Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 60: Where Gold Bled the Mountain

[Grand Arena of Sunfire—Continuation]

The drums did not slow.

They thickened.

Each strike landed heavier than the last—deep, war-bellied thunder that rolled across the stone tiers and climbed into the ribs of every soul present. The air itself seemed to brace, taut as a drawn bowstring.

Levin’s gaze narrowed.

Naburash and Captain Varash followed the line of his sight—down past the blazing dais, past the gilded banners snapping in the heated wind—until their eyes caught on the same figure.

A man among the spectators.

Hooded.

Still.

All three settled upon the same figure. Naburash’s breath slipped before his caution could stop it.

"A... red knight?" he murmured, disbelief roughening his voice.

He turned sharply to Varash, "Captain—did you order one of ours to take position there? As a watcher?"

Varash’s jaw tightened. He shook his head once, "No, to place a spy within the arena requires the Malik’s seal. I gave no such command."

A silence settled—thin, dangerous. Levin’s fingers closed around the spear shaft until the leather creaked beneath his grip.

"Captain," he said, voice low but edged like a drawn blade, "post guards along that tier. Quietly. If any serpent so much as shifts wrong—"

His eyes did not leave the hooded figure.

"—arrest them."

Varash struck his fist to his chest, "Yes, Malika."

He turned and vanished into the shifting ranks of armor. Naburash hesitated, unease tugging at him, "And if he is innocent, Malika?"

Levin did not look away, "Vigilance has never slain the innocent; neglect has buried kingdoms. We stay alert, Naburash."

Naburash inclined his head, nodding in agreement.

***

[Meanwhile—Contestants’ Tent, Below the Dais—Same Time]

Zeramet stood at the mouth of the tent, fingers tight around his spear, eyes fixed on the sunlit dais above. Something was wrong. He could feel it—the way one feels a storm before clouds gather.

"Why is he holding himself so rigid?" Zeramet muttered. "As if the battlefield has followed him here."

A soft laugh drifted behind him. Arkhazunn stepped close, placing his hands lazily atop Zeramet’s shoulders, amusement curling his lips, "Your consort never truly leaves the war. Look at him—gripping that spear as though he expects blood to spill at any breath."

Zeramet glanced back, eyes sharp and cold, "He is an Alpha heir, he has walked through fire and come out crowned in ash. Before he was my consort, he was a warrior."

Arkhazunn’s lips curved faintly. "You sound proud."

"I am."

The mage tilted his head, amused. "He holds that spear as if he intends to throw it at someone’s throat."

Zeramet finally glanced at him—slowly. "A warrior remains alert. Unlike certain mages who wander halls unbidden, sniffing through their Malika’s private affairs."

Arkhazunn blinked, once, twice, and—"You wound me, Malik."

"You deserve worse."

A pause.

Then straightened and sighed dramatically, "I cannot recall a single day you spoke to me without venom, Malik."

Zeramet scoffed, "You have given me no cause, and ...respect is earned."

The mage placed a hand over his heart in exaggerated offense. "So Tragic."

Then his gaze drifted—then snapped back, brows knitting at the noble tier, "Oh...Where is Lady Arinaya?"

Arinaya’s seat lay empty; before the thought could settle, the Herald’s voice thundered across the arena:

"NOW—THE NEXT BATTLE!"

The drums paused, as if listening.

"Sharukh Varoth of House Varoth—and his opponent is—" The crowd leaned forward as one living body. "A GOLDEN KNIGHT."

A ripple of murmurs surged like wind through dry grain.

Arkhazunn frowned, "A Golden Knight?"

Zeramet stepped forward, eyes narrowing toward the arena floor, "Likely a newly risen blade. This year Sunfire has been anointing many lately."

Arkhazunn nodded, though unease lingered; below them, the gates groaned open.

Gold spilled into the arena—sun-bright, blinding—armor catching fire beneath the high noon glare. The crowd gasped as one, breath drawn tight in their throats.

And somewhere above—Levin’s grip tightened on the spear, and leather creaked. Wood strained, and the next battle began.

***

[Malika’s Dais—Same Moment]

Naburash leaned forward, squinting toward the field, "Oh...I wonder who this Golden Knight is—bold enough to challenge Lord Sharukh."

Levin did not answer at once; his gaze lingered on the hooded man—the flicker of red beneath shadow—then slowly shifted downward to the arena floor, where silver and gold now stood opposed.

"Sharukh Varoth," Levin said quietly. "Is he the lord of the Qassir Iron Range?"

Naburash smiled, pride threading his tone, "Yes, Malika. Sharukh Varoth is Qassir of the Iron Range. House Varoth has poured warriors into every battlefield of the empire. All Red Knights are forged there. Lord Varoth himself trains them—to be Imperial steel."

Levin nodded; his eyes found Sharukh Varoth. Silver armor—scarred, heavy with history. From beneath the helm’s slit, cold silver eyes gleamed, sharp as honed metal.

Then Levin turned to the Golden Knight.

The sun flared against polished gold—and for a breath, just a breath—he saw the eyes.

Crimson.

"I wonder," Levin said softly, "who dares stand before him."

Naburash followed his gaze, "Whoever it is, they are strong enough—or foolish enough—to face Lord Varoth."

Above the arena, the Herald lifted the red flag.

The drums stopped, and the world held its breath, and the flag fell.

START

The horses surged forward.

Hooves thundered like war drums against the packed earth—two storms colliding. Spears rose, leveled, and aligned with lethal precision.

Silver charged gold, and the gold answered silver; the distance vanished, and—CLANG —!

The sound cracked through the arena like a struck anvil.

Spear met armor.Armor screamed.Metal rang in protest.

The force shuddered through both riders—but neither fell. The crowd erupted, a roaring tide of voices crashing against the stone tiers.

Levin leaned forward despite himself.

"...No one has fallen," he said, voice tight.

On the field, both warriors wheeled their horses hard, dust spiraling around them like smoke from sacrifice fires. Sharukh Varoth steadied first—rolling his shoulders, adjusting his grip with a veteran’s calm.

The Golden Knight lifted his spear again.

Unshaken.

Unyielding.

Crimson eyes burned beneath gold—and the drums began once more.

Slow.

Heavy.

As if the earth itself had chosen sides.

The riders turned.

Again.

And again.

Their horses screamed as they charged—foam and fury—spears lowering, bodies aligning with lethal devotion. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

This time, the Golden Knight struck first, not with recklessness, but with calculation. At the last breath before impact, he twisted—not away, but into the blow—his spear sliding past Varoth’s guard, grazing silver, slipping where no strike should reach.

SCREEE—!

Metal shrieked.

The spear’s edge bit deep, carving a blazing line across Sharukh Varoth’s pauldron, tearing through silver plate into flesh beneath.

Blood flashed—dark, sudden—and a gasp ripped through the crowd. On the dais, Naburash surged to his feet, "He—he drew blood!"

Levin’s eyes were fixed on the field; Sharukh Varoth reeled—only a step, only a fraction—but enough.

Enough to be unthinkable.

The lord of the Iron Range had been marked. Varoth growled, low and feral, wrenching his horse around. His silver eyes were no longer cold—now lit, awakened.

"So," he thundered, voice carrying even through the roar, "you can bleed a mountain."

The Golden Knight did not answer; he raised his spear again. Crimson eyes blazing and charged.

What followed was not a spectacle.

It was war.

Spears shattered—wood splitting like bone. They drew blades instead, steel screaming as they clashed again and again—gold ringing against silver, sparks scattering like fallen stars.

Varoth struck with the weight of decades. The Golden Knight answered with speed born of desperation—or destiny.

Strike.Parry.Cut.Impact.

Each blow carried intent, and each miss scraped death’s shadow. Dust rose, thick and blinding. Horses stumbled back, riders now fighting on foot, armor dented, breath ragged.

Then—Varoth found his opening.

A feint.A pivot.A crushing upward strike.

The Golden Knight staggered. One knee hit the earth. The next blow came like judgment.

Gold cracked.

The Golden Knight was thrown backward, skidding across the arena floor, armor screaming, dust swallowing him whole.

Silence.

The drums stopped, and for a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the Golden Knight tried to rise. His hand shook, and his spear slipped from his grasp. He fell back—flat against the sun-baked earth.

Defeat.

The herald lifted his staff, voice ringing: "Victory—Sharukh Varoth of House Varoth!"

The crowd erupted—but not with triumph alone.

There was awe.

Unease.

On the dais, Naburash swallowed. "...He fell, but... it doesn’t feel like a loss."

Levin did not blink. His eyes were fixed on the blood staining Varoth’s armor—on the scratch, deep and undeniable.

"That knight," Levin said quietly, reverently, "stood where few ever have."

Below, Sharukh Varoth stood over the fallen Golden Knight, chest heaving. He looked down—not with contempt—but with respect.

"You did not win," Varoth said, voice rough. "But you were strong enough... that I will remember your strike."

From the clasp at his shoulder, he drew the red rose of victory—the bloom reserved for triumph, honor, and remembrance.

He lowered it, extending it toward the fallen knight.

"I have none to whom I would present this rose," he said solemnly. "Take it. Give it to whomever your heart deems worthy."

The Golden Knight looked up, for a heartbeat, the world stilled. Then—With slow, deliberate grace, the knight reached up and slipped free the helmet.

Gold lifted away.

Hair spilled down—golden hair, loosened by battle. A face emerged—blood-specked, dust-streaked, unmistakably feminine.

The arena gasped as one living body. Shock rippled through stone and flesh alike.

"Lady... Arinaya?" someone whispered.

Sharukh Varoth froze, his breath caught. Then he bowed—not hurried, not shallow, but deep and precise, a warrior’s salute given only to equals.

"It seems," he said, awe threading his voice, "that fate has granted me an honor I did not know to ask for. To cross blades with Lady Arinaya herself."

She smiled—gentle, faint, battle-worn.

"It was a good fight, Lord Varoth," she said simply.

She accepted the rose, fingers closing around its stem.

"...And I do have someone," she added, eyes lifting, voice softer now, "to whom I wish to present it."

Varoth straightened, nodding once, "Then may your victory travel where mine could not."

Lady Arinaya turned and her gaze lifted—past the field, past the ranks of knights—Upward, toward the Malika’s dais.

"So..." Levin said slowly, eyes never leaving her, "she is Lady Arinaya?"

Naburash inclined his head, "Yes, Malika. The true heir of House Karzath. Born of iron blood and old oaths."

Levin exhaled, something like admiration settling in his chest, "She is... formidable."

Below, Lady Arinaya moved forward—each step deliberate, unhurried—crossing the arena floor as the crowd parted instinctively before her.

Naburash stiffened."...Malika," he murmured, "she is approaching the dais."

Levin glanced towards her, the drums did not play, the wind did not stir and as Lady Arinaya neared the steps beneath his throne, rose in hand, eyes lifted—It became clear to every soul present:

This was no coincidence, this was intention.