Chapter 160: When the Malika Chose to End

Chapter 166: When the Malika Chose to End The city slept, but beneath it something else woke. Deep below the veins of Zahryssar, where roots strangled stone and secrets rotted in patient silence, the serpents gathered, not nobles, not soldiers, but those who listened where others did not—who watched where others feared to look.

It sharpened him.

No greetings were exchanged; there was no need. Raviel’s gaze moved across them, counting, weighing, discarding, and accepting.

"What have you brought me?" The words were quiet, but they did not ask; they demanded.

His voice was rough and grounded.

Raviel’s eyes narrowed slightly as he replied, "Threads break. Speak of something that holds."

The name settled into the chamber like poison in water. Raviel did not react, not outwardly. "Related how?"

A faint shift passed through the room: not surprise but interest sharpened into attention. Raviel tilted his head slightly as he repeated. "Claimed by whom?"

"And she remembers him?"

"No, she remembers very little."

The word carried no humor, only suspicion, as the serpent continued, "She speaks in fragments. Names that do not stay. Faces that blur. Time... has taken more than it has left."

The chamber stilled; that possibility was far more dangerous. Raviel stepped forward. "Take me to her."

For a brief moment his form shifted, subtle and unnatural. The edges of his body seemed to loosen, blur—until, with a low whisper of movement, he slipped downward, becoming something leaner and something colder.

"We will return with more than fragments," his voice echoed faintly.

"An old woman..." he murmured, his gaze lowered. "Memory broken... or broken for a reason."

And that only made it more valuable. Raviel turned and walked, but the den was not empty. It never was. As he stepped past one of the narrow passages, he collided lightly with something—or someone.

Raviel’s expression tightened just slightly; before him stood a figure thin to the point of ruin. Clothes hanging like abandoned skin. Shoulders bent, as though carrying weight no one else could see.

Raviel’s eyes sharpened.

A recognition without memory, the figure did not immediately respond. Its head lifted slowly, and when its face caught the torchlight, it was not madness that showed, nor weakness.

Because serpents did not survive like this without purpose.

The figure’s lips parted, dry and cracked. As if speech itself had become unfamiliar. When it spoke, its voice was low and uneven but deliberate.

Silence fell heavy and alive. Raviel did not move, but something behind his eyes shifted. Interest had just turned into something far more dangerous.

[Silthara Palace — The Emperor’s Chamber — Midnight]

Near one of the tall pillars stood Levin, still and composed.

His gaze rested upon the moon, distant and cold... as if he were searching for something that had already been taken from him. Below him, close to the steps, two figures lingered.

Levin’s hand rested over his abdomen, unmoving, protective, and half empty. The silence stretched, and then footsteps approached, measured and disciplined.

"You summoned us, Malika?"

"Arrest Naburash." The words fell softly, but they struck like iron.

Levin continued—"...from his chamber—no."

"Drag him through the main hallway. Let every servant see him fall. Let every noble hear his name dragged across stone." His voice lowered deadly. "And when you take him to the dungeon...show him no mercy."

Levin did not blink as he said it was not a request but a verdict. "You will do it."

"—becomes dangerous?" Levin finished.

Varesh flinched. "That is not my intent—"

The air shifted and tightened. Varesh forced the words out. "It places you at risk, Malika. We must proceed with caution—"

"Caution," he repeated softly, as though tasting the word, then more sharply. "While the one who poisoned and killed one of my children within me breathes within these walls?"

"To remain still... is to protect him, and I will not protect what seeks to destroy me."

"Enough." The word cut clean, with no shout and no fury. Just finality.

No command, no explanation Just understanding. Lyresaph’s eyes lifted and met his, and in that silent exchange—something ancient passed between them.

And then—ROOOOAAAAARRRRRRRRR!!!!! It tore through the courtyard—violent, alive, uncontained.

And then another roar, louder and closer. The ground cracked beneath him as he leapt forward, shattering stone, crushing petals—the garden collapsing beneath raw force.

Varesh stepped forward instinctively. "My Malika—this will—"

The words struck harder than any blade.

Levin turned and walked, not hurried, not shaken but certain. As though the path ahead had already been decided and all that remained was for others to catch up.

Because the Malika who had once mourned in silence had now chosen something far more terrifying.

The palace did not sleep—it held its breath.

The hallway stretched long before them and at its end stood Zeramet waiting. A faint smirk rested upon his lips something far more dangerous—approval.

"You dared," Zeramet said, his voice smooth, cutting, "to hesitate... when your Malika commanded."

Deep.

Zeramet did not answer immediately, his silence lingered sharp as judgment. Then he looked away. As though their fate had already been decided.

"I will use your weapon chamber," Levin said.

"I wonder," he murmured, voice laced with quiet curiosity, "what weapon my consort will choose."

Levin did not respond because tonight the weapon was not steel. It was him.

Until—SHATTER.

Nabuarsh jolted awake breath caught mind scrambling.

Recognition struck but it was too late.

The dragon did not blink, did not hesitate. It moved fast and relentless. Its jaws opened and in one brutal motion he caught him and lifted him like prey.

Lyresaph turned leapt and vanished from the broken balcony down. Into the night. Into judgment., the garden below trembled, stone cracked beneath weight.

As the moment finally arrived. Nabuarsh struggled, breathing uneven and control slipping.

No one answered, not the dragon, not the night and not the man before him. Because some questions do not deserve answers, they deserve only endings.

Only something cold, something final, something that did not forgive and did not forget. The palace, above them, remained silent unaware that within its walls—a storm had already begun and below—a serpent had just been dragged—into its own grave.