow.

Zeramet strode in like a storm given flesh.

His aura hit the room first—hot, crushing, thick as black lotus smoke—and every attendant dropped to their knees instantly, trembling under the weight.

Levin turned—And Zeramet froze.

For just a breath. Just long enough for the sight to carve itself into him: Blood staining the stone table, a dead girl collapsed in her own crimson pool, guards pinning another trembling girl to the floor, Iru shaking, pale as bone and Naburash bowing low.

And Levin—Standing at the center of it all, a dagger dripping red in his hand.

Zeramet’s pupils contracted into razor-thin slits.

"CONSORT—"

His voice cracked like thunder, shaking dust from the ancient ceiling beams. He crossed the distance in heartbeats— grabbing Levin by the shoulders, eyes blazing with panic and fury and something far older.

"Who touched you?" His voice trembled—dangerously. "Who DARED get close enough for you to draw blood!?"

Levin blinked once behind his veil, calm despite the chaos, "I am unharmed, Your Radiance."

But Zeramet’s breath shuddered.

Unharmed? Levin was holding a blood-soaked dagger in a hall filled with panic and death.

No. No, he was not unharmed. Maybe not on the flesh—but the sight was enough to tear Zeramet apart.

His hands cupped Levin’s face—gentle, trembling, reverent.

"You killed her," Zeramet whispered, voice hoarse. His thumb brushed the back of Levin’s hand, smeared with crimson. "You—my consort—was forced to spill blood... alone."

Levin answered quietly, "I sensed the danger before anyone else did."

Zeramet’s jaw clenched. The trembling attendant screamed softly as the guards tightened their grip.The Malik’s aura pressed harder, suffocating, lethal.

Only Levin was untouched by it.

Zeramet finally tore his gaze away from Levin and turned—and the temperature in the hall plummeted.

His stare fell on the trembling girl, and she broke. She sobbed violently, choking on her own breath, struggling against the guards like a creature cornered by a predator.

Zeramet stepped forward once—just once—and the air cracked.

"Who sent you, worm?"

His voice was a low growl, like molten metal sliding over stone. The girl screamed in terror.

"I— I— I didn’t— I didn’t want to— sh-she— she forced me— I— PLEASE—"

Zeramet didn’t blink.

His voice cracked through the hall like a blade striking stone, "Answer. Me. OR I WILL SEVER YOUR HEAD THIS VERY MOMENT."

The air trembled.

His aura unfurled like a colossal serpent—wrapping the hall in coils of choking heat and crushing weight. Even the oil lamps flickered violently, as though bowing to his wrath.

The trembling girl shrieked, collapsing to her knees—her forehead smacking the stone as she tried to prostrate herself.

Naburash lowered himself even further, breath unsteady, "Malik... the Malika acted out of instinct. The dead girl—she was the true threat."

Zeramet’s jaw tightened; his voice dropped into a lethal whisper, "And this one allowed an assassin to stand beside my consort. She is guilty simply by the sin of her heartbeat."

The girl sobbed—broken, frantic. Levin stepped forward just slightly, veil shifting with the movement.

"Your Radiance, Please be calm."

One gentle call.

Just one.

And the storm halted.

Zeramet inhaled sharply—a deep, forced breath, dragging his fury back into his ribs by sheer will.His shoulders loosened a fraction, golden eyes dragged—reluctantly—back to Levin.

His expression softened, but only for him.

"Consort...you should never—ever—be placed in such danger. Not in my halls. Not under my roof.Not while I still draw breath."

He turned his head, gaze snapping back to the trembling girl like a blade returning to the whetstone.

"Take her. Chain her. Bind her hands behind her spine. Silence her mouth with serpent-thread.Throw her into the dungeons—the deepest cell."

The guards stiffened.

His voice grew colder, darker— a king speaking not as ruler or warrior, but as a vengeful god.

"I will interrogate her myself."

The girl screamed—"NO—NO PLEASE—MALIK—MALIK, I BEG—PLEASE—!"

Her cries echoed through the marble hall, but Zeramet’s face did not flicker.

Not once.

She was dragged away, heels scraping across the stone, sobs tearing the air apart.

Levin stood in the center of the hall—veil trembling softly, dagger still wet, Asha and Lyserph pressed against his feet. Zeramet moved to him in three strides.

His hand, rough with battle, cupped Levin’s cheek with reverence.

"Never again," he murmured. "Never again will a shadow come this close to you."

The words wrapped around Levin like a protective shroud—warm, fierce, unbreakable, but Levin did not melt into the comfort.

He looked past Zeramet’s shoulder...past the fading blood on the stone...past the trembling echoes of the girl’s screams as she was dragged away... Something gnawed at him.

His gaze drifted to the fallen assassin—her lifeless eyes still wide, frozen in a mix of shock and something else... something off.

And then his thoughts whispered, low and uneasy—

’Why does it feel...they are not the true assassins here?’

The hall fell silent.

But Levin’s heartbeat whispered the truth: The real threat had not found yet. It was still out there...moving, watching, waiting.