Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 42: The History and the realization

[Hall of Ancestral Study — Silthara Palace — Continuation]

The air in the Hall of Ancestral Study was warm with sunlight and ancient incense. Dust motes swirled like tiny spirits in the shafts of light beaming through the sandstone windows.

Levin sat at the long table, a hand unconsciously pressed to his abdomen as a faint tug twisted inside him—soft but sharp enough to steal a breath. A pulse, like someone knocking from inside the newly shaped womb.

’Why does it ache... after the second threshold...?’

Again it twisted, quiet and sharp, stealing his breath.

Across from him, Naburash unrolled an enormous parchment. Its edges were cracked with age, its ink the color of dried blood and desert clay. Upon it was painted the birth of Zahryssar—serpents, wolves, beasts, and men bound beneath a starless sky.

"As you know, Malika," Naburash said, his voice slow and reverent, "the Black Serpents once walked among us... bone of our bone... blood of our blood."

Levin nodded. "Yes... Iru told me once."

Naburash spread out the scroll fully. The parchment crackled like old bone, revealing a mural of the early world: coiled serpents, wolves, beasts, humans—together under a starless sky.

"Today," Naburash continued, "you will learn how Zahryssar was founded... and how the Black Serpents were cast out by Malika Ninsara."

He bowed his head respectfully before beginning the tale.

Levin straightened despite the ache in his abdomen. He listened, and the ancient history began to unfurl like a spell.

Naburash’s voice softened into the cadence of an old priest reciting holy scripture.

***

[The History of Zahryssar Empire]

"When the world was yet soft clay in the hands of the Great Creator, the gods shaped their children from divine breath—humans, wolves, serpents, beasts, and wandering spirits. Each god blessed their offspring with gifts—strength, wisdom, magic, and instinct—and sent them upon the newborn earth to live as one."

Levin imagined it—a world full of innocence, untouched by blood.

Naburash’s tone darkened.

"But among all the gods...Lord Urzan—Father of Serpents—chose one child above all."

He pointed at the scroll’s inked figure: a serpent shimmering silver, divine radiance swirling around it.

"A Silver Serpent—the most blessed of all his children. The bearer of calm, balance... and destiny. All the serpents rejoiced, except one kind."

Levin’s fingers tightened around the scroll. "The Black Serpents."

"Yes. From that day, envy festered like poison. Black Serpents began desiring what belonged to House Karash—the right to rule Zahryssar."

"For centuries, the throne passed peacefully from one Karash heir to another. The empire thrived.The sands stayed golden. The oases flourished. But hatred...silently... and the Black Serpents began assassinating Karash heirs. Some were killed in their sleep. Some hunted on the dunes. Some... never hatched at all."

"Then rose Malik Saqira—the first female Prime Alpha of the Silver Blood. A ruler who would not suffer treachery. She cast the Black Serpents into exile. A decree burned into the desert by divine flame."

Naburash’s eyes darkened.

"But exile breeds monsters. The Black Serpents turned to the forbidden god—the Demon Lord of the Wastes. He poisoned their veins with power meant to kill their own kin."

Levin’s breath caught.

"That was when darkness truly began."

Naburash’s voice softened—painful, reverent. "The first attack came when Malika Ninsara birthed her first child."

Levin’s heart dropped.

The scroll showed a woman with moonlit eyes holding a serpent egg.

"Black Serpents infiltrated the palace and killed the newborn, but yet Malika Ninsara... she endured for peace. She birthed again and again. And every child she bore—every heir she brought into the world—was murdered."

Levin’s hand trembled on the table with shock.

"One child poisoned in the cradle. One egg shattered in her arms. One heir strangled in its sleep. She lost them all."

The words echoed in the hall, hollow and devastating. Levin felt his throat tighten behind the veil.

"And Malik Saqira?" he whispered.

Naburash closed his eyes.

"Malik Saqira was away...fighting humans who sought to invade our sands when Malika Ninsara decided to bring the peace by lifting her own sword.

"One dawn—with a grief no mother should bear—Ninsara rose from her blood-soaked chambers,lifted the silver sword of Zahryssar ...and marched into the desert alone. She hunted the Black Serpents across every dune, every gorge, every ruined nest. She struck them down one by one—until her hands could no longer feel the sword."

"And when her strength neared its end... She cast them out of Zahryssar with a decree so powerfulthat even after centuries—the cursed sands still carry her wrath."

Levin stared in silence.

In awe.In grief.In fear.

"And thus, Malika Ninsara became legend," Naburash finished softly. Not for power. Not for beauty. Not for divinity, but for the pain she carried...and the world she destroyed to avenge her children."

Silence.

It hovered like a ghost between them.

Levin’s breaths grew slow and thoughtful. He felt awe at her courage. Grief for her losses.Fear at the magnitude of power a Malika could wield.

He whispered, almost to himself, "...Malika Ninsara."

He recalled the statue in the palace gardens—her eyes closed, always sorrowful—and a chill slid through him.

’Is that why she always looked so sorrowful?’

Naburash rolled the scroll gently, his hands solemn.

Levin looked up. "Then... what tragedy happened between Malik Saqira and Malika Ninsara?"

Naburash stiffened His fingers tightened on the scroll. His shoulders froze. His breath lodged in his throat.

"Malika..." Naburash whispered, his voice trembling at the edges. "That story... is not spoken lightly. That tale is sealed in ash."

Levin waited—quiet, patient.

Naburash swallowed hard, "Malik Saqira...killed Malika Ninsara with her own hands." 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

The hall seemed to exhale sharply. Levin’s eyes widened, his breath catching in disbelief, "W—what...? Why...? Why would she...?"

But Naburash stepped back, bowing quickly—almost too quickly, "That is... all for today, Malika."

His voice was strained and evasive, laced with a fear he could not hide.

"We should begin instead with the domains under your authority. It is best... not to dwell on the tragedies of old Zahryssar."

Levin watched him carefully. A lie trembled behind the eyes, or perhaps a truth too dark to touch.

But the question...

’Why did Malik Saqira kill his own wife? A women who saved the Zahryssar.’

...echoed like a curse inside Levin’s mind.

***

[Silthara Palace — The Night — Hallway]

The torches burned low along the corridor, their flames swaying like tired dancers as the Malik of Zahryssar walked with long, silent steps.

His silver robes brushed the ground, his jaw was tense and his eyes—unreadable. An attendant passed by, carrying scrolls. He instantly bowed, forehead nearly touching the tiles.

Zeramet stopped before him, his voice was a low hum, deep and laced with authority, "Where is my consort?"

The attendant hesitated—just for a breath—and then answered: "Malika is in the Ancestral Hall, Malik."

Zeramet’s gaze shifted toward the latticed windows. Through them the night sky gleamed—a deep velvet ocean filled with stars.

"Past midnight," he murmured. "And he is still in the Ancestral Hall?"

Then—A voice echoed behind him, smooth and uninvited, "...Aren’t you the one who punished your consort, Malik?"

Zeramet turned sharply.

Arkhazunn stood there—tall, calm, and with that unreadable look the high-ranking desert mage carried. The attendant bowed again and escaped hurriedly down the corridor.

Arkhazunn crossed an arm over his chest in respect, "I greet the Malik of Zahryssar."

Zeramet did not return the courtesy. His gaze was cold enough to freeze a desert sun.

"My consort," he said, voice dangerously soft, "is learning what is needed as the mother of the empire."

Arkhazunn didn’t smirk. Didn’t posture. His eyes—dark and steady—held only sincerity.

"But ten nights..." he said slowly, "is far too cruel a demand for any Alpha human. Even a strong one."

Zeramet’s fist tightened.

"I do not require counsel from another man," he hissed, "on what my consort should or should not do."

Arkhazunn studied him—a long, quiet stare that saw far too deeply. He bowed his head just enough to avoid disrespect.

"I apologize for stepping beyond my place, Malik," he said calmly. "But... your consort is human.An Alpha reshaping into a bearer. If i am not wrong, his second threshold has only just formed. He is carrying the pain of a womb being born inside him."

Zeramet froze.

Arkhazunn’s voice quieted—gentle, almost reverent, "And during this time... your pheromones, Malik... are the only balm that eases the tearing pain in his abdomen."

A tremor flickered across Zeramet’s fingers.

Arkhazunn continued: "You are a Prime Alpha. His chosen mate. You are... his refuge, I hope you do no t forget your duty as a husband of a human, Malik."

Zeramet’s breath hitched.

Arkhazunn did not stop.

"I pray," he said softly, "that your envy does not outweigh the love and care you hold for your consort."

His bow was deep and respectful, his final words carried the weight of ancient desert blessing. "May Lord Urzan give you peace, Malik."

Then Arkhazunn walked away, robes trailing behind him. Leaving the emperor alone in the hallway. A silence fell—a heavy, suffocating silence. Zeramet felt it press against his chest.

He inhaled slowly, as his jaw clenched. His eyes widened with realization.

"How... did I forget?" he whispered. "My consort... is going through the second threshold."

He pressed a hand to his forehead, breath shaking. "How... did I allow envy to swallow my care for him?"

His voice trembled—not in fear, but in regret, "I should have been beside him. My presence... my pheromone... my touch..."

His breath shattered.

"...I should have listened to him."

And then he moved, not walked—ran. His steps echoed through the palace like the heartbeat of an ancient god, his robes whipping behind him as he sprinted toward the Ancestral Hall.

Toward his consort.

Toward the man who had been enduring agony alone because his emperor—his mate—had let jealousy blind him.