Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 65: The Shedding of Old Skins

[Silthara Palace—Emperor’s Chamber—Midnight]

Midnight deepened the chamber into hushed gold and shadow.

Levin sat cross-legged upon the cushions, parchment spread around him like fallen leaves. His fingers moved tirelessly—names, sigils, dates—each mark weighed, each line read twice, then once more.

The pattern refused to loosen its grip.

’No matter how far back I trace,’ he thought, eyes narrowing, ’Iru is everywhere.’

Attendant. Shadow. Constant.

"...Why?" Levin murmured to himself. ’Why would Iru wish the consorts dead? He was raised within these walls. He is no Black Serpent—only a palace-born one. Loyal. Ordinary.’

His breath slowed.

’So why?’

The flame in the brazier shifted, then—a presence, not footsteps, not sound. A weight—old, vast, unmistakable.

"What are you doing, consort?"

The voice echoed—not through the air, but through the stone itself. Deep. Resonant. The voice Zeramet carried only when he allowed the world to remember what he truly was.

Levin looked up.

The chamber had changed.

Silver filled the room—coiled, luminous, immense. Zeramet’s true form lay curved across the marble floor, scales like moonlit metal, eyes gold and patient. His great head tilted, considering the parchment with a slow, serpentine curiosity.

"What is this?" Zeramet asked, his voice a low vibration. "Why are you studying the deaths of my former consorts?"

Levin blinked once, then smiled—soft, breathless.

"You startled me," he said honestly.

He reached out without thinking, palm settling against the smooth warmth of Zeramet’s head. The scales were cool at first touch, then warmed beneath his hand, alive with quiet power.

"...Why are you in your true form?" Levin asked, awe threading his voice.

Zeramet answered by moving.

His tail slid forward, nudging the parchments aside with careless grace, sending them whispering to the floor. Then he coiled—slowly, deliberately—around Levin, not restraining but enclosing, like a living circlet of silver.

A guardian’s embrace.

A lover’s.

"Mmm," Zeramet hummed, the sound vibrating gently through Levin’s chest as his great head settled near Levin’s shoulder. "After the rut comes the shedding, my moonflower."

Levin’s breath caught.

"It is the way of our kind," Zeramet continued softly. "When heat passes, the skin that carried it must be released. Every serpent sheds after rut and heat—old layers giving way to renewal."

Levin’s cheeks warmed, color blooming unbidden as Zeramet’s coils tightened just enough to be felt—secure, intimate. He leaned instinctively into the warmth, resting his temple against Zeramet’s smooth scales.

"So..." Levin asked, voice quieter now, touched with wonder, "will you shed tonight?"

Zeramet’s eyes half-lidded.

"Soon," he replied. "Not yet."

His head brushed Levin’s shoulder—a gesture gentle, possessive, and reverent.

"It is a vulnerable time for serpents," Zeramet added. "Which is why I chose to be here. With you."

Levin’s fingers curled lightly against the silver scales.

"I’m glad," he whispered.

Zeramet blinked once.

Then, with deliberate gentleness, he shifted his immense weight just enough to guide Levin backward onto the mattresses. Cushions sighed beneath them as Zeramet coiled more fully around him, silver loops settling like a living fortress.

His great head lowered close.

"Do you know," Zeramet murmured, voice low and teasing now, "they say that after shedding—if a consort crosses the threshold and we share another heated night—"

His golden eyes gleamed faintly.

"—a wife may carry life soon after."

Levin blinked, then laughed softly, the sound warm and unguarded.

"You’re lying," he said, amused. "I know nothing like that happens."

Zeramet froze, then slumped his head dramatically onto Levin’s chest with a faint huff, "Tch. I thought you might fall for it."

Levin chuckled, fingers sliding instinctively over the broad curve of Zeramet’s head, tracing the lines where scale met scale, "You are terrible at lying, Zer."

Zeramet sighed, the sound deep and vibrating, felt more than heard, and muttered, "I am a ruler, not a trickster."

He shifted again, pressing closer, coils tightening just enough to be felt—protective, warm.

"Still," Zeramet added, quieter now, "shedding does hurt."

Levin’s laughter faded.

"And heat lingers during this time," Zeramet continued. "The body remembers what it has just survived. Old skin loosens. New skin aches to breathe."

Levin’s hand stilled, then resumed—slower, gentler—stroking along Zeramet’s scales in long, careful motions, as if soothing a living flame.

"Then rest," Levin said softly. "I’m here."

Zeramet’s eyes were half-lidd.

"You may not know this," he said, voice drifting, "but Silver Serpents do not sleep easily during shedding."

Levin smiled faintly, "Then I won’t let you sleep alone."

He shifted slightly beneath the coils, fitting himself more comfortably against Zeramet’s warmth, one arm resting across the great serpent’s neck.

Zeramet hummed—low, content, ancient.

"That," he murmured, "is far more effective than heat."

Outside, the palace lay silent.

Inside, beneath silver coils and lamplight, old skins loosened, aches softened, and two hearts rested—bound not by prophecy or throne, but by choice.

***

[The Next Day—Afternoon Meal]

Levin sat in the dining chamber in a state of quiet disbelief.

Zeramet—still in his great silver serpent form—was coiled tightly around him, one heavy loop draped possessively over Levin’s lap, another resting against his shoulder. His head lay near Levin’s wrist, eyes half-lidded, utterly unashamed of his closeness.

’I cannot believe this...’ Levin thought, exhaling slowly. ’He has not left me since yesterday.’

Not during the bath chamber, not while Levin dressed, not even in the ancestral hall. Everywhere Levin went, the Silver Serpent followed—clingy, warm, territorial.

Asha and Lyseraph watched from the edge of the chamber, both visibly confused. Asha tilted his head; Lyseraph flicked his tail in mild amusement.

The other Serpentians did not even glance twice.

They all knew their Malik was shedding.

"I have brought your favorite dessert, Malika," Iru said carefully, placing the bowl before Levin. "Kheer—dates simmered in milk."

Levin’s gaze flicked up—cool, unreadable.

"Thank you," he said. "You may leave."

Iru bowed at once.

Levin then lifted his voice slightly, "All attendants are dismissed."

The chamber emptied quickly, doors closing softly behind them.

Silence settled.

Levin glanced down at the coils wrapped around him, "...Won’t you eat?"

Zeramet blinked, then—slowly—the silver coils loosened.

Light shimmered, and Zeramet shifted into his human form, hair falling loose over his shoulders, still far too close, still leaning heavily into Levin as if distance were a foreign concept and totally naked.

"Why don’t you feed me, consort?" Zeramet murmured, resting his head against Levin’s shoulder.

Levin sighed—but lifted the spoon anyway.

"You are unbearable," he muttered, feeding him. "If you are shedding, how will you continue the tournament?"

Zeramet accepted the spoon lazily, eyes never leaving Levin’s face, and replied, "The next round begins in three days; I will likely shed tonight."

Levin nodded, offering another spoonful. Zeramet swallowed—then leaned closer, licked his neck with his serpent tongue, his breath warm, voice low.

"Mmm," he said softly. "You are sweeter than any dessert in this palace; can I have you as my dessert?"

Levin’s cheeks burned instantly.

"Zer—" he hissed, trying to hide his face. "This is not the place."

Zeramet laughed quietly and pulled Levin closer, snuggling Levin closer to his bare chest, saying without shame, "I can do whatever and wherever I want with my consort; this is my place, my empire, and my moonflower."

Levin stiffened—then flushed harder when he realized how close Zeramet truly was.

"I—" Levin stammered, attempting to shift back just enough to regain composure because his hands were placed on his huge dick. "We should... continue eating."

Zeramet hummed, clearly pleased.

"As you command, Malika," he said, eyes glinting with affection and mischief. "But do not expect me to stop clinging."

Levin sighed—and fed him another spoon. Outside the chamber, the palace went on with its rituals.

Inside, beneath silver warmth and quiet laughter, the empire’s most dangerous ruler remained wrapped around the one person he trusted enough to be vulnerable with.

And Levin—despite himself—did not push him away.

***

[Later — Private Courtyard — Evening]

The courtyard was bathed in amber hush.

An attendant poured the tea with careful hands, steam rising in pale ribbons before drifting away. Hibiscus and marigold bloomed together along the stone edges—red and gold, life and ritual entwined—perfuming the air with something both sweet and grounding.

Levin exhaled softly.

’It was difficult, to convince Zeramet to leave me for even a few hours. Who would have thought that shedding would reveal such a clingy, almost boyish side of a Silver Serpent?’

’So...cute..’ The thought softened him—briefly.

Then—

"Are you well, Malika?"

The voice was composed, female and measured.

Levin opened his eyes.

Lady Arinaya sat across from him, posture straight, hands resting lightly near her cup. She wore no jewelry meant to distract, no colors meant to provoke—only quiet presence.

Levin’s lips curved into a faint smile, "I am well, thank you for coming."

His gaze shifted.

It caught on the mark at her neck. A shadow of fingers, bruised into memory. Levin’s eyes darkened—not with shock, but with recognition.

"And you," he asked gently, "how are you, Lady Arinaya?"

She did not flinch.

She did not adjust her collar.

Instead, she met his gaze steadily and smiled—thin, resolute.

"I am well too, Malika," she replied. "It is my honor to share tea with the Mother of Zahryssar."

The title settled between them. Levin inclined his head once, acknowledging both the respect and the implication.

"Honor," he said quietly, "is often paid in bruises."

Arinaya’s smile did not fade, "And sometimes, in survival."

A pause.

Tea was lifted.

Steam curled.

Levin spoke again, his voice calm, measured.

"You fought well in the tournament," he said. "I am told you are skilled with both spear and sword."

Arinaya’s lips curved faintly, "It is an honor to be acknowledged by you, Malika. I would not call myself exceptional—but my father ensured I was trained in all disciplines expected of the next heir of House Karzath."

"There is no doubt what the former High Ensi intended for you," Levin replied. "I saw it clearly in the arena."

He paused.

"And you presented your rose with intention."

Arinaya lowered her cup, fingers steady, "Yes, Malika. My intentions were clear when I offered the rose—and they remain so."

Her gaze did not waver.

"Unlike my brother’s."

Levin studied her.

’So she knew,’ he thought. ’She saw his impurity during the tournment.’

He turned his cup slowly in his hand, the tea rippling once before settling, "Is that, why you wished to become my personal attendant, Lady Arinaya?"

She did not flinch.

She bowed her head slightly—not in submission, but in respect and said evenly, "I just do not wish, to see foolish ambition drag entire bloodlines into ruin, Malika."

Silence fell—thick, deliberate.

Levin set his cup down and then..."But, I have no intention of appointing you as my personal attendant, Lady Arinaya."

The words landed without force—and yet, they struck. For the first time since the tea began, Arinaya’s fingers twitched.

Just once.

She stilled them immediately—but the moment had passed too close to be undone. Because she understood what refusal meant. Not merely personal rejection—But the narrowing of House Karzath’s future.

Levin watched her closely.

Said nothing more.

And in that silence, the courtyard seemed to hold its breath—as if waiting to see whether this decision would save a house...Or seal its fate.