[Zahryssar Empire—Silthara Palace—Nightfall]
Moonlight and lantern-glow spilled across the polished floors of Silthara, fracturing into gold and silver as it reflected off the flowing water channels that cut through the chamber. The palace breathed quietly—curtains stirring, flames flickering low, the air heavy with resin and smoke.
Levin's gaze moved slowly across the vast chamber.
Grand, yes—but not ostentatious. Every corner carried intention. Gold inlaid into stone. Silver worked into pillars. Nothing here was decorative without purpose. Iru knelt briefly beside the bed, placing the smoking tube carefully on a low table. The fragrant haze curled upward, softening the air. Levin barely noticed him.
He was still dressed in his wedding attire.
Slowly, Levin began removing the jewelry—first the heavy cuffs, then the armlets, setting them aside one by one and then his fingers lifted toward the face veil.
Then—"You are not permitted to remove it, Consort."
The voice cut through the chamber—low, husky, and carrying authority without effort.
Levin stilled.
He turned.
Emperor Zeramet Karash stood near the doorway, one shoulder resting against the door. The golden mantle slid from his shoulder as he moved, revealing only black izar trousers, his torso bare, skin marked faintly with sigils that caught the lantern light.
Iru reacted instantly.
He rose, bowed deeply without meeting the Emperor's gaze, and withdrew, closing the doors behind him with silent precision.
THUD!!
"I apologize, Your Radiance," Levin said, lowering his head instantly.
Zeramet moved closer to the bed and deeper into the room.
The smoke curled around him, catching on the sharp lines of his form. He lifted the pipe, inhaled slowly, and then exhaled—a thin stream that drifted between them like a barrier.
"You have crossed Zahryssar's threshold," Zeramet said, smoke leaving him in a slow exhale. "From this night onward, our law is your breath."
Levin nodded once. "I understand, Your Radiance."
Zeramat's golden eyes lingered on him—assessing, measuring but not displeased and not soft either.
He seated himself upon the low divan, one leg folding over the other, posture relaxed in a way that only absolute power could afford, "Come. Take a seat."
The command was quiet.
Final.
Levin stared with a cold expression and moved forward and sat where indicated, spine straight, hands resting neatly atop his knees. The distance between them was close enough that Levin could feel the heat radiating from Zeramat's body, controlled and constant.
Zeramat inhaled from the pipe, eyes never leaving Levin, "So, you are an Alpha?"
"Yes, Your Radiance," Levin replied.
Smoke curled between them. Zeramat studied him openly now—not with hunger, but with calculation
"…Beautiful. Uncommon—for your kind," Zeramat said.
Levin kept his head lowered. His jaw tightened, but he did not speak.
'At least he is not disappointed.'
Then—
"But," Zeramat said, a single word cut sharper than a blade. "What you offer your body as Alpha… was never meant for you."
Silence fell. Levin understood exactly what Zeramat meant.
Alphas were born to rule—to command, to conquer, to stand at the peak of the hierarchy. Omegas were created to carry life, their bodies shaped by nature to endure it. Betas existed between anchors of balance and spared the extremes of rut and heat.
And above them all—Prime Alphas. Rare. Ancient. Unnatural in their own way.
Beings whose dominance altered biology itself.
A Prime Alpha could force a womb to form where none existed. Could override nature's refusal. Could make even a Beta—or an Alpha—bear life.
For a Beta, the change was survivable since they carry the little nature of both Alpha and Omega, they can be dominant and tender at the same time.
But for an Alpha—It meant war.
Against instinct.
Against flesh.
Against the body's very design.
Pain was not a possibility; it was a certainty.
Absolute. Relentless. Transformative.
Zeramat leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, gaze sharpening.
"To bend one's nature is not punishment, Consort," he continued calmly. "It is surrender. Do you realize that?"
Levin did not look away.
"I do," he said.
For a moment, Zeramet said nothing. He inhaled from the pipe once more, then exhaled slowly, the smoke leaving him with a sound that was almost—almost—a sigh.
"Good, Zahryssar does not take what is dragged to its altar."
Levin stared at him and thought, 'He looks relieved. Did he think I was forced?"
Zeramet's gaze shifted to Levin's face, "The womb forming will take time. Nothing in Zahryssar is rushed—no bonds and no blood."
Then his hand moved and Levin felt it before he saw it—the subtle displacement of air, the weight of intent. His body reacted on instinct alone, shoulders tightening, breath catching as Zeramat's fingers neared his hair.
He flinched.
The movement was small, but Zeramet noticed at once, and his hand paused midair, "Do I have your permission to touch what has been given to me, Consort?"
The words landed softly—but they struck hard.
Levin's eyes widened just a fraction, 'A permission?"
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between them.
Zeramet waited. Their gazes locked—gold meeting ocean-blue, dominance meeting resolve.
"You may," Levin said quietly.
A faint smirk curved at Zeramet's lips as his hand finally closed the distance, fingers threading gently into Levin's dark hair, careful despite their size. His touch was warm, grounding, and far more controlled than the rumors had ever allowed for.
Then his fingers brushed the edge of the veil.
"Lift your eyes," Zeramat murmured. "I would like to see the face that now bears my name."
Levin lifted his eyes and with a smooth motion— The veil slipped free as the emperor untied the thread of Veil.
Whoosh~
It fell softly into Levin's lap, and white silk pooled like spilled moonlight.
Zeramet stilled and for the first time since Levin had met him, the Emperor did not look at him with dominance. He was mesmerized; his golden eyes traced Levin's face slowly—his brows, his eyes, the quiet strength in his expression, and the softness that existed not in weakness, but in honesty.
Large hands cupped Levin's cheeks, thumbs brushing his skin with reverent care and mumbled, "Yes… this was worth waiting for."
His touch shifted, fingers brushing the silver serpent earrings—cool metal against warm skin, the unmistakable proof of marriage.
He traced them once, thoughtfully, before lifting Levin's hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it, "I would be displeased if another were to see my consort's face."
Levin's breath steadied. He listened.
"Beneath the Silthara palace, you may unveil, but before the nobles and courts—never." His thumb brushed Levin's jaw once. "What is mine is not displayed, consort."
Levin nodded once. "I understand."
"Good."
A faint smile curved Zeramet's lips—brief, controlled, but real. He leaned back against the pillows, one arm draped with casual authority, eyes never leaving Levin.
"Now, tonight, the bond must be acknowledged. The law is old. It does not bend, not even to me. You know what that means?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," Levin answered.
A silence.
"When we are alone, you will call me Zer."
Levin blinked, startled. "I… I don't know if I should—"
"I permit it; is that not enough, consort?"
The weight of his words settled—permission given, not demanded. Levin swallowed, then nodded. "Yes…you-- Zer."
Zeramet smirked, his hand closed around Levin's wrist and pulled him forward, firm but careful, drawing him into his arms. Levin felt the strength there—unyielding, controlled, devastating in its restraint.
"You will be claimed first. The rest will come in time, right, consort?"
His hold tightened slightly—not painful, not rushed—just enough to make his intent unmistakable.
"Y-Yes Zer," he said softly and hesitatingly.
The smirk that curved Zeramet's lips was slow and satisfied, "Good."
He closed the distance and Zeramet's fingers traced a quiet circle at Levin's lips, a touch more curious than claiming, as though he were memorizing the shape of Levin's breath. His golden gaze lingered—on his lips, on his tongue.
Then he shifted, the movement smooth and inevitable.
His weight followed with unhurried certainty, easing Levin back until the mattress received him, silk and skin yielding beneath the steady press of his body. Zeramet came after him, bracing himself above Levin with measured control, dominance radiating not through force—but through patience.
"If you feel discomfort," Zeramet whispered, voice dark and certain. "Do not hesitate to tell me."
Levin nodded, and the space between them vanished, leaving only the quiet authority of his embrace to mark the start of night.