Serpent Emperor's Bride

Chapter 288: The Necklace of Ninsara

[Silthara Palace — Malik’s Office — Midnight — Later]

Midnight had swallowed Silthara whole.

The palace stood in silence beneath a moonless sky, its white towers drowned in darkness, silver banners barely stirring in the cold night wind. Lanterns burned along the outer walls, but none of their warmth reached the Malik’s office.

Inside, only a few low lamps remained lit.

Their amber glow spilled across the heavy desk at the center of the chamber, where a pink diamond necklace lay atop black velvet like a captured heartbeat.

It was beautiful, too beautiful. The kind of beauty that made one instinctively suspicious.

The gem at its center held a strange inner sheen, pale rose at first glance, yet deeper within it something older seemed to pulse...like light trapped beneath blood.

Across from it, Arkhazunn unrolled an old scroll over the desk with careful hands.

"This," he said, flattening the brittle parchment with his palm, "was hidden in the old parchment chamber beneath my family archive. The seal belongs to the era of Malik Saqira."

Zeramet, who had been standing by the table with one hand braced against its edge, shifted closer and lowered his gaze to the parchment. The drawing was crude compared to current royal records but unmistakable.

The same necklace, the same pink stone, and the same serpent-work setting curled around it like a pair of entwined fangs.

Zeramet’s eyes narrowed as he murmured.

"This doesn’t look like an official court record; there’s no formal heading. No witness seal. No date stamp."

Arkhazunn tilted his head, scanning the uneven lines of ink as he agreed. "No, it feels... personal."

"Personal?"

Arkhazunn gave a quiet hum, the corner of his mouth twitching. "As if someone wrote it for themselves rather than for the royal archive. Notes. Observations. Perhaps even a discarded draft."

Zeramet rested his fingertips against the table, gaze still fixed on the parchment. "Or a confession no one was meant to read."

That made Arkhazunn glance at him; for a moment, neither spoke.

Then Arkhazunn looked back down and began reading the faded lines aloud, his voice lower now in the stillness of the room.

’The pink star stone remains unstable in its raw state. It does not obey ordinary sealing methods. It bends not only mana but memory itself, too. Thus, by blood-binding and serpent-core forging, it has been set into a vessel more fit for containment...an adornment to remain close to Malika Ninsara and nowhere else.’

Zeramet’s fingers stilled.

He looked from the scroll to the necklace lying on the table as he quietly said, "So it means your ancestors were the ones who turned the stone into this necklace."

Arkhazunn nodded slowly as his gaze remained on the parchment.

"It appears so. The wording is clumsy, but the method is clear enough. They bound the stone into a wearable vessel to stabilize it." He paused, then added, "Much like I turned Sirrash’s heart into a pendant."

Zeramet’s eyes flicked toward him.

Arkhazunn shrugged lightly. "A different object. Same principle. Raw magical cores are rarely left untouched if they can be forged into something safer."

"Safer," Zeramet repeated dryly, looking at the necklace again. "You call this safe?"

Arkhazunn let out a short breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "No. I call it less catastrophic than an unbound time stone rolling around in a drawer."

That earned him a look.

Arkhazunn lifted one shoulder. "You asked."

Zeramet ignored that and tapped the table lightly with one finger, his eyes narrowing as his thoughts shifted as he said slowly. "So Malik Saqira had the stone forged into a necklace and then presented it to Malika Ninsara."

"It would seem so."

"And this," Zeramet gestured toward the pink diamond. "Is all we currently know about it?"

Arkhazunn exhaled and rolled the parchment slightly before flattening it again, visibly dissatisfied, and his gaze sharpened.

"For now, yes, but if my ancestors were involved in stabilizing the stone, then there is a good chance they experimented on it before binding it. If they did, there will be records somewhere."

"Where?"

"In the inner dungeon archive beneath my manor."

Zeramet raised a brow. "You keep experimental time stone records in a dungeon?"

Arkhazunn looked at him blandly. "Where else would a respectable bloodline hide dangerous magical mistakes?"

That almost pulled a smile from Zeramet, but the expression vanished before it could fully form. He leaned back slightly, one hand dragging through his hair as he looked again at the necklace as he muttered.

"Malik Saqira and Malika Ninsara. Their relationship grows uglier every time we uncover a new piece of it."

Arkhazunn watched him quietly. Zeramet’s jaw tightened as he said, voice flattening with disbelief,

"He gives her a necklace powerful enough to reverse time and then later kills her because of suspicion."

The room went still.

Arkhazunn’s eyes lowered briefly to the desk before lifting again as he said carefully. "That is precisely why the older court prayed you and Malika Levin would never become another Saqira and Ninsara."

Zeramet did not answer; he turned instead toward the open window, moonless dark spilling in from beyond the palace walls. For a long moment, he said nothing at all.

Then, quietly—

"There is still one question that matters more than the rest."

Arkhazunn waited. Zeramet’s gaze remained on the night as he wondered.

"How did this necklace leave Silthara? Did Malik Saqira really bury it? If yes, how many times was it used?

His voice lowered.

"And what exactly does it demand in return?"

The question settled between them like a blade. Arkhazunn looked at the necklace again, and for the first time even he seemed uneasy as he said,

"Time is never reversed for free, not by any stone. Not by any spell. Every power has consequences."

Zeramet glanced at him. "So you agree there must be consequences."

"There are always consequences." Arkhazunn folded his arms. "The problem is that ancient royals had an irritating habit of writing down the ritual and omitting the part where everything went horribly wrong."

Zeramet huffed softly through his nose. "Convenient."

"For the dead? Very."

Silence fell again.

Then Arkhazunn’s gaze shifted toward Zeramet, and his tone changed, less casual now, more deliberate.

"You still haven’t told me whose grave you found."

The room seemed to tighten. Zeramet’s eyes returned to the darkness outside the window. When he spoke, his voice was unreadable.

"I removed the name from that grave."

Arkhazunn studied him. "That was not what I asked."

Zeramet did not turn. "Then ask something else."

Arkhazunn stared at him for a beat, then let out a quiet breath through his nose. "So you’re not ready to tell me the name."

"No."

"Will you tell me why?"

"No."

That pulled the faintest scoff from Arkhazunn. "You are impossible."

"And yet you remain here."

"I’m a loyal friend with terrible judgment."

Silence.

"...Some secrets should not be spoken too soon," Zeramet said at last, voice lower now. "Not if speaking them will do more damage than silence."

Arkhazunn watched him carefully; there was something in Zeramet’s tone that gave him pause, not fear, not uncertainty, but something heavier and something protective.

Arkhazunn sighed and leaned back against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms. "Fine, keep your mystery grave."

Zeramet said nothing.

"But there’s one thing I can’t stop thinking about."

That finally made Zeramet glance at him. Arkhazunn tapped the edge of the scroll with one finger.

"If we truly are living in another timeline..." he said slowly, "then why would that grave still exist?"

Zeramet’s hand twitched, a tiny movement, small enough that most people would have missed it. Arkhazunn did not. The Malik’s gaze sharpened.

"What are you implying?"

"I’m not implying anything yet," Arkhazunn said. "I’m asking a very inconvenient question. If time was reversed and events were rewritten, then the graveyard should have changed with it. Old outcomes should have vanished."

He straightened a little, eyes narrowing.

"So why didn’t that grave disappear?"

Zeramet’s silence stretched, long enough to become an answer in itself.

Arkhazunn’s expression darkened as he said quietly. "Unless the grave remained because some part of the first timeline was deliberately preserved."

Zeramet’s fingers curled against the windowsill.

"Or," Arkhazunn continued, "because whoever used the necklace failed to erase everything."

The office went still, then Zeramet turned fully from the window, silver eyes colder now.

"Enough."

Arkhazunn held his gaze.

"You want the truth?" Zeramet asked softly. "So do I."

His voice dropped lower.

"But until I know how many times that necklace was used and what exactly it destroyed in exchange... I am not naming the serpent whose grave I saw."

Arkhazunn went quiet. Zeramet stepped closer to the table, placing both hands against its edge as he looked down at the necklace as he said, "Because if I say that name too early, I may destroy more than I fix."

That was enough to wipe the last trace of argument from Arkhazunn’s face; he knew that tone, knew it well.

Zeramet was not withholding the name to be difficult. He was withholding it because he had already imagined the consequences of speaking it aloud...and found them unacceptable.

Arkhazunn clicked his tongue once and pushed himself away from the desk as he said, "Fine, then I’ll look into the necklace first. If my family archive still holds records from the forging process, I’ll find them."

"You’ll need more than the family archive."

"I know." Arkhazunn rubbed the back of his neck. "If the inner dungeon records fail, I’ll have to go through the sealed experiment chambers too."

Zeramet raised a brow. "That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

"Will you do it tonight?"

Arkhazunn looked at him as if he’d been insulted.

"No."

Zeramet blinked once.

Arkhazunn gestured toward the necklace. "This is a task for a rested genius, not a sleep-deprived one. I am not digging through five generations of deranged magical research at midnight."

Zeramet stared at him.

Arkhazunn lifted a hand. "And before you say anything, yes, I am aware the empire may be entangled in a broken timeline. I still refuse to begin sorting my ancestors’ nonsense tonight."

A pause.

Then, with complete seriousness, he added—

"I value my sanity too much."

Zeramet snorted; the sound was brief, low, and immediately buried, but Arkhazunn caught it and looked deeply pleased with himself as he said, "There, you can still make those noises. I was beginning to worry."

"Be careful," Zeramet replied flatly. "I can also make the noise of ordering your execution."

Arkhazunn smiled. "You’d miss me."

"Terribly. The silence would be unbearable."

Arkhazunn placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. Zeramet waved him off.

"Go."

Arkhazunn blinked. "Go?"

Zeramet picked up the scroll and began rolling it shut with deliberate care.

"Yes. Leave. Before you ask me the grave’s name again."

Arkhazunn narrowed his eyes. "You’re dismissing me rather quickly for someone drowning in temporal catastrophe."

"I’m making a strategic decision."

"And that decision is?"

Zeramet finally looked at him, one brow lifting with the faintest trace of a smirk. "Captain Varesh is almost certainly waiting somewhere with a sword, a headache, and unresolved feelings."

Arkhazunn froze, completely. Zeramet’s smirk deepened by exactly half an inch.

"You," Arkhazunn said carefully, "know?"

"This is my palace," Zeramet replied, leaning back against the desk. "I know when an attendant sneaks into my walls, when nobles lie to my face, when my guards fall asleep on duty..."

His eyes flicked meaningfully over Arkhazunn.

"And I most certainly know when my high mage corners my imperial captain in a corridor and kisses him senseless."

Arkhazunn stared at him in absolute silence. Zeramet folded his arms. "Well?"

Arkhazunn recovered just enough dignity to scoff. "You enjoy this far too much."

"Immensely."

"That is a terrible quality in a ruler."

"And yet I remain beloved."

"Debatable."

Zeramet’s expression turned lazily smug. "Go before I decide to separate you...for long."

Arkhazunn looked genuinely alarmed. "You wouldn’t."

Zeramet said nothing. Arkhazunn cursed under his breath; that, more than anything, seemed to satisfy Zeramet.

"Out," the Malik said, flicking two fingers toward the door. "I allow you to investigate the necklace tomorrow. Tonight, investigate your captain."

Arkhazunn gave him a deeply unimpressed look, but the faint color that had crept into the tips of his ears ruined the effect.

Zeramet noticed it, and because he was a terrible friend in the most predictable way possible, he added, "Try not to look so pleased when he says your name. It’s embarrassing."

"Goodnight, Malik."

"Run along, Arkhazunn."

Arkhazunn let out one final exasperated breath, then bowed with just enough sarcasm to make it disrespectful before turning toward the door.

"Send word if you uncover anything else about the necklace," he said as he reached the threshold.

"I will."

"And if you decide to tell me the name on that grave?"

Zeramet’s expression shuddered at once; the warmth vanished, and the office fell quiet again.

"I’ll tell you when I’m ready," he said.

Arkhazunn studied him for one long moment, then nodded.

"Fine."

And just like that, he was gone. The door closed behind him with a low, muted sound, leaving Zeramet alone in the dim office once more. For several seconds, he did not move.

Then his gaze slowly lowered to the pink diamond necklace resting at the center of the table; the room was silent...too silent.

Zeramet stared at the gem, at the way pale light pulsed faintly beneath its surface, and his jaw tightened.

"How many times..." he murmured into the empty room, "did you rewrite this world?"

No answer came, only the cold night wind slipping through the open window and the terrible feeling that somewhere in the darkness beyond Silthara’s walls, time itself was waiting for him to make the wrong move.

***

[Later — Malika’s Residency — Emperor’s Chamber]

By the time Zeramet reached the Malika’s residency, the palace had fallen into a deeper silence.

The sort that only existed after midnight, when even the guards lowered their voices, when the lanterns burned softer, and the endless stone halls of Silthara seemed to breathe in their sleep.

He pushed open the chamber doors as quietly as he could; warm candlelight greeted him first.

Then the sight inside. Levin was asleep, peacefully, for once.

He lay half-turned beneath the silk covers, one arm curved protectively around Prince Zaryan, who had somehow managed to bury himself against Levin’s side in his sleep. Their son’s tiny hand was still tangled in the fabric of Levin’s robe, as though even in dreams he refused to let go of him.

Near Levin’s legs, Lyresaph had curled himself into a small, silver coil, his tail tucked neatly beneath him as he slept and on the wide bed, surrounded by all that softness and sleep... Princess Nyzara was very much awake.

Her little arms waved in the air with determined enthusiasm, legs kicking against the blankets as though she were personally offended that the rest of the room had chosen to sleep without her.

Zeramet paused at the threshold, and for the first time since stepping into the graveyard that night, something in his chest loosened.

Nyzara turned her head; the moment she spotted him, her entire face lit up.

"Baaa..."

The tiny sound was followed by a delighted wiggle of her hands.

Zeramet’s mouth softened despite himself.

"Well," he murmured, walking toward the bed, "and why is my little princess still awake when the entire palace has surrendered to sleep?"

Nyzara answered by reaching for him immediately.

Zeramet slid one arm beneath her and lifted her carefully into his embrace. She gave a pleased little noise the moment she settled against his chest, one tiny hand patting at his shoulder before immediately changing course and grabbing a long silver strand of his hair.

Zeramet winced very slightly. Nyzara giggled.

"So that is your answer?" he asked, adjusting her against him. "You stayed awake only to assault your father?"

Nyzara made another happy sound and tightened her fist around his hair as if proving his point.

"Merciless," Zeramet said gravely. "Truly, I have raised a tyrant."

Nyzara blinked at him with enormous innocent eyes, then she reached out with her free hand and patted his cheek with all the solemn dignity of a ruler granting mercy.

Zeramet huffed a quiet laugh; he brushed his thumb over her soft cheek, smoothing away the faint crease sleep had left there, and then his gaze drifted back toward the bed.

Toward Levin and toward Zaryan sleeping with his face tucked against Levin’s side.

Toward the peaceful rise and fall of their breathing, so soft and unguarded that it felt almost unreal after the night he had just endured.

For a long moment, Zeramet simply stood there, holding Nyzara against his chest while looking at the family sleeping before him.

Then he stepped closer to the bed. Carefully, so carefully, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Levin’s forehead.

Levin did not wake, but his expression softened even in sleep, as though his body recognized Zeramet’s touch before his mind ever could.

Nyzara watched the whole thing with bright, curious eyes, and then she let out a delighted little giggle, as if she had just witnessed something deeply entertaining.

Zeramet glanced at her as he murmured, "Do not start; you are far too young to judge me."

Nyzara only smiled wider, as if she understood perfectly. Zeramet shook his head and moved toward the open window, still carrying her.

Outside, the night stretched dark and endless over the Silthara. The towers stood pale beneath the starless sky, and the wind carried the distant hush of sleeping courtyards and silent gardens. Somewhere far below, a night guard’s spear struck stone once in measured rhythm before all fell silent again.

Nyzara rested against his shoulder, one hand still stubbornly tangled in his hair. Zeramet stared out into the darkness; for a while, he said nothing, then, very softly, he asked, "Many things have happened today. Can I truly fix everything before you inherit this throne?"

Nyzara blinked up at him; the moonless night gave him no answer.

Only the reflection of his own tired face and the weight of too many questions pressing against his ribs.

A grave that should not exist. A necklace that could reverse time. A future he could no longer trust. Zeramet lowered his gaze to his daughter and brushed a kiss to her forehead.

Her skin was warm, alive, and real as he whispered. "I will do it. Whatever this is... however deep it goes... I will unravel it before it ever reaches you."

Nyzara made a soft, sleepy sound and clutched his hair tighter, as if accepting the promise without understanding a single word of it.

Zeramet’s eyes softened.

"You will not carry this burden," he murmured, thumb stroking gently over her cheek. "Not this throne. Not its blood. Not its curses. Not the sins of the serpents who came before us."

His voice dropped lower.

"By the time your hands reach for a crown, I will make certain there is nothing left for it to devour."

Nyzara stared at him for a second longer, then, with the solemn unpredictability only infants possessed, she reached up and smacked her tiny palm directly against his mouth.

Zeramet blinked.

Nyzara squealed happily.

For one stunned second, the Malik of Zahryssar, who had spent the night discussing broken timelines, erased graves, and ancient royal crimes, stood frozen with his daughter’s hand squished against his lips.

Then, very slowly, he pulled her hand away and looked at her.

"...I see," he said gravely. "So this is your way of telling me not to speak so much."

Nyzara answered with another delighted noise and immediately reached for his hair again. Zeramet sighed the sigh of a father who had already lost this battle.

"Why do I feel you will grow up like my consort?" he muttered.

Nyzara beamed as if that were the highest praise she had ever received; his gaze drifted back toward Levin and toward Zaryan.

Toward the quiet room, the warm bed, and the little life they had built inside a palace that seemed determined to drown them in secrets, and for the first time that night, the fear in Zeramet’s chest sharpened into something far more dangerous.

Resolve.

He looked down at Nyzara, at the daughter blinking up at him and Levin’s softness, and he kissed her forehead one last time.

"I hope I can do it," he whispered; his voice was so low it barely existed.

A confession meant for no one.

Not for the sleeping room, not for the silent night, perhaps not even for himself.

Just a father standing at the edge of a future he no longer understood, holding his daughter in his arms and wondering whether love alone would be enough to outrun fate.

Behind him, Levin slept on, unaware of the storm still gathering beyond the safety of these walls, and outside the chamber windows, Zahryssar remained silent beneath the moonless sky, as if the empire itself were waiting to see whether Zeramet would save it...or be swallowed by the same darkness that had already claimed one timeline before.