[Veyrhold Estate—Continuation]
"I'll go," Levin said; his voice was calm as if the decision had already been carved into him. "As the bride ofZeramet Karash."
The words struck like thunder.
The Duke's eyes widened in horror. "Levin—do you even realize what you're saying? You are my only heir—"
"And she," Levin interrupted softly, "is your one and only precious daughter, Father."
The Duke froze.
Levin's gaze did not waver, "Did you forget Mother's last words? Did you forget what you promised to her?"
The room went still.
The Duke flinched as if struck.
'Take care of her, Aren. Promise me… you'll never blame her for my death.'
His breath shuddered as he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were wet with a grief he had buried for years.
"That does not mean," he said hoarsely, "that I will send you instead. I will find an Omega bride. I will—"
"Father," Levin said quietly, but with steel in his voice. "Why would another family sacrifice their child for a vow we made? We've witnessed in recent years...and now if we wait more, we will lose the empire in a war."
The words landed cruelly true. Because what Levin said is brutally true.
No house would offer their Omega willingly. No parent would trade their child's life for another man's promise…isn't that why no family ever agreed to send their omega child?
"But you are an Alpha," the Duke whispered desperately. "You were born to rule. You cannot give a birth to an heir—"
"He is a Prime Alpha," Levin cut in, his voice steady, unflinching. "You know what that means, Father."
The Duke stiffened.
"They have the ability to subdue nature itself and force even an Alpha like me to comply with their wishes. Above all, I am able to withstand what no Omega should ever have to.
The Duke stared at him, trembling.
"So let me go, Father, or the whole kingdom will fall—because of a vow we swore."
Silence crushed the room.
Aelira broke first. She collapsed against Levin, sobbing, clutching him as though letting go might erase him entirely.
"I apologize, brother," she cried. "This is all because of me—"
Levin wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, his hand resting protectively on her back. "Don't apologize, Aelira; this isn't your fault. I was the one who suggested asking Zahryssar for Aid. I was the one who opened that door. So I will be the one who bears the consequences."
Aelira sobbed harder.
Across the room, the Duke sank slowly into his chair, his strength finally giving way. He had lost the war long ago. He was only realizing it now and with Levin's choice spoken aloud, the vow of Zahryssar had found its answer.
For a long moment, the Duke said nothing. His gaze rested on his son—not as a ruler looking at an heir, but as a father looking at a child he could not protect.
"You have made your decision," he said quietly. "How could I stop you, son."
The Duke swallowed, his voice lowering, "But can you promise me one thing?"
"Yes, Father."
"As long as you live," the Duke said, each word carefully measured, "send me a letter. Once a month. Let me know that you are still breathing. That you still exist."
The room seemed to tighten around them. Levin's fist clenched at his side. For a heartbeat, he could not speak.
"I will," he said. "I promise you, Father."
The Duke closed his eyes; that promise was the only mercy left to him. The fire crackled. Somewhere beyond the walls, the estate carried on—unaware that its future had already been surrendered.
At last, the Duke straightened. "I will send the letter to Zahryssar. I will inform them that the bride will be delivered before the next full moon."
Levin inclined his head once and just like that—Fate tightened its hold.
The heir of House Veyrhold was bound to a tyrant emperor. To Zeramet Karash—Prime Alpha of Zahryssar, under whose shadow no bride had ever survived.
***
[Two Days Later—Veyrhold Estate]
Preparations began the moment Levin's decision became known.
There was no official announcement. There did not need to be. By dawn, the entire capital was already whispering.
Newspapers ran thinly veiled headlines, careful with their words yet sharp in implication. Teahouses buzzed with disbelief, voices lowering whenever a guard passed too close.
"Did you hear?"
"An Alpha—becoming a bride?"
"It's very shameful. How can they send an Alpha as a bride?"
"But…I still feel pity for Lord Levin; he is walking towards the death…willingly."
"I agree."
"I agree too."
Every corridor of Veyrhold Manor seemed to carry the same understanding—The heir of House Veyrhold was already half gone.
Tailors were summoned—not to measure armor, but silk.
Hands that had once fitted Levin for battle cloaks now hesitated over flowing fabrics meant for consorts.
And through it all, Levin stood at the center, calm as stone. He neither protested nor questioned. He allowed the servants to work around him, to bring bolts of fabric and lists of protocol, as if this were merely another campaign to be endured.
Aelira hovered close, refusing to leave his side.
She watched in silence as servants laid out garments never meant for him, her fingers curling tightly into the sleeves of her dress, knuckles whitening as though she were holding herself together by sheer will.
"This is wrong," she whispered at last, her voice barely audible. "All of it."
Levin did not answer.
What could he say that would change anything?
Then a knock broke the moment.
"My lord," The butler stood at the doorway, his posture rigid, his expression carefully neutral. "The imperial carriage of Zahryssar has arrived."
Aelira gasped, a sharp, trembling sound, and her hand flew to her mouth. She looked at Levin eyes wide with fear.
"That means—"
"Tomorrow is the departure day," Levin finished calmly.
***
[The Next Day—The Day of Departure]
The morning broke cold.
Levin stood before the gates of Veyrhold Manor, the air motionless around him as if the world itself held its breath.
Before him waited the imperial carriage.
Not a carriage—a monument.
Forged from black steel polished to a mirror-dark sheen, carved in sweeping arcs reminiscent of serpent coils. Gold inlays traced along its surface like veins of molten fire. Six towering war-steeds stood harnessed before it, armored in scale-patterned barding, their breaths clouding the air in slow, controlled exhalations.
And on the carriage door—The crest of House Karash.
A crowned black serpent coiled tightly around a silver ceremonial sword. Its fangs were bared—not mid-strike, but frozen in the moment before.
Aelira clutched his sleeve, her fingers trembling, her breath unsteady.
"Brother…" she whispered.
Her words died when the envoy stepped forward; he appeared silently, as if stepping out from the shadow of the banner itself.
Clad in flowing Eastern robes of crimson and gold, his tanned face veiled by a sheer black cloth. A layered silk hood draped over his head. Serpentine gold cuffs circled each wrist, marking him unmistakably as a man of Zahryssar.
He bowed deeply.
Not to the Duke.
To Levin.
"I greet Consort Levin," he said, voice smooth, cultured, and touched with the desert's cadence. "I am Naburash Mazar, foreign envoy of the Zahryssar Empire."
He lifted his head just enough for Levin to meet the gleaming dark eyes behind the veil. "I have come to escort the Imperial Consort of the Coiled Throne."
Aelira trembled and Duke stood frozen, but Levin did not move.
Naburash bowed again—slow, deliberate, and respectful but unyielding.
"May the heavens witness this day," he said, "for the North offers its vow, and Zahryssar receives it. And may Consort Levin be prepared—for the Serpent Emperor waits."
The wind stirred.
The imperial banner cracked sharply in the air—a single, thunderous snap that felt like a decree.
Levin Veyrhold stepped forward, expression calm, hollow, and unflinching. Aelira's trembling fingers clung desperately to his sleeve, refusing to let go.
"Brother…" she whispered, voice breaking.
Levin did not speak, but the faint tightening of his jaw was answer enough. Behind them, the Duke clenched his fists so hard the knuckles whitened. His voice shook despite all his effort to steady it.
"Do not forget your letters," he said. "Once a month. No matter what."
Levin couldn't meet his father's eyes.
"And if possible…" The Duke swallowed hard. "...visit once. If you are still—"
He couldn't finish. The sentence collapsed under the weight of what everyone feared. Levin's gaze softened for an instant—just an instant—before he gently slipped Aelira's hands from his sleeve and he stepped down the stairs towards the carriage and did not look back.
Not even once.
Naburash, head low, never raising his eyes to meet the bride he was escorting.
"Let's go, Naburash," Levin said.
"Yes, Consort."
The envoy turned and led the way, silent as a shadow. Levin followed, steps measured, shoulders straight, walking as though each stride severed a thread binding him to home.
He reached the imperial carriage—the black monument crowned by the serpent sigil—
and ascended without hesitation. He did not turn toward Aelira's outstretched hand. He did not turn toward the Duke's shaking form. Because returning the gaze would break him.
Naburash closed the door behind him with the quiet finality of a tomb sealing shut.
The war-steeds moved.
The carriage rolled.
And just like that—Levin Veyrhold was carried toward a fate no bride had ever survived, toward a throne from which no consort ever returned, toward a man whispered to be a monster.
The Serpent Emperor of Zahryssar, who is not even a human.