[Silthara Palace — The Courtyard — Midnight]
The night did not move; it witnessed.
THUD.
The sound struck the courtyard like a verdict. Lyresaph released his hold, and Nabuarsh hit the stone, rolling hard across shattered petals and cracked marble.
A groan tore from his throat.
"—Ahh…!"
His body twisted, breath uneven, pain cutting through composure he had worn for years like armor. He pushed himself up slowly and unsteadily and looked up at the dragon.
Confusion flickered and then he saw them. At the edge of the broken garden stood Levin and beside him Zeramet, still and silent and unmoved.
Nabuarsh froze for a moment; pain was forgotten. Something colder replaced it; he forced himself upright—trembling—then bowed deep.
"My Malik… my Malika…" he said, his voice strained but carefully controlled. "I greet you."
He lifted his head and then he saw it. In Levin's hand was a lash, not ordinary but barbed. Wrapped in thorns that caught the moonlight like quiet promises of blood.
