Chapter 290: The Blade Before Sunrise
[Silthara Palace — Malika’s Residency — Morning]
Morning arrived quietly in Silthara.
A pale wash of silver light spilled through the towering windows of the Malika’s residence, softening the cold edges of marble and silk alike. The palace had not yet fully awakened; the corridors beyond were still hushed, the servants’ footsteps distant, the clatter of morning duties only beginning to stir somewhere far below.
Inside the imperial chamber, warmth still lingered.
Zeramet stirred slowly, his body heavy with the remnants of too little sleep and far too many thoughts. For a moment, he remained still beneath the silken covers, listening to the soft breathing in the room, the distant call of a morning bird somewhere beyond the open window, and the faint rustle of blankets shifting against one another.
Then he opened his eyes and immediately frowned.
Levin was not there.
Only the children remained in bed, Prince Zaryan still sprawled shamelessly across the silk sheets like a tiny conqueror of worlds, Princess Nyzara half-curled on her side with one hand tucked beneath her cheek, and Lyresaph coiled near them both like a silver guardian serpent, one eye lazily open.
Zeramet pushed himself upright, the silk cover falling from his chest as his gaze swept the room once more and he found Levin missing. His brows drew together.
"Where is my consort?" he asked, his voice still roughened by sleep.
Lyresaph blinked once, then let out a low, utterly unhelpful sound.
"Rrrrr..."
Zeramet stared at him. Lyresaph yawned.
Then, as if his duties ended there, the silver serpent simply curled himself more securely around Zaryan and Nyzara, tucking the two children closer into his coil like a dragon hoarding precious treasure before closing his eyes again.
Zeramet’s mouth flattened; he rose from the bed and pulled on his robe, fastening it loosely as he crossed the chamber. The moment he stepped outside, he found Iru standing guard by the door.
The attendant straightened at once and bowed.
"Greetings, Malik."
"Where is my consort?" Zeramet asked without preamble.
Iru hesitated only briefly before answering.
"Malika is at the training field, Malik."
Zeramet stilled.
"At this hour?"
"Yes, Malik."
A flicker of unease passed through him. Levin training was not unusual; him disappearing before sunrise, taking a real sword, and heading to the training field without saying a word was different.
Zeramet gave a short nod. "Watch the children."
"Yes, Malik."
And with that, he turned and strode down the corridor.
***
[Silthara Palace — Western Training Field — Morning]
The palace was only just beginning to wake, but the closer Zeramet came to the western training grounds, the more the silence of dawn gave way to something else.
The sharp clang of steel, the roar of startled voices, the scrape of boots against packed earth. He stepped through the final stone archway leading into the training grounds and stopped.
The sight before him hit like a blade through the ribs; the entire western field had gone still around the fight.
Red Knights stood in a wide half-circle around the central arena, their usual discipline shattered so thoroughly that several of them had forgotten to breathe. Some stared with widened eyes. Others looked as though they had just witnessed the palace walls crack open and bleed.
No one spoke; no one dared interrupt because in the center of the field, Levin was fighting Duke Aren, and this was no spar.
No controlled morning drill, no polite exchange between father and son. This was war sharpened into the shape of training.
Levin held a real sword in his hand, not a practice blade, not the blunted steel used for ordinary palace training.
His real sword.
The same one he carried when blood was expected to spill.
His pale training robes were already darkened at the sleeves with sweat and whipped around his face as he moved. There was no softness in him now, none of the quiet warmth he carried in the private chambers, none of the gentleness he reserved for his children.
What stood in that arena was not Zeramet’s consort.
It was the Levin who had once been before love, before motherhood, before the palace had softened his edges just enough for others to forget what lay beneath.
And across from him, Duke Aren smiled.
That was somehow the most alarming part.
The Duke stood with his own sword in hand, broad shoulders loose, eyes gleaming with the cold delight of a man who had finally found something worthy of his blade. His strikes came fast, brutal, and mercilessly clean; nothing was held back, nothing was softened for the sake of fatherly caution.
And Levin matched him; steel crashed against steel with such force that sparks spat into the air.
A collective gasp tore through the watching knights.
Levin twisted sideways just as Aren’s blade came down for his shoulder, his body bending in a movement so swift it barely seemed human. He ducked beneath the strike, boots skidding over the dirt, and retaliated instantly, a vicious upward slash aimed straight for Aren’s ribs.
Duke Aren blocked at the last second.
The impact rang across the training field like thunder; several Red Knights physically flinched. Zeramet’s eyes narrowed; this was too intense, far too intense for a father-son training session.
Aren drove forward, forcing Levin backward with a rain of brutal strikes—one, two, three, four—each one fast enough that the eye struggled to follow. Levin parried every single blow, but the force behind them shoved him back across the field inch by inch, boots carving hard lines into the earth.
Then Aren shifted, a feint...a small one, barely visible, but Levin saw it. He pivoted sharply to the left just as Aren’s real strike came whistling toward his throat, and the Duke’s blade missed by less than an inch.
The crowd inhaled as one; a knight near the back actually muttered, "By the gods..."
Levin did not waste the opening; he spun low and slashed for Aren’s legs. Aren leapt back, but not fast enough; the edge of Levin’s sword sliced through the lower fold of his robe with a hiss of torn fabric.
The field erupted into stunned noise. "Malika just cut the Duke—"
"No, just the robe—"
"That was still a real strike!"
"Is Malika trying to kill his own father?!"
"Shut up!"
Zeramet said nothing; he couldn’t because Levin had never fought like this in the palace.
Never.
Not even during war drills. Not even when facing the beast. Not even when humiliating arrogant nobles who mistook gentleness for weakness.
This...this was something else.
Levin’s expression was terrifyingly calm, not angry or wild; that would have been easier to understand.
No, this was worse.
He looked focused.
Cold.
Every movement is precise, deliberate, and mercilessly efficient. As though he had woken before dawn, picked up a real blade, and walked into the training field with only one intention, to carve every restless thought out of his body through violence.
Aren circled him, saying, "You’re distracted. Is this how you’re going to face your enemy?"
Levin’s grip tightened on his sword. "You should stop talking and prove you can still hit me, Father."
The entire field went silent again. Aren’s smile widened. "There you are."
Then he attacked; this time he did not hold back at all.
He lunged like a serpent striking for the kill, his sword cutting through the air in a vicious horizontal arc aimed straight for Levin’s neck. Levin brought his blade up at the last possible second; clang—the force of the impact was monstrous.
Levin staggered half a step. Aren came again.
Another strike...then another...then another.
Levin blocked the first, twisted away from the second, barely ducked the third, and the fourth sliced close enough to cut through a lock of silver hair.
A collective gasp ripped through the Red Knights. Zeramet took a step forward; every instinct in him had sharpened because this was no longer merely intense.
It was dangerous.
Levin’s hair scattered in the air like black thread, and for the first time, something in his eyes changed. Aren saw it. Zeramet saw it. The entire field felt it.
Levin smiled; it was not a warm smile, not a sweet one. It was the smile of a serpent who had finally decided to stop playing defensively.
"Oh," Duke Aren murmured, his voice rich with savage approval. "There you are."
Levin moved too fast; one second he was in front of Aren, the next he was gone.
Gasps broke from the knights as Levin dropped low, vanished beneath Aren’s guard, and reappeared at his side like a blade-shaped shadow. His sword flashed upward in a vicious diagonal strike aimed directly for the Duke’s exposed flank.
Duke Aren barely blocked in time. The sound of steel colliding exploded across the field. Levin didn’t stop.
He attacked again...and again...and again.
No pause, no mercy, and no breathing room.
Every strike drove Aren backward now, not because the Duke was weaker but because Levin had suddenly become terrifying. His sword moved with brutal precision, each slash flowing into the next so seamlessly it looked less like combat and more like a storm taking shape in human form.
The Red Knights were openly staring now.
One of them whispered, "How is Malika moving that fast?"
Another swallowed hard. "That’s not palace training... that’s battlefield form."
Aren blocked a downward strike and twisted, trying to throw Levin off balance with sheer force.
Levin let the momentum carry him instead.
He pivoted with it, used it, and in the same breath drove his elbow hard into Aren’s ribs before bringing his sword back around in a strike so fast it sent sparks screaming off the Duke’s blade.
Aren’s boots skidded across the dirt. The watching knights actually stumbled backward because Duke Aren—
Duke Aren had just been pushed back.
Levin stood in the center of the training field with his chest rising and falling hard, silver hair clinging damply to his temples, his sword still lifted in guard. His eyes were bright—too bright—with cold focus, the kind that came when a serpent was no longer merely training but trying to carve something ugly out of his own blood.
For one suspended heartbeat, no one moved. Then Duke Aren drove the tip of his sword down into the sand.
The sharp sound of steel sinking into earth cut through the field like a command. The match stopped.
Levin lowered his blade by half an inch, still breathing hard, while Aren rolled one shoulder and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"Using all your strength here is a waste, son," the Duke said, his voice carrying across the silent training ground.
Levin straightened slightly.
Aren’s gaze sharpened.
"If you truly intend to kill your enemy, then your anger alone will not save you." He stepped forward, boots grinding into the dirt. "Your ears must be open. Your eyes must be open. Your instincts, your focus, your awareness—everything must remain awake at once. You do not get to become blind simply because rage feels easier than thought."
Levin said nothing.
Aren’s eyes pinned him in place.
"What I saw just now was fury," he continued. "Useful fury, yes. But still fury. You let it narrow you."
His voice dropped lower.
"If you want to survive a real war, then do not burn that anger away in one morning. Keep it. Sharpen it. Let it live in your spine. Let it teach you patience."
Levin’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, then he lowered his head slightly.
"Yes, Father."
Only then did the training field begin to breathe again.
A nearby knight hurried forward with towels and water, clearly intending to approach Levin first, but Zeramet reached him before he could.
Without a word, he took the towel from the tray and dismissed the stunned knight with a look before stepping into the arena himself.
The shift in the air was immediate. Every Red Knight straightened, and every whisper died.
Levin turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, and the moment he saw Zeramet, something unreadable passed through his expression.
"You’re awake."
Zeramet stopped in front of him; he said nothing at first. Only lifted the towel and began wiping the sweat from Levin’s face with slow, deliberate movements.
"And why," Zeramet asked at last, his voice quiet enough to be dangerous, "is my consort venting his anger before sunrise with a real sword in his hand?"
All around them, the knights dropped to one knee and bowed.
Levin didn’t answer immediately. Zeramet wiped a line of sweat from Levin’s jaw, then his throat, then his gaze lowered.
And stilled, his hand closed around Levin’s wrist.
There, just above Levin’s palm, a fresh cut had opened where the sword hilt had rubbed too hard against already torn skin. A thin line of blood had smeared across his fingers.
Zeramet’s expression changed, only slightly but enough.
The air around him turned colder; he lifted Levin’s hand higher, examining the cut with a gaze that had gone from controlled to razor-sharp in an instant.
"...And hurting yourself as well," he said softly.
Levin watched him, blue gaze meeting gold.
And then, with a calmness that made the entire field feel suddenly wrong, Levin said—
"I’ve decided to wipe out every last black serpent."
Zeramet’s hand stopped, completely. Even Duke Aren’s posture shifted. Levin’s voice did not rise; it did not tremble. That was what made it so much worse.
"I will destroy that clan before they ever get the chance to reach my kids again."
Silence.
A terrible silence.
Zeramet slowly lifted his eyes from Levin’s wounded hand to his face; the look in Levin’s eyes was not reckless.
It was resolved.
That frightened him more than rage ever could, and when Zeramet spoke, his voice had changed. It was no longer a husband’s voice. It was a ruler’s.
A tyrant’s.
Cold. Controlled. Dangerous.
"And with whose permission," he asked, each word precise, "did you make that decision, Consort?"
Before Levin could react, Zeramet’s grip tightened around his wrist, hard—too hard—and pain flashed across Levin’s face.
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