[Eastern Zahryssar — Outside Sah’qir Village — Midnight]

The imperial convoy finally arrived near Sah’qir Village at midnight, and the moment the royal carriage stopped, silence fell, not ordinary silence.

The kind that grips the throat and refuses to let breathing feel natural.

One by one the Red Knights slowly looked toward the village ahead and froze. Because what stood before them was not a village anymore.

Sah’qir looked dead, utterly and completely. The moonlight revealed streets darkened like burned bone while every house seemed covered in ash-gray decay spreading across the walls like disease.

The wells overflowed with black liquid. The lantern posts hanging near the gates swayed despite the wind having stopped completely, and the air—the air itself felt wrong.

Heavy, poisoned, and ancient. Even the desert seemed unwilling to touch the village; for several moments no one moved, no one spoke.

Then finally the royal carriage doors opened, and Zeramet stepped down first. The moment his boots touched the sand, his golden eyes narrowed sharply because even he could feel it.

Corruption.

Not magical corruption alone.

Something older and something buried. The feeling spread through the desert like invisible poison.

Immediately afterward, Levin stepped down beside Zeramet, wrapped in pale desert robes, while silver moonlight spilled softly across his hair like frozen light, and the moment Levin truly looked toward Sah’qir—his entire body stilled.

Because now up close the village looked even worse. The houses no longer resembled homes; they looked hollow and drained.

As though life itself had been ripped from the walls and left only empty shells behind. Black veins spread across the ground beneath the gates.

The wells overflowed with dark liquid, and strange serpent symbols covered nearly every surface like warnings carved by madness itself.

Levin’s breath slowed faintly, then quietly, almost unable to understand what he was seeing, he asked:

"...what happened here?"

No one answered immediately because no one truly knew. Then suddenly Asha hissed violently, her fur rising completely while her tiny claws dug sharply into the sand.

At the exact same moment, Lyresaph growled lowly, a deep ancient sound vibrating through the desert itself.

And then without hesitation silver light exploded around him. The dragon transformed instantly into his full silver form. Beneath the moonlight, silver scales reflected across the dunes like sharpened mirrors.

The Red Knights immediately stepped backward from sheer instinct because even allied dragons remained terrifying creatures.

Lyresaph lowered himself protectively near Levin at once, his enormous silver tail curled subtly around the Malika’s position, shielding, guarding, and ready.

As though the dragon had already decided, if danger appeared, Levin would survive first. Meanwhile, Asha leaped directly onto Lyresaph’s back and hissed toward the village repeatedly with tiny murderous rage.

The atmosphere around Sah’qir darkened further; even the animals sensed it now. Levin instinctively stepped forward slightly.

Drawn, not by curiosity. That unnatural feeling was calling from somewhere beneath the village itself, but suddenly Zeramet’s arm moved across his path, stopping him instantly and firmly.

"Not now, consort." His voice came low, protective, and absolute.

Levin looked toward him, and for the first time since arriving, he noticed Malik’s expression fully: cold, sharp, and dangerously alert.

"Not until I know this place is safe."

The desert winds moved softly through Zeramet’s dark robes while his golden eyes never left the village ahead. Every instinct inside him screamed that something beneath Sah’qir was watching them already.

Especially Levin. For several moments Levin remained silent; then slowly he nodded once, because this situation no longer belonged to pride or arguments.

Even he could feel it; something here was deeply wrong.

Nearby a knight stepped forward while scanning the surrounding dunes carefully. "We establish the imperial camp farther from the village perimeter."

Zeramet immediately nodded in agreement, his gaze narrowed slightly. "The corruption grows denser near the center, and the magical flow beneath this land...feels unstable."

Zeramet’s expression darkened further. "Then no one enters Sah’qir tonight."

The Red Knights immediately bowed. "As you command, Malik."

Orders spread through the convoy instantly. Tents began rising farther from the village, protective runes carved into the sand, blue imperial flames lit across the dunes. Archers positioned themselves carefully around the perimeter, and throughout all of it, Sah’qir Village remained silent, watching and waiting beneath the moonlight like a corpse refusing to rot.

Meanwhile, far beneath the sands, something ancient stirred faintly again. As though sensing Levin’s arrival, somewhere inside the dead village a pair of dark crimson eyes slowly opened within the darkness.

***

[Eastern Zahryssar — The Imperial Tent — Later]

The imperial camp had settled, not into rest but into vigilance.

Blue flames burned low around the perimeter while armed silhouettes moved like shadows between the dunes. No laughter. No idle speech. Even the wind seemed to pass more carefully here.

And beyond all of it Sah’qir Village remained, silent and watching.

Outside the imperial tent, Levin stood still.

Too still.

His gaze remained fixed on the village some distance ahead, its ash-black silhouette cutting into the silver night like a scar that refused to heal.

Nearby Lyresaph remained in his full dragon form, coiled protectively near the tent. His massive blue eyes moved constantly, scanning the dunes, the sky, the shadows—everything.

Nothing escaped him. Above him, Asha slept curled between the ridges of his scales, entirely unbothered by the tension suffocating the air.

Levin exhaled slowly; his voice came softer than the wind itself. "...what exactly did they go through?"

The question did not expect an answer. It carried something else, unease, empathy, and something deeper—a faint, disturbing familiarity.

Then warmth touched his waist. Zeramet stepped behind him, one arm wrapping around Levin’s waist firmly, pulling him just slightly closer.

Grounding him and anchoring him.

"We will know by tomorrow." His voice was low, steady, and controlled.

Levin did not look away from the village. "...you sound certain."

"I am not, but uncertainty does not permit hesitation."

Levin finally turned his head slightly. "...did you learn anything?"

Zeramet’s gaze remained forward toward Sah’qir, now only toward Sah’qir as his tone lowered further. "Varesh and Arkhazunn began their inspection before we arrived; they have already marked irregularities along the outer perimeter."

Levin frowned faintly. "...and yet we were not informed?"

That made Zeramet fall silent, not because he had no answer but because the answer itself unsettled him. "Either they have not concluded anything yet...or what they found is not something easily spoken."

The wind shifted slightly and is colder now. Levin’s fingers curled faintly at his side. "...I do not like this silence."

"Neither do I."

For a moment they both simply stood there. Watching the dead village breathe without sound, then finally Zeramet tightened his hold slightly.

"You should rest."

Levin did not argue this time because even he understood this night was not meant to be challenged, as he nodded once. "...wake me if anything changes."

"I will."

Reluctantly Levin turned and stepped back into the imperial tent. The soft fabric closing behind him swallowed his presence from the desert night.

Inside he lay down slowly, placing his sword beneath him out of instinct rather than necessity. He was prepared even in sleep.

Outside, Zeramet did not follow immediately; he remained where he stood. His gaze still fixed on Sah’qir, unmoving and unreadable. The desert wind shifted again, and for a brief moment it almost sounded like something whispering beneath the sand.

Zeramet’s eyes narrowed.

"...Black Serpents?" He murmured under his breath.

The thought lingered, unsettling and incomplete. Then quieter, more dangerous—"...or something older than them?"

Because this—this did not feel like strategy. It did not feel like politics. It did not even feel like war. And it felt like something buried had been disturbed.

Something that did not belong to the present, far across the dunes—Sah’qir Village stood silent, but somewhere within its hollow center something shifted and listened.

And for the first time since arriving, Zeramet felt it clearly. This was not an enemy he understood, and that was far more dangerous than any war he had ever fought.

***

Far beyond the imperial camp—beyond the blue flames and guarded dunes a figure stood silently atop the highest sandstone ridge overlooking Sah’qir.

Still, motionless and hidden beneath layers of black robes that moved softly beneath the midnight winds.

From that distance the imperial encampment looked small, fragile and temporary like a candle attempting to survive within an ancient graveyard. And yet the hooded man’s attention remained fixed on only one tent.

The imperial tent.

Zeramet’s tent.

Slowly a smile spread beneath the darkness covering his face, not warm, not sane. The kind of smile born from obsession surviving far longer than it should have.

"...long time no see..." His voice drifted softly through the desert winds, low, smooth and dangerously familiar.

"...Zeramet."

The name rolled from his tongue almost lovingly almost possessively. His gaze remained fixed toward the imperial tent while moonlight reflected faintly against something hidden beneath his robes.

"I wonder..." A soft chuckle escaped him. "...will you be shocked to see me again?"

The desert winds suddenly howled stronger around the cliffs. As though the dunes themselves reacted to his presence.

Then quieter far quieter he whispered:

"...or happy? because this time...everything will change."

And then he turned away from the ridge. The black robes disappearing slowly into the deeper darkness beyond the cliffs. As though the desert itself swallowed him whole but the moment he vanished—another presence moved within the shadows below, silent, watching and hidden near the lower rocks—Sarash slowly emerged from the darkness.

His serpent eyes remained fixed upon the direction where the hooded figure had disappeared and for the first time in years—true shock crossed his face.

"...that voice..." The whisper barely escaped him. Srash’s expression slowly darkened, his heartbeat becoming uneven beneath the silence because no matter how many years had passed—no matter how impossible it should have been—

that voice...felt horrifyingly familiar.

A memory long buried beneath time suddenly clawed upward inside him, a name, a face and a serpent who should never have returned.

"No..." He stepped backward once unconsciously. "...that cannot be possible."

The white serpent’s hands clenched tightly, his gaze trembling faintly now because deep inside some ancient instinct had already recognized the truth before his mind could accept it.

And then finally almost fearfully—Srash whispered into the desert night:

"...it feels as though..." His voice lowered further. "...he has returned."

The winds screamed violently across Sah’qir afterward and somewhere beneath the sands something ancient pulsed once in response.

As though awakening recognized awakening.