[Zahryssar Empire —Silthara Palace—Later]
"…She is Malika Ninsara."
Iru's voice came softly from behind Levin. He stood a step back, body inclined, eyes cast down—in respect.
Levin's gaze drifted upward.
The statue towered above them, serene and eternal, carved from pale stone that seemed to drink the sunlight pouring in from the open dome overhead. From the waist down, her body flowed into the powerful coils of a serpent—smooth, elegant, endless—resting upon a pedestal shaped like the first rising sun.
Her upper form was human.
Feminine and Regal.
A sheer veil draped across half her face, stone-thin yet impossibly detailed, as though time itself had paused mid-breath while it fell. One hand was raised, gripping a ceremonial sword pointed skyward. The other hand held a crown of Zahryssar.
Her eyes were closed and her face tilted slightly toward the heavens as though she were not watching the world—but asking the god to bless the land.
Behind her, carved rays of stone spread outward like a halo. Sunlight streamed through them, crowning her in gold. When clouds passed above, shadows moved across her form, and for a fleeting moment, the statue seemed to breathe.
"A… Malika?" Levin murmured.
Iru lifted his head just enough to answer, though his eyes remained respectfully lowered.
"Yes," he said quietly. "A Malika. The First Queen of this Land who protected us from the black serpent beast."
Levin turned slightly, listening.
"She was the first to claim this land," Iru continued. "When Zahryssar was still wild—when the Black-Coiled Beast roamed unchecked—Malika Ninsara stood between it and the people. She did not just conquer; she protected us from the black coiled snake."
"And since then," Iru went on, voice steady with conviction, "All the consorts of Zahryssar are called Mother of the empire in her respect."
Levin looked back at the statue—the raised sword, a crown in her hand, the closed eyes.
He stared at the carved stone, at the silent Queen who had once stood between terror and survival. Yet…when Levin saw her eyes closed, he felt something else.
"…Why do I feel sad?" he murmured.
"Consort?"
Levin sighed, a faint, distant expression crossing his face.
"It's nothing," he said softly.
He turned and walked away, footsteps echoing gently across the marble. Iru followed in silence.
Behind them, Malika Ninsara stood unmoving beneath the sun—sword raised, crown balanced, eyes closed—as if she already knew what it meant to protect something precious.
***
[The Guest Chamber—Later]
Levin stood alone in the chamber, newly dressed in Zahryssari night attire.
The Kurta (shirt), silk-soft and the color of moonlit sand, fell open at the collar in an elegant line, its edges traced with faint serpentine embroidery in bronze thread. The izar trousers flowed easily from his hips, tailored to drape rather than cling, whispering against his ankles with every movement.
The fabric was cool, lightly scented with night-blooming flowers and warm resin.
He did not look like a guest. He looked like foreign royalty, dressed for a court that had already claimed him.
The chamber itself was. Low lanterns cast amber light across carved walls. Cushions lay arranged near a lattice window where night air drifted in, carrying the distant sound of water and palm leaves stirring. A low table stood near the bed, a small bronze bell resting neatly upon it.
Iru bowed once more, precise and unhurried, "This will be your chamber for tonight, Consort Levin. If you require anything, please ring the bell placed on the table. Someone will attend you at once."
"For tonight?" Levin repeated softly.
Iru nodded, a faint smile touching his lips—respectful, knowing, "Yes. After your union with His Radiance tomorrow, you will reside within the Emperor's private chambers."
The words landed harder than Levin expected and his fingers curled slowly at his side.
'That's right, Right,' he thought. 'The marriage will happen tomorrow.'
The realization settled deep in his chest—heavy, inescapable. He inclined his head once. "I understand."
Iru bowed again, deeper this time.
"May Malika Ninsara watch over your rest," he said softly. "May you have a pleasant sleep, Consort Levin."
With that, he withdrew, closing the doors with gentle finality and silence filled the chamber.
Levin remained standing for a long moment and sighed, ruffling his hair. He looked toward the open window, where moonlight spilled across the floor like a path leading somewhere he could not yet see.
"…Tomorrow," he murmured.
And on the first day arriving in Zahryssar, sleep did not come easily for Lorcan.
***
[The Next Day—The Wedding Day—The Next Morning]
Levin stood near the open window, still dressed in his Zahryssari night attire. Dawn painted the palace in gold and amber, sunlight slipping through carved stone and palm leaves like something sacred.
Levin reached for the small wooden box resting on the table beside him. He hesitated—then opened it. Inside lay a bracelet unlike any jewel crafted in Zahryssar.
Its band was forged of dark, and its intricate band was etched with faint runic lines, almost erased by time and touch. At its center, nestled within the ancient filigree, rested a single, small Solaryn Heartstone, shifting between deep violet and molten gold depending on the angle of light.
A gem found only once a generation—harvested not from earth, but from the remains of the Sun-Devouring dragon Beast. The stone caught the morning sun and gleamed brighter, as though recognizing the light.
The bracelet, that is a symbol of victory for Veyrhold.
Levin stared at it.
"…Why is this here?" he murmured, sighed and--THUNK.
The box snapped shut as Levin mumbled, "Father shouldn't have sent this."
And then—A chill crawled up his spine, yes, not from cold but from awareness. He felt eyes on him; Levin stilled and then he lifted his gaze toward the courtyard below and saw a man standing there.
He wore charcoal izar trousers and a single shawl of warm gold draped across one broad shoulder, the fabric catching the light like molten metal. His torso was bare beneath it—skin burnished bronze, marked with faint scars of survival rather than battle.
He was tall. Unnaturally so. Broad-shouldered. Still.
Silver hair fell down his back, bound high with gold, gleaming like drawn steel. Gold and emerald adorned him with quiet intent—chains, cuffs, and a heavy collar—each piece a mark of lineage and divine favor.
And his eyes—gold.
Not bright. Not soft. Judgment, held without haste.
The same gold that met Levin's gaze without hesitation in that thick forest.
And that's Zeramet Karash.
'It's the same feeling,' he thought, pulse thudding hard in his ears. 'The same pressure… the same stillness I felt when I saw that silver snake.'
Recognition sparked—sharp and undeniable.
'Who… is that?'
Their gazes held for one suspended heartbeat.
Then—"Consort Levin."
Iru's voice sounded at the door, "May I enter?"
Levin tore his eyes away. "Yes."
When he looked back toward the courtyard—The man was gone. As though he had never been there at all.
"…Oh," Levin murmured quietly. 'He's gone.'
Iru stepped inside, expression composed, eyes lowered, "It is time to prepare you, Consort. The Marriage rites will begin shortly."
Levin exhaled slowly, steadying himself, "Alright."
And as he turned away from the window, his fingers curled once more around the closed box. Somewhere deep within the palace, His Radiance had already seen his bride.