[Kingdom of Qashmar — House Vaelric — Midnight]

The mountains slept beneath moonlight; waterfalls echoed softly beyond the cliffs. Ancient cedar trees swayed beneath the midnight winds, and inside the private healing chamber of House Vaelric, silence reigned.

Upon the large bed Zeramet remained motionless. Silver hair spread across the pillow, bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulders, his breathing slow and steady.

Then his fingers twitched, once, twice, and slowly...very slowly...his golden eyes opened, and darkness greeted him first.

Then torchlight and then an unfamiliar ceiling. For several moments he simply stared upward, his mind struggling to gather itself and his body feeling impossibly heavy.

"...Consort..." The word escaped his lips instinctively and weakly. Almost like a prayer.

Immediately afterward, pain struck; his throat felt raw, dry, and burning. As though he had swallowed sand and fire together, and then the fragments of memory slowly returned.

The collapse, the hill, the palace, the attack, the darkness, and then Levin’s shocking teary eyes.

Immediately his eyes widened as the image of Levin appeared before him instantly.

Levin carrying their child. Levin’s tear-filled eyes and Levin trembling when he saw him fall down the cliff.

And then another face appeared.

Slyvarakh.

Immediately something cold gripped Zeramet’s chest, a fear. Not for himself, for Levin, because Zeramet knew exactly what Slyvarakh wanted.

What he had always wanted and what he had waited years to possess.

The throne, and he also knows if he gets the throne, that means... Levin has no choice but to become his consort. A dangerous tremor passed through Zeramet’s hands.

"Consort..." His breathing became uneven because if Slyvarakh had returned, then Levin would be alone.

And Levin would never be left alone, not by Slyvarakh, not while carrying a royal heir. Suddenly the fear became unbearable.

What if Levin believed he was dead? What if Slyvarakh had become Malik?

What if—

"No."

Zeramet immediately forced himself upright; pain exploded throughout his body.

"Ngh—"

His vision darkened instantly, but he gritted his teeth. Ignoring it because somewhere his consort was waiting and every instinct inside him screamed the same thing.

Find him, protect him, and return.

Immediately he pushed aside the blankets; one foot touched the floor, then another, and the room spun violently.

Yet still he tried to stand as his voice cracked. "My consort...I have...to reach him..."

And then the chamber door suddenly opened.

CREAK!!!

A physician carrying herbs stepped inside AND then froze completely. The wooden tray nearly slipped from his hands.

"Lord Outsider—!" Immediately the physician rushed forward. "Do not stand!"

But Zeramet ignored him, golden eyes locked onto the stranger, studying and calculating. The scent was wrong: no serpent pheromones, no serpent blood, no scales, and no venom.

Immediately Zeramet’s instincts sharpened as he realized...the man who rushed to him is not from the serpent clan.

"...Who are you?"

The physician visibly swallowed. "I am a healer."

Zeramet’s gaze darkened. "...Where am I?"

Silence.

The physician hesitated and then answered carefully. "...The Wolf Lands."

Immediately Zeramet froze.

The Wolf Lands? An entirely different kingdom. For several moments he simply stared, trying to understand and trying to remember how he had crossed kingdoms.

Then suddenly another horrifying realization struck. If he is here this far, then Levin is all alone. Immediately Zeramet grabbed the healer’s arm hard, and the physician visibly flinched.

"How long?" His voice came low and dangerous. "How long have I been unconscious?"

The healer swallowed. "...Several weeks."

Silence, an absolute silence. The color drained from Zeramet’s face; for several weeks, his consort had been alone for several weeks.

His mate, his child, and his kingdom...everything.

Then suddenly a terrifying pressure slowly began filling the room. The physician’s legs nearly gave out because despite being injured and despite barely standing, the man before him was still a serpent’s kin and, most importantly, a prime alpha.

And for the first time the physician understood why entire kingdoms feared Zahryssar’s ruler.

Zeramet’s hands slowly trembled, not from weakness, not from pain but from terror. Because deep inside he already knew.

If Slyvarakh had reached the throne...then Levin would have suffered, and somehow that possibility frightened him more than death itself.

"...I need to return."

The words came quietly. Yet beneath them the healer heard something far more terrifying: desperation. The desperation of a husband searching for his wife. A mate searching for the other half of his soul and a father who suddenly realized he had been absent for far too long.

Immediately Zeramet forced himself forward. Ignoring the pain. Ignoring the dizziness and ignoring the wounds that should have kept him bedridden.

"Lord Outsider—" The healer immediately stepped forward, panic flashing across his face. "Please wait. You are not in any condition to move yet."

But Zeramet’s golden eyes slowly lifted toward him, and the healer froze because those eyes held no gratitude, no patience, and no weakness.

Only urgency for Levin. Only the terrifying instinct of a bonded Alpha who could no longer feel his mate beside him.

"Move."

The word came low and cold.

The healer swallowed, still trying. "My lord, your wounds—"

"Move."

This time the room shook; the black lotus pheromones exploded outward, thick, ancient, and terrifying. The scent flooded the chamber like black smoke, like a poisonous midnight flower blooming beneath moonlight.

Immediately the healer’s knees nearly buckled, his breathing became difficult, and his instincts screamed to run.

Run now. Zeramet stepped closer to him, and pain immediately tore through his body. His vision darkened briefly; blood seeped through several bandages.

Yet he remained standing because somewhere Levin was waiting or perhaps suffering.

The thought alone was enough to keep him upright as his golden eyes narrowed. "I said...get out of my way before I crush this entire estate into dust."

Silence.

Then suddenly a calm voice echoed from the doorway. "So the rumors were true after all."

Everyone turned, and standing beneath the torchlight surrounded by armed wolf knights was Lord Lior Vaelric, tall, composed, and looking dangerously intelligent.

Unlike the healer, he did not bow immediately, did not lower his gaze, and did not retreat from the pheromones flooding the chamber.

Instead, he stepped forward, and then finally he offered a slight bow as his amber eyes remained fixed on Zeramet.

"I greet the Malik of Zahryssar. I am Lior Vaelric, the grand duke of Qashmar."

"Empire Qashmar?" Zeramet mumbled as he found where he is now.

"And...the man responsible for saving your life," the Grand Duke continued.

Silence followed, and Zeramet stared at him, unmoved. Then quietly he replied, "You have my gratitude."

The words were genuine, but they lasted only a moment because immediately afterward his expression darkened again as his hands clenched.

"But I must leave. My consort must—"

"I apologize for interrupting." The grand duke cut him off smoothly, and somehow that annoyed Zeramet even more.

The grand duke’s expression remained calm, and the room became quieter. "There is news spreading across every kingdom. A new Malik has taken the throne of Zahryssar."

Immediately Zeramet’s hands clenched so hard that blood appeared beneath his fingernails.

Slyvarakh.

The name alone made the black lotus scent turn heavier, darker, and more dangerous.

And the grand duke continued as his gaze sharpened.

"And I heard something interesting about Zahryssar’s laws, a rather...unusual law, and the Malik of Zahryssar inherits everything, the throne, and the palace."

And then the final blow.

"Even the consorts who are still alive in the palace."

The room froze, and the grand duke’s voice lowered. "So there is little doubt that by now...your precious consort has already—"

YANK.

The sentence was never finished because suddenly the grand duke found himself lifted from the floor. One hand. Just one hand wrapped around his collar by Zeramet. Meanwhile, the wolf knights instantly drew their swords.

SHING.

Steel filled the room, but none of them moved because what stood before them no longer looked wounded. It looked monstrous, and the black lotus pheromones erupted violently.

The torches flickered. The windows rattled, and the very air became difficult to breathe. Zeramet’s golden eyes had become terrifying, not angry but worse and terrified. Because for the first time someone had spoken aloud the nightmare that had haunted him since waking.

Levin might be alone, mourning, and Slyvarakh beside him.

Immediately his grip tightened as his voice came out as a hiss, like a serpent king’s warning. "Utter another word. I will erase every branch of your bloodline from this world."

Silence, an absolute silence.

Even the knights hesitated, but the grand duke stared directly back at him with a fearless expression. Then unexpectedly he smiled, a small, dangerous smile, and he spoke calmly despite being held above the floor.

"And killing me...will not change the possibility that your consort now belongs to another."

Silence. Zeramet froze as the words struck harder than any blade, and his grip weakened slightly because deep inside a terrifying thought whispered.

What if he was too late? What if Levin had cried for him? Waited for him? Mourned him? Only for Zeramet never to return?

The thought nearly destroyed him, and the grand duke saw it.

Immediately there was the crack, the weakness, the fear, and the love. The grand duke slowly straightened his collar after Zeramet finally released him.

Then quietly he spoke.

"Do not misunderstand me, Malik." His voice softened and his eyes sharpened. "We saved your life, and we can help you reclaim everything. The throne. Your empire."

And finally—

"Your consort."

The chamber fell silent again. Zeramet slowly lifted his head; the black lotus scent still flooded the room, dangerous, ancient, and unstable.

Then quietly and dangerously he asked, "...And what does Qashmar want in return?"

The grand duke smiled because finally they had arrived at the true conversation. The conversation is hidden beneath the healing, beneath the hospitality, and beneath the kindness are politics, power, and empire.

Then slowly the Grand Duke folded his hands behind his back. "The Wolf Emperor shall be delighted to finally meet you, after all..."

A faint smile appeared.

"It is not every day a dead emperor wakes inside one’s estate."

Nobody laughed, and Zeramet’s expression remained unreadable.

"I shall arrange a meeting tomorrow; until then..." His gaze moved toward the blood seeping through Zeramet’s bandages. "...I advise Your Majesty to rest; you are in no condition to travel and certainly not in condition to fight alone."

Zeramet stared at him, studying him, calculating him, and slowly he understood. Nothing was free, not healing, not shelter, not protection. Especially not between empires.

Qashmar had a motive.

The Emperor had a motive, and House Vaelric had a motive.

The only question remaining was: What exactly did they want from Zahryssar? But strangely that concern did not remain in his thoughts for long.

Because another face appeared instead.

Levin, and somewhere among those thoughts appeared Slyvarakh.

Zeramet’s jaw tightened because every instinct inside him screamed the same terrifying possibility.

What if he was already too late?

The thought struck harder than any wound, and the grand duke slowly turned toward the door. The knights followed immediately, and before leaving, the Grand Duke paused.

Then quietly said:

"Sleep while you can, Malik; tomorrow may change more than one empire."

THUD.

The chamber door closed and silence returned. Only the distant sound of waterfalls echoed beyond the mountains.

Zeramet slowly lowered himself back onto the bed, not because he wished to rest and not because he accepted their advice but because his body finally betrayed him.

Pain surged through every wound, every muscle, and every bone.

And somewhere far beyond these mountains a bond he could barely feel anymore still tugged painfully at his heart, and fear truly settled inside the Emperor of Zahryssar.

Because if he had survived death...only to lose Levin afterward...then perhaps death would have been kinder.