[Silthara Palace—Emperor's Chamber—Midnight]
Midnight deepened the chamber into hushed gold and shadow.
Levin sat cross-legged upon the cushions, parchment spread around him like fallen leaves. His fingers moved tirelessly—names, sigils, dates—each mark weighed, each line read twice, then once more.
The pattern refused to loosen its grip.
'No matter how far back I trace,' he thought, eyes narrowing, 'Iru is everywhere.'
Attendant. Shadow. Constant.
"…Why?" Levin murmured to himself. 'Why would Iru wish the consorts dead? He was raised within these walls. He is no Black Serpent—only a palace-born one. Loyal. Ordinary.'
His breath slowed.
'So why?'
The flame in the brazier shifted, then—a presence, not footsteps, not sound. A weight—old, vast, unmistakable.
"What are you doing, consort?"
The voice echoed—not through the air, but through the stone itself. Deep. Resonant. The voice Zeramet carried only when he allowed the world to remember what he truly was.
Levin looked up.
