[Silthara Palace—Present Day—Night]
Night draped Silthara Palace in stillness.
The moon hung high above the vaulted windows, spilling silver light across the Emperor's chamber—soft, quiet, and reverent. And there, upon the wide serpent-silk bed, Zeramet lay beside his unconscious consort, one arm wrapped securely around him, as though the world itself might try to steal Levin away in the dark.
His thumb traced slow, trembling circles along Levin's shoulder. 'He's warm… still warm… still breathing.'
The thought repeated like a prayer, like a lifeline he refused to loosen his grip on.
Zeramet's golden eyes, usually sharp as blades, softened dangerously as he stared at Levin's sleeping face. Every rise of Levin's chest both soothed and stabbed him.
Levin exhaled—shallow, tired—and shifted faintly.
