Serpent Emperor's Bride-Chapter 62: When Death Reached for the Crown

[Tournament—Continuation]

’If there were no law—if a single wrong gaze towards a Malika, did not doom an entire bloodline—I would have ended him there.’

The thought burned sharp and brief in Levin as he watched Rakkhane descend the dais, the crowd swallowing him whole. His fingers tightened and...

SNAP!!!

The rose snapped, and petals fell soundlessly at his feet.

"Did something happen, Malika?" Naburash asked, alarm threading his voice.

Levin exhaled once, slow and measured, as he replied, "Nothing."

A lie, smooth as polished stone. Before Naburash could press further, the Herald’s voice rose—booming, ceremonial, and impossible to ignore.

"AND NOW—THE NEXT CONTEST OF THE DAY!" The arena answered with thunder. "ENTERING THE FIELD—MALIK ZERAMET KARASH!"

The roar was immediate. Deafening. Stone vibrated beneath the weight of it.

"And his opponent—HIGH MAGE ARKHAZUNN ASHKARIN!"

"...I cannot believe this," Arkhazunn muttered, staring at the arena gates as if they had personally betrayed him. "Of all the unfortunate arrangements fate could have devised."

Zeramet stepped forward beside him, already armored—silver hair bound back, bronze skin gleaming beneath the sun, his presence heavy enough to bend the air around him.

Arkhazunn glanced up at him.

Once.

Then sighed deeply.

"So this is how I die," he said. "Flattened in public. Very poetic."

He reached for his helmet, grimacing as he lowered it over his head. "I wish I could use magic," he muttered. "But he would execute me before I finished the incantation."

Above them—Levin’s cheeks warmed beneath the veil, and a faint smile touched his lips.

The Herald lifted the red flag.

Arkhazunn tightened his grip on the spear and whispered into the helm,"Lord Urzan... if you are listening—this would be an excellent time to intervene."

Across from him, Zeramet said nothing; he simply adjusted his stance, his golden eyes burned, and...the flag fell.

START

Zeramet moved, not charged.

Moved.

The ground seemed to recoil beneath his first step. Arkhazunn barely had time to brace before the world collapsed inward.

Silver flashed.

A single, devastating strike—perfectly angled, brutally precise—crashed into Arkhazunn’s guard with the force of a falling pillar.

CLANG—!

The spear tore free from Arkhazunn’s hands; the impact lifted him off his feet. He hit the ground hard, armor screaming against stone, breath driven clean from his lungs.

Silence.

Absolutely.

Then the crowd erupted.

"BY THE SUN—!"

"ONE STRIKE—!"

"THE MALIK—!"

Arkhazunn lay there, staring at the sky through his helmet.

"...Ah," he wheezed. "So this is the floor everyone talks about."

Zeramet stood over him, spear already lowered, battle finished before it had truly begun.

"Yield," Zeramet said. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Arkhazunn raised one finger weakly. "Before I do," he said, voice echoing faintly, "I would like it known that I technically survived longer than expected."

A ripple of laughter ran through the stands. Zeramet’s lips twitched—barely.

"I yield," Arkhazunn added quickly. "Enthusiastically."

The Herald recovered his voice, "VICTORY—OUR MALIK ZERAMET KARASH!"

The arena thundered. Zeramet turned once, gaze lifting instinctively toward the dais, toward Levin. and their eyes met.

For a breath, the world held still. Then Zeramet inclined his head—just enough.

Not as a ruler.

But as a warrior acknowledging another who understood restraint. Below them, Arkhazunn rolled onto his back and muttered, "I am never volunteering for heroism again."

And high above—Levin watched; heat rose beneath the veil, unbidden. His cheeks burned faintly, his blue gaze bright as polished lapis, as he watched his husband fell a foe with a single, merciless strike.

On the arena floor, Zeramet removed his helmet.

Silver hair spilled free, catching the sun, bronze skin gleamed with sweat and dust and he lifted his gaze—and smiled.

Just once.

Toward the dais.

Toward Levin.

Silence fell.

Not the hush of reverence.

The hush of disbelief.

"Did... did the Malik smile?"

"He smiled—at the Malika."

"They said the Malika’s beauty bends even all the omega’s..."

Zeramet dismounted, boots striking stone with measured weight. The Herald placed the rose of victory into his hand.

Zeramet took it and turned toward the dais, toward his consort. Levin’s heart began to thunder—harder, faster—with each step Zeramet took forward. His cheeks flushed deeper beneath the veil, warmth spreading like fire beneath silk.

Around them, the Serpentians—soldiers, nobles, and commoners alike—felt it too.

Their ruler walked not as a conqueror, but as a man approaching what he cherished.

Smiles spread.

Eyes shone.

Even the arena itself seemed to lean inward. Rakhane clenched his fists until his nails bit skin.

Lady Arinaya watched with a soft, knowing smile, and then—Levin’s breath hitched.

His eyes widened, not in awe.

In terror.

He did not think; he did not hesitate. Instinct roared louder than law. Levin seized his spear and raised it high.

Gasps tore through the stands.

"What—why does the Malika raise a spear at the Malik?"

"Is this—treason?"

"Is this Malika here to kill our Malik too—?"

Zeramet froze, he did not turn, he did not shield himself, and he furrowed, muttering, "What?"

He trusted.

Levin launched the spear, and—WHOOSH —!

The air screamed as the weapon tore through it, a silver streak of death aimed straight toward Zeramet’s path.

The crowd screamed, but Zeramet did not move. The spear passed him—So close it stirred his hair—and then—STAB —!

A sickening sound.

Wet.

Final.

Behind Zeramet, a body jerked violently. A participant—helmeted, cloaked—staggered as the spear punched clean through his throat. Blood sprayed dark against the sand.

The helmet fell.

Red hair spilled free.

Pitch-black eyes went wide in disbelief. From nerveless fingers, an arrow slipped and struck the ground harmlessly—its tip still aimed toward Zeramet’s unguarded back.

The assassin collapsed, dead before he hit the earth. For a breathless moment, the arena did not breathe.

Then chaos erupted.

"AN ASSASSIN—!"

"THE MALIK—!"

"THE MALIKA SAVED HIM—!"

Zeramet turned slowly and saw the corpse.

Saw the arrow, and then—He looked up, at Levin. Understanding struck him harder than any blade. High above the arena, Levin stood rigid, spearless—his chest rising and falling too fast to be dignified, eyes blazing not with fear, but with something far more dangerous:

Resolve sharpened by terror, and in that instant, every soul in Sunfire understood the truth carved into stone and blood—the Malika did not stand beside the Malik as an ornament; he stood as a shield.

The Serpent had not come for glory; he had come for murder, and he had failed.

Steel rang as Captain Varash and the knights surged forward, boots hammering against stone. They surrounded the fallen body where it lay twisted in the sand, Levin’s spear still buried deep in the assassin’s throat.

Red hair clung dark with blood; the arrow lay useless beside him.

Too late.

Varash knelt, grim. "...Confirmed, an assassin and carrying a black serpent poisonous arrow."

The word rippled outward like poison, but Zeramet heard none of it. He was already moving.

"Consort—"

He crossed the distance in long strides, ignoring the eyes upon them and ignoring the empire watching its rulers bare. Levin stood frozen, gaze still locked on the corpse below, breath shallow, fingers curled as if still gripping the spear that was no longer there.

Zeramet reached him and pulled him close.

Hard.

Protective.

"Consort," he said again, voice low, urgent, and grounding. "Are you okay?"

Levin sucked in a breath—sharp, unsteady—then exhaled against Zeramet’s shoulder.

"I am... all right," he said.

The words were practiced; the truth was not.

Then Levin moved, slowly. He wrapped his arms around Zeramet, pressing his forehead briefly to the armor at Zeramet’s chest. His hands trembled—just slightly—but enough.

"...He was very close," Levin murmured. "Too close."

Zeramet felt it then, the delayed fear, not weakness, but the hollow realization of almost.

Zeramet eased back just enough to see Levin’s hands shaking. He took them gently, reverently, and pressed his lips to trembling fingers.

"Yes," he said softly. "And you stopped him."

Levin’s gaze lifted, blue and burning, searching Zeramet’s face as if confirming he was truly there.

"...If the strike had missed," Levin whispered, voice barely carrying, "if my hand had faltered—"

Zeramet closed his hands around Levin’s.

Firm.

Warm.

Present.

"I am here," he said. "I am unhurt."

He repeated it, slower, deeper—anchoring the words, "I am here."

Levin swallowed; the tremor eased—but did not vanish as he mumbled, "I have fought, I have killed. I have stood before death without flinching."

His breath hitched—just once.

"But this..." he gestured faintly toward the arena floor, toward the body, toward the distance that had nearly ended everything, "...this was not battle."

Zeramet leaned his forehead to Levin’s. "No, this was a loss waiting to happen."

Silence wrapped around them—heavy, reverent. Then Zeramet spoke, voice roughened not by fear, but by truth.

"You did not hesitate."

Levin closed his eyes briefly. "I did not think."

"That," Zeramet said, thumb brushing Levin’s knuckles, "is why you saved me."

Levin opened his eyes; the arena still watched, but it watched differently now. Because it had seen something no tournament could offer—a Malika who did not rule from safety.

A Malik who trusted without turning, and a bond forged not in ceremony but in the breath between life and death.

Zeramet’s gaze shifted and he looked to Naburash.

Once.

That was all it took.

Naburash straightened, drew a breath deep into his chest, and stepped forward. His voice rose—clear, ceremonial, carrying across the vast stone bowl of Sunfire.

"The first round of the tournament concludes here," he announced. "You are dismissed."

The crowd stirred—slowly, reverently—voices hushed, movements careful, as if even departure now required permission. As the sound rolled outward, Zeramet turned back to Naburash, his voice low enough that only command would hear it.

"Find the bloodline of that red Serpent," he said with no hesitation. "And erase it entirely for committing a treson against their Malik."

Naburash bowed at once, fist to chest, "Yes, Malik."

There was no question.

There never was.

Zeramet turned then—not to the arena, not to the fallen assassin, but to Levin. He reached out and took his consort’s hand.

Firm.

Certain.

"Come," Zeramet said softly. "Let us go."

Levin tightened his grip in return and together, they turned from the blood-stained sands. Behind them, Sunfire began to empty—slowly, quietly—its stones already committing the day to memory.

Because this first day of the tournament would not be remembered for victory.

Nor for spectacle. But for the moment when death reached for the throne—And found a shield waiting.

And thus ended the first day of the tournament.