[The Following Morning — High Mage Arkhazunn’s Residence — Zahryssar]
Morning arrived quietly; golden sunlight slipped through embroidered curtains. The candles had long since burned themselves into pools of hardened wax. Half-empty wine bottles remained scattered across the table like casualties of a forgotten battle.
The fire within the hearth had died into faint red embers, and silence ruled the chamber. Varesh had not slept, not for a single moment. He remained exactly where he had been throughout the night, trapped between Arkhazunn’s arms.
The High Mage’s embrace had never loosened; even in sleep, those arms remained wrapped around his waist, caging him gently against a warm chest.
As though afraid he might disappear, as though afraid he might leave. Varesh stared at the ceiling, his eyes burning and his body aching. Yet none of it compared to the heaviness inside his chest.
The cruel thing was that he had allowed himself hope, only for a moment, only one foolish, pathetic moment. He had imagined...perhaps...just perhaps, but then came the name.
Naburash.
The memory alone felt like a knife twisting deeper. Varesh swallowed; his throat hurt, but he could not cry. The tears simply would not come; there was only emptiness. A vast desert stretching endlessly within his heart, beside him, Arkhazunn suddenly groaned.
The sound broke the silence; the high mage shifted, his face twisted in suffering.
"By the gods..." His voice was rough and broken like a man awakening after losing a war. One hand immediately found his forehead.
Arkhazunn winced. "The gods curse wine..."
Sunlight struck his eyes; his expression immediately became offended as he covered his face. "Who allowed the sun inside? The thing is barbaric."
Slowly, Arkhazunn opened one eye, then another. The High Mage looked around the room with visible confusion; his gaze lingered on the bottles, the overturned goblets, the scattered papers, and the evidence of last night’s drinking.
Then his eyes landed on Varesh. Arkhazunn froze completely. The silence that followed was almost comical; his expression shifted from confusion to disbelief to absolute horror.
The High Mage sat upright so quickly he nearly fell from the lower diwan. "Captain?!"
Varesh slowly freed himself from the embrace; the warmth vanished immediately, leaving only cold behind.
"I should be going, High Mage." His voice was calm...too calm. The voice of a soldier who had spent years hiding wounds, and he stood.
He adjusted his cloak, prepared to leave.
"Captain," Arkhazunn called.
Varesh stopped, his hand paused near the door, but he did not turn around. Behind him, Arkhazunn looked genuinely distressed. As though trying desperately to assemble fragments of a shattered memory.
"Captain..."
A pause.
Then—
"Did something happen between us last night?"
The question struck harder than any blade. Varesh closed his eyes only for a second. He remembered the kiss, the warmth, the tenderness, the way Arkhazunn had held him, and the way he had whispered another man’s name against his skin.
And now he remembered none of it, nothing, not even a single fragment. How merciful. How convenient. How utterly cruel.
Varesh’s fingers tightened around the edge of his cloak, but when he spoke, his voice remained perfectly steady.
"What could possibly happen between two Alphas, High Mage?" The words tasted bitter. "You drank enough wine to drown a river."
Arkhazunn blinked.
"You merely fell asleep, holding onto me accidentally. Nothing else happened."
The lie slipped from his lips effortlessly. Years of military service had taught him how to conceal pain; behind him, Arkhazunn visibly relaxed as the tension left his shoulders. He placed a hand over his chest.
"Thanks be to Lord Urzan." The relief in his voice was immediate, sincere, and unfiltered. And somehow that hurt most of all. Varesh lowered his gaze; for a moment, he wondered whether his heart could actually break twice.
Apparently it could.
"Good." Arkhazunn exhaled. "That would’ve been exceedingly awkward."
Varesh said nothing; the silence stretched, then Arkhazunn rubbed his temples. His headache apparently was reclaiming victory.
"I still need to find a way to meet Malik Zeramet." He groaned. "Preferably after my skull stops attempting to kill me."
Still nothing from Varesh; finally, Arkhazunn waved a hand dismissively. "You may go, Captain."
Varesh nodded. "As you command."
Then he left, without looking back, without another word and without allowing himself even one final glance. The moment the mansion doors closed behind him, the mask shattered.
Not outwardly, never outwardly. Varesh had mastered control long ago, yet his chest felt impossibly heavy. As though someone had placed a stone temple upon his heart.
His horse awaited him near the courtyard; within seconds he was mounted, the reins tightened, and then he rode.
Fast...far too fast...past the gardens...past the gates and past the marble streets of Zahryssar. The morning wind struck his face, but no matter how fast he rode, he could not outrun the memory.
"You’re beautiful, Naburash."
The words followed him, relentlessly like a curse. Back inside the residence, Arkhazunn remained seated upon the lower diwan. Still confused, he was still rubbing his temples, and something felt strange.
Wrong.
He couldn’t explain it; his gaze drifted toward the door Varesh had just exited through. For a moment, a faint feeling stirred inside his chest, a feeling he could not name.
"Why..." he frowned. "Why did Captain seem upset?"
No answer came, only the pounding of his headache. Arkhazunn groaned and buried his face in his hands.
"Forget politics," he muttered. "Forget Malik Zeramet. I need soup, several bowls of soup."
Then he glanced at the wine bottles scattered around the room and added bitterly, "And whoever invented wine should be thrown into the Euphrates."
And just like that...Arkhazunn marched toward the kitchen, completely unaware that somewhere beyond his walls...a captain rode through Zahryssar carrying a heartbreak the High Mage himself had given him without ever remembering it.
***
[Thalryn Empire — House Veyrhold — The Same Morning — Duke Aren’s Office]
Snow drifted beyond the tall windows; the northern winds howled against the stone walls of House Veyrhold. Inside the Duke’s office...the fire crackled softly. Several letters lay scattered across the desk: political reports, military updates, trade records, and among them...one particular letter.
A letter bearing the personal seal of Princess Seraphina. Duke Aren sat behind the desk; his expression remained unusually grim.
Meanwhile, Levin stood beside the window, his arms folded, his blue eyes fixed upon the snow-covered horizon.
Then finally—
"I have heard the new Malik of Zahryssar has locked himself inside his chambers." The words immediately drew Levin’s attention.
He turned, his brows furrowed. "Locked himself inside? Why? And how do you know that?"
Duke Aren glanced toward the letter resting upon the desk; the crimson seal glimmered beneath the firelight. "Because Princess Seraphina informed me."
Levin’s eyes narrowed immediately; his gaze shifted toward the royal seal, then toward his father. "How does she know what is happening inside another empire?"
Silence.
The Duke tapped his finger against the parchment, thoughtfully. "That is exactly what concerns me. Which means she has someone within Zahryssar feeding her information."
The room grew quiet. Levin slowly approached the desk, taking the letter and reading it again carefully. His brows gradually furrowed deeper.
Then—
"She used her personal seal."
Duke Aren nodded. "Yes."
Immediately Levin understood as his gaze hardened. "Which means she does not want this information passing through official channels."
Silence.
The Duke nodded again. "And more importantly...she does not want the Emperor to see it."
The room became still. Outside...snow continued falling. Inside...a different storm was forming. Levin placed the letter down, slowly and carefully.
Then exhaled. "What troubles me more is not just Zahryssar now."
Duke Aren’s eyes shifted toward him.
Levin continued. "It is Thalryn too."
In silence, the Duke leaned back. A tired sigh escaped him. "Princess Seraphina should already be preparing for her coronation."
"The empire is unstable; the throne requires a new ruler." His gaze drifted toward the distant silhouette of the Imperial Palace visible through the snowy window.
"And yet..." The old Duke’s voice lowered. "...the coronation continues to be delayed."
Levin frowned. "It has to be the nobles."
Silence.
Then he picked up another report, scanning it. "The longer the throne remains uncertain...the more influence they gain."
Duke Aren nodded. "Exactly."
The room fell silent; only the crackling fireplace remained, and then the Duke spoke again, more thoughtfully this time.
"There is another problem."
Levin looked up. Duke Aren’s gaze remained fixed upon the Imperial Palace. "The absence of Malik Zeramet."
Silence.
Levin’s expression hardened immediately. Duke Aren continued. "Zahryssar is not merely another empire. It is the strongest empire, the most feared and the most influential."
His voice lowered further.
"When the throne of Zahryssar becomes unstable..." The room grew heavy. "...every throne on the continent begins to tremble."
Silence.
Levin slowly leaned against the desk, thinking, calculating, and understanding, and spoke as his blue eyes darkened. "Which means...the throne must be reclaimed as soon as possible."
Duke Aren nodded. "That is the only path forward."
The fire crackled. Snow continued falling; neither spoke for several moments. Then Levin’s voice broke the silence, cold, sharp, and determined.
"We need to kill Slyvarakh." The words lingered heavily between them.
Duke Aren did not argue and did not object. Instead...he stood from his chair, walking toward the window. His expression was unreadable.
For years...everyone had believed the Black Serpents were Zahryssar’s greatest threat.
"I always believed the Black Serpents would destroy Zahryssar." The Duke spoke quietly, then shook his head. "I was wrong."
Levin folded his arms as his gaze drifted toward the snow outside. "They are still dangerous. Perhaps more dangerous than we realize, but after helping Slyvarakh...they disappeared."
Silence.
Duke Aren immediately looked toward him, and that worried him far more because enemies rarely vanished, not without reason and not without purpose.
The Duke’s voice lowered dangerously. "Don’t forget, son, when an enemy becomes silent...when an enemy suddenly stops moving...it means they have already done something."
The room froze, or worse.
"...they are preparing something far more dangerous."
Silence.
Levin stared at his father, understanding immediately. The warning was clear: the Black Serpents were not gone; they were waiting, and that was infinitely worse.
Yet even so...Levin’s thoughts returned to the same problem, the same obstacle, and the same name.
Slyvarakh.
His fingers slowly tightened; the room seemed colder suddenly, more oppressive and more dangerous.
"If we do nothing..." Levin murmured. "...Zahryssar burns."
Silence.
His eyes lowered toward the maps spread across the desk. Toward the reports. Toward the letters. Toward the empire drowning beneath uncertainty.
Then quietly—
"Before that happens..." His gaze sharpened. "...we need to find a way to kill him."
The fire crackled; neither man spoke because the question before them was not whether Slyvarakh should die. The question was far worse.
How? How do you kill a king protected by black powers? How do you kill a serpent hiding within the strongest palace on the continent? How do you kill a man who had already survived and came back from death itself?
Silence filled the office, heavy, oppressive, and dangerous. Then Levin stared toward the distant northern sky and murmured—
"But where...do we even begin?"
Outside...the snow continued falling. Inside...the first plans for a king’s death had quietly begun.