Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 19: The Closed Eyes of Malika Ninsara

[Silthara Palace—Nightfall—Towards the Dining Chamber]

Night descended fully over Silthara.

Oil lamps were lit one by one along the vaulted corridors, their flames steady and disciplined, casting amber light that glinted in the carved eyes of stone serpents winding along the walls. Shadows stretched and bowed, reverent in the hush that followed evening prayers.

Levin walked slowly through the dining chamber, Asha cradled against his chest. The cub’s warmth seeped through the silk of his robes, a small, living presence that grounded him amid the vastness of the palace.

Then his steps slowed as his eyes caught the statue of Malika Ninsara again.

Her eyes were closed.

Levin’s gaze lingered there, something tightening quietly in his chest.

Behind him, Zeramet stepped close, his presence unmistakable. He rested one hand lightly at Levin’s waist, the other steadying Asha when the cub shifted.

"That is Malika Ninsara," Zeramet said, his voice low, carrying the weight of history. "The Malika who saved Zahryssar from the Black Serpents."

Levin nodded slowly. "Iru told me of her," he replied. Then, after a pause, he added, "But I was wondering something."

Zeramet tilted his head slightly. "Speak." 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

Levin lifted his gaze to the statue once more. "Why are her eyes closed?"

For a moment, Zeramet did not answer.

His golden eyes traced the statue’s face, the lines of devotion carved into stone by hands long turned to dust.

"The old chronicles say," he began slowly, "that she prayed to Lord Urzan in her final hours. That she begged the god of serpents to bless Zahryssar—even as her body failed. But..."

He paused.

Levin felt it—the hesitation, heavy and deliberate.

"But?" Levin asked softly.

Zeramet’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "But prayers are rarely so simple."

He turned his gaze to Levin. "Malika Ninsara’s eyes are closed not because she prayed... but because she chose not to look anymore."

Levin blinked. "Chose...?"

"She lived a hard life," Zeramet said quietly. "Harder than most who wore the crown. She was an Alpha consort."

Levin stiffened, surprise in his eyes, "An Alpha?"

Zeramet nodded once. "Yes."

He stepped closer to the statue, fingers brushing the cool stone at its base. "Malika Ninsara was not merely an Alpha," he said. "She was a force that altered the fate of all consorts. Born with authority so absolute that even serpents older than empires bent before her will."

Levin’s breath caught.

"She was the one who decreed that a consort was not an ornament," Zeramet continued, his voice deepening. "Under her rule, every consort was granted the right to raise a blade—if necessity demanded it. Not as defiance. As duty."

Levin stared at the statue anew, awe blooming quietly in his chest.

Zeramet’s voice lowered, layered now with reverence—and something shadowed.

"She ruled beside the first Malik of Zahryssar—Malik Saqira-Ishenn Karash, the First Coil. The founder of this empire. First and last female Prime Alpha, feared and revered in equal measure."

Levin turned to him slowly. "They ruled together...?"

"Yes," Zeramet said. "Together, they were unmatched. Fang and crown. Fire and law."

A pause. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "But fate was cruel to them."

Levin’s voice came softer. "What happened to them?"

Zeramet looked at him then—not as an emperor, but as a man choosing how much truth to give. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Levin’s forehead, grounding, affectionate.

"You will learn," he said quietly. "Once you begin studying the history of Zahryssar, Consort. Some truths must be met when one is ready to carry them."

Then, just as easily, the heaviness lifted from his tone. He straightened, a familiar glint returning to his eyes.

"Now," he added dryly, "come. I am starving."

Levin blinked—then nodded, as he glanced one last time at Malika Ninsara, as he thought, "I wonder what happened to her, that even her statue carried the sorrow?"

Together, they turned and walked toward the dining chamber, the silent gaze of queens past watching them go.

***

[The Dining Chamber — —Later]

The dining chamber glowed beneath low-hung lamps, their oil flames steady and golden, reflecting softly off polished stone and carved serpent reliefs. The long table was laid with care—bronze plates, etched cups, and bowls arranged in precise symmetry, as tradition demanded.

Before a single dish reached the table, the imperial chef stepped forward. He tasted from each plate, then knelt, pressing his fist to his chest.

"It is safe, Malik," he said solemnly.

Zeramet inclined his head once. "Proceed."

Only then did the servants move.

Iru led them, placing each dish before the Emperor and the Malika with quiet reverence—steamed grains perfumed with spice, roasted meats glazed in honey and resin, bowls of fruit gleaming like jewels. The room filled with warmth and the subtle comfort of a meal earned after a long day.

Levin sat composed, hands folded neatly—until his eyes betrayed him; on a small side platter sat the khajoor—dark, glossy dates, rich and untouched.

Zeramet noticed at once and a faint smile curved his lips. "Those are entirely yours, Consort. But only after you finish your meal."

Levin blinked, heat rushing to his cheeks. "I—I wasn’t looking at them."

Iru failed to hide his smile. A few attendants exchanged amused glances, their shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Zeramet’s eyes glinted. "Of course not."

Dinner passed gently after that. Conversation was sparse but easy—shared glances, quiet gestures, and the unspoken comfort of presence. Levin found himself relaxing without meaning to, the chamber no longer feeling like a place of rules but of belonging.

At last, when the final dishes were cleared, Iru returned—this time carrying the small platter of dates.

He bowed slightly. "Here, Consort. At last—you may taste Zahryssar’s most treasured fruit. And," he added with the barest hint of mischief, "His Radiances’ favorite."

Levin glanced down at the dates, their surface dark and inviting, but before he could reach for one, Zeramet did, "Allow me."

Levin hesitated—then nodded.

Zeramet lifted a single date and brought it to Levin’s lips, his touch unhurried and attentive. Levin opened his mouth, and the sweetness burst across his tongue—rich, warm, and deeper than he expected.

His eyes widened just slightly.

Zeramet watched him closely, satisfaction softening his gaze. "Do you like it? It’s sweet, just as they should be."

Levin swallowed, a quiet breath leaving him. "...They’re wonderful."

Zeramet smiled, genuinely this time, and fed him another date with unhurried care.

"It has been more than fifteen days since you arrived in Zahryssar," he said. "You have been seated beside me on the throne and introduced to the high officials. But the people beyond these walls...They wish to see their Malika as well. Would you be willing to meet them?"

Levin considered this only for a moment before nodding. "I don’t mind."

Zeramet’s smile deepened. "Then I will arrange an official visit through the city. Let them see who stands beside their Malik."

Levin nodded again, then hesitated, a new thought forming. "May I ask something?"

"Speak."

"Where is the training hall in Silthara?"

Zeramet blinked, clearly caught off guard. "You wish to train?"

"Yes," Levin replied calmly. "If you allow it."

A low hum of approval left Zeramet. "I do not object. Tomorrow, I will take you to my personal training hall. You may train there with the sainik of Silthara Palace."

Levin’s brows lifted slightly. "There are separate sainik for Silthara?"

"Yes," Zeramet said. "They are chosen from the highest ranks—trained not only to fight but to guard the Consort himself. Only the most trusted remain within these walls—those who serve under you."

Levin nodded, absorbing the weight of that protection.

And then—A sudden shudder ran through him.

It was subtle but sharp enough to make him still. His fingers curled faintly against the edge of the table as a wave of familiar warmth passed through him, followed by a tight pull low in his abdomen.

’No... not now.’ His thoughts raced. ’My heat cycle shouldn’t come yet. It’s always at the end of the month—’

Zeramet noticed at once.

"Did something happen, Consort?" he asked, his voice quiet but alert.

Levin forced himself to steady his breath and looked up. "No...I just... feel tired."

Zeramet studied him for a long moment, golden eyes searching—but he did not press, "Then we will retire."

They rose together, attendants moving silently to clear the table as the lamps dimmed further, shadows stretching long across the chamber walls.

As they walked toward the inner corridors, Levin pressed a hand briefly to his side, unease settling beneath his ribs.

His heat cycle was approaching—far sooner than it should have. And beyond the palace walls, unseen beneath moonless skies, something ancient stirred among the dunes.

The Sirrash were roaming.

And Zahryssar, unaware, stood on the edge of a season that had come too early.