[Silthara Palace—Towards the Consort's Wing—Later]
The sun hung high above Silthara Palace, blazing like a molten crown. Its light spilled across sandstone floors, burning gold upon the world.
Yet the attendants' cheeks, the noblewomen's veils, even the armored Red Knights flushed red…oh no, not from heat.
But because the sun was lighting two figures too perfectly, as though the heavens themselves were hollowing light around them.
They're Malik, and they're Malika.
Zeramet strode through the palace with a gait carved from royalty—and in his arms, held with a possessive gentleness that made every heart tremble, lay Levin.
The consort hid half his face in Zeramet's chest, voice muffled with embarrassment.
"Zer… put me down. I can walk," Levin whispered.
Behind them, Asha trotted proudly with a stolen fruit in his mouth, and Lyserph slithered with elegant annoyance—both guardians trailing their masters like devoted shadows.
The murmurs began at once.
