[On the Way to the Silthara Palace—After the Tournament]
Hooves struck the road in steady rhythm.
Stone, dust, and evening wind.
Zeramet's hand tightened around the reins—not in urgency, but in restraint. The great silver serpent moved forward at a measured pace, as if even the beast understood the weight carried upon its back.
And Levin?
He did not ride a separate horse; he sat before Zeramet.
Nestled against his chest, back resting fully against Malik's armor, veil drifting loose in the soft air like pale smoke caught between breaths. Zeramet's presence surrounded him—solid, warm, unyielding.
Behind them, the knights rode in silence.
No banners, no celebration, only watchfulness. Naburash rode with Lyseraph, and Asha curled on his lap. Sunfire had quieted—but it had not slept.
Zeramet glanced down at his consort, voice low, careful not to break the fragile calm, "Are you still troubled, my moonflower?"
Levin exhaled slowly, "Yes, I am."
